But that wasn’t enough anymore.
Director Lowry eagerly ushered me into her office. “Come in, come in!” she said. She pushed her blond hair aside and sat down. “Close the door, will you?” I closed it shut behind me.
I handed her the portfolio then took a seat. She was young to be the director of the department, but she was hard-working and persistent, two qualities I respected. Like Mara. Director Lowry leafed through the portfolio. I felt nothing. No tinge of anxiety waiting to hear that long-awaited judgment. No desire to get this over with so I would know already. Nothing.
My mind wandered back to Mara. Always to Mara. Her gaze as it met mine that first night in the Afterglow, how she could wear a plain black shirt and pants and still be irresistible, like a gem hidden at the bottom of a pool.
“I didn’t know you had multiple publications in Breaking Edge,” she said. “One, sure. But not this many.”
I sucked in a breath. “I know the editor.”
“That figures,” she said, smiling. “I’ll get straight to the point. We’re offering you a seven-year contract. Two graduate courses and three undergraduate courses a year, with the opportunity to teach during the summer session, if you aren’t at the lakehouse.” She winked.
“Has the board considered Dr. Smith?”
“We have.” She tilted her head, then continued, “We appreciate her never-ending drive to work with students. However, it’s more prestigious to add a permanent faculty member who has a wider range of publications. Especially someone like you, who also has an investment background.”
“An international reputation,” I said dryly.
She nodded. “Speaking of which. Care to share anything about your stocks? I’m always the curious neophyte when it comes to the stock market,” she said. “If I had half of a brain left after the workday here, I’d save my dollars and invest, like you do.”
Another fellow academic who wished she had more money. None of the faculty, even in her position, made much more than they needed. And yet they came here and worked their asses off, every single day.
And what had I done while I was here? Worked my ass off to prove students wrong? To prove to Mara that I couldn’t be trusted?
“Did Dr. Smith get a review yet?” I asked.
“I’m afraid once the board unanimously decided on you, we had no intention of setting an appointment to review her CV.”
It had already been decided. But perhaps if this is what Dr. Smith wanted, conniving and manipulative as she was, she deserved a chance.
“I’m declining the offer,” I said. Director Lowry’s jaw dropped. “I’m grateful for every opportunity the university has given me, but I can’t, in good faith, accept the offer.”
“Is it the money?” she asked. She glanced over the contract then slid it back towards me. “We could add a little more. Not much, but enough. I’ll see what I can do.”
I held out a hand. “Thank you, Director, but I am refusing the offer,” I said. She cautiously shook my hand.
“Why does that sound so final?” she asked.
Did I want to work at the university any more? I had built a legacy of shoving ideas into the ground. A history of pushing Mara away.
It was then that I realized that it should be more final.
“This is my last day,” I said. I smiled, feeling relief for the first time in a while. “Yeah. It’s my last day.”
“But the semester is almost over—”
“Mara, my TA, can handle it. If she declines, Jessica is a good second choice,” I said.
“But Dr. Evans, this is unprecedented, especially when we’ve offered tenure. We can only offer one contract this year, and we did not take this decision lightly.”
I nodded deeply, but I knew what I had to do. And part of that meant doing the right thing.
“Dr. Smith is a fine candidate,” I said. And I left.
I threw the portfolio on my desk and headed across campus. A barrage of student activity filtered through the yard: a group listening to an acoustic guitar, another pair setting up a DJ booth, and students hanging hammocks between the trees. At EDCSN, even when the rare in-person event filled the campus with a peaceful sort of discussion, the campus would be quiet. There wasn’t much I would miss. But, if anything, I would miss this. Going across campus and being able to find Mara.
I opened the doors to the library’s lobby. Taking the stairs to the nonfiction section, I scoured the aisles for her, and finally, in the literary criticism section, a cart waited at the end of an aisle, that signature bag hanging off of the railing. Mara was glued to her task, shelving books, her golden brown hair illuminated in a soft ray by the overhead lights, the perfect sincerity in her gaze. The feeling inside of me to tell her how I felt, to say,I love you, Mara, you stubborn, persistent, aggravatingly beautiful woman,came through my chest, about to break loose. But then I saw it: the empty space that had once been there, now full; she was shelving Florence Berkley’s books. All of them. Books that had been in her possession until now.
What would it do to tell her how I felt?
She didn’t need me. Not now. Not ever.
Before she could turn to see who had stopped at the edge of the aisle, I was gone.
