CHAPTER 18
Nate
The more I thought about it, the more the job at the Experimental Distance College of Southern Nevada seemed interesting. While a professor at Las Vegas University had more clout than most online colleges, EDCSN was new and had room to grow. LVU was established, but likely had hit its mark. On the other hand, EDCSN was continually trying new ways to bring education to their students. And whether it was a favor to a current faculty member or not, the fact that Florence Berkley had agreed to a short-term contract was a clue. Perhaps EDCSN was a better fit for me.
For Mara. Forus.
Sitting at my desk on campus, I scanned the newsletter again, then clicked the job posting and read it carefully. I opened my curriculum vitae and began editing it for the position.
The Publications section was the most expansive. As I added my recent articles, my mind wandered to Mara’s essay. I had included forthcoming articles on my curriculum vitae in the past, and it didn’t seem out of the question to include it now. I had complete faith that Mara’s article would be published somewhere, but there were a few things to consider.
Wherewas one of those questions. Where to submit her article, where to include it in the curriculum vitae? Did it go under Student Outreach, which was lacking in comparison to the other sections, or did it go under Publications? The other question, the more important one, was whether I should be included in the credits for the essay. I had pushed her in the right direction, and I had pointed out areas in which her argument needed work. But when it came to the actual content, it wasn’t my essay and it felt wrong to claim that it was. It was hers, and hers alone.
A ding sounded from the desktop speakers. I checked my email. The subject read,Final Draft, sent from Mara’s school email:Dr. Evans, Hope this passes the final judgment. Signed, M.
It was more formal than I expected from her, but it was a school-related email, not a dirty text. I responded,Let’s discuss. My office in ten.
As I readheressay, I realized that her article would be wasted on the Crossing Collaborations Contest. It would be fine in Oasis, okay, satisfactory, but there were better publications that would bring Mara more credit. Like Breaking Edge.
Breaking Edge, the journal she actually wanted to be published in, one that her dad had only dreamed of. The same journal that I had already been published in multiple times. I had a good relationship with the editors there.
I added her essay,Sacrifice and Power in Sadomasochism, into the Student Outreach section, listing me as her adviser. Then I removed my name from her essay and readied the draft for submission to other venues.
Take a close look at this one. She’s onto something, I sent to the editor-in-chief at Breaking Edge. Then I sent her essay to a handful of other publications that seemed like good, worthy fits, using my name to help push it through the slush piles.
A knock sounded on the door right as I was finishing up an email to the head judge for the contest with the decision to revoke our entry. I sent the message quickly, then closed the window and saw the date on the screen: it was my birthday today. Forty-three years.
Mara walked in, a navy blue shirt hugging her chest, tight black pants on her legs. She looked good, casual and confident. I wanted to bring her into my arms and kiss her, holding her tight. Forty-three years and I was into a woman who was less than half of my age.
Into her? Into her was putting it lightly.
“Dr. Evans,” she said. I furrowed my brows. “Nate.” She took a seat.
With those three words, I knew there something was different between us. Something was on Mara’s mind, bothering her, changing her whole approach to me. And it wasn’t simply the fact that her father’s bag was no longer attached to her hip.
“The essay?”
“Submitted,” I said. She let out a sigh of relief. If that was all that was bothering her, then good. It was done. But I knew there was more to it than that. “I’m glad it’s over with.”
“You’re glad?” I smirked.
She turned red. “I didn’t mean it like that. It’s—” she looked around, “You know. Grad school is tough. One less thing to worry about.” She paused, then added, “Would it be okay if I used that for my final essay in the Power and Fantasy class?”
“Yes,” I said. In fact, I had expected it. “One more thing off of your plate.”
“Thanks. One more thing.”
A melancholy glow overcame her eyes, more than simply fatigue or sadness, almost like she was mourning something that no longer was.
“What is it?” I asked. She shook herself out of her dream and tilted her head.
“What’s what?”
“Something is on your mind. Say it.”
She straightened in the chair. “Nothing’s wrong,” she said.
My shoulders tensed. I hadn’t said that anything was wrong, and it was through that word choice, that defensive response, that I knew she was lying to me. Avoiding the truth. It was in stark contrast to her usual demeanor, her unabashed straightforwardness. It concerned me.
