Page 57 of Philippa Flynn’s Year of Panic and Piracy

“I hit a point where I knew nothing was going to get better there,” I say. “My colleagues either refused to see their biases, or they saw them and didn’t consider them a problem. Staying meant accepting that the people I worked with knew the systems were rigged in their favor, and they not only used those systems to their advantage, but they fought tooth and nail to maintain them, no matter what that meant for the people the systems failed. I couldn’t get on board with that.”

Michael sighs as he spins the stem of his wineglass. “I wish I could say I was surprised, but you’ll hear similar stories all across the country. The culture will change. Good people are getting hired, and they’ll work their way up the ranks, but as we all know, the wheels turn slowly in academia, and some people are allowed to coast while others are constantly being asked to re-prove themselves. That eventually drives a lot of people out.”

“The ones who can’t coast.”

“Exactly. And the ones who don’t want to coast. Guess who’s left behind?”

We both have the same image in our heads, but neither of us needs to say it outright. Instead, we share a sympathetic smile and an ironic toast. As I take a careful sip of my wine, I fight a swell of sadness, knowing that if the teachers who are most invested in their jobs are being exhausted, exploited, or driven out of academia entirely, the students will also suffer. Some of them were a pain in my ass, sure, but they were also the reason I was there, to get them thinking about the past in a way that would help guide their futures. When sparks of inspiration ignited, when a research paper blew me away, or when a student came by my office to ask for book recommendations beyond the required reading, it was the best feeling in the world. I miss that feeling, even while I don’t miss the growing resentments that came alongside it.

“You two seem to be getting along,” my mom says, sidling up to us by the living room fireplace, where Michael and I have anchored ourselves for the past half hour or so.

I tense at her premature gloating and her inability to leave well enough alone.

“Just chatting about work,” Michael responds graciously.

“Shame things didn’t work out at Philippa’s last position.” My mom beams at him. Absolutely beams. “I understand tenured positions aren’t easy to come by these days, especially in her field, and we all know she’s anxious to get back in the classroom.”

I swallow my rebuttal while Michael sneaks me a flash of amused side-eye.

“Depends on the classroom, I suspect,” he says.

“Oh, Philippa could teach anything she sets her mind to,” my mom gushes, dismissing his comment with a flap of her hand. “Such an avid reader. And so dedicated to her students. I don’t suppose you could put in a good word for her at your university?”

Oh god. Kill me now.

“That’s not how academic hiring works.” I slide Michael an apologetic glance.

My mom stiffens as she notices the look. “We want you to stay close by. That’s all.”

I clench my jaw to avoid raging. Because that is so not all. It never is.

Michael sets a hand on my lower back, gently, like he can tell I’m ready to breathe fire.

“I promise if I hear of anything, I’ll be in touch.” He nods at my mom before tipping his head toward the front door. “I should get going. This isn’t my only party tonight. Walk me out?”

“Sure, yeah, of course,” I say, equal parts grateful for his smoothly executed escape from my mom and nervous we’re about to get into the awkward first-date parting dance, which I never handle well, whether I’m interested, not interested, or totally on the fence.

Michael collects his outerwear from the coat closet: an elegant camel overcoat, striped scarf, and knit beanie I suspect is at least partly responsible for his Tintin hairstyle.

“For what it’s worth, my parents don’t really get it, either,” he says as he tugs on his beanie. “They still think I should be writing the president’s speeches and that I’m only teaching Intro to Rhetoric courses because I lack the confidence to enter national politics.”

I stifle a laugh at this. I’ve only known Michael for about ninety minutes. In those ninety minutes, he proudly showed off his glittering socks, spoke openly and insightfully about his career, and deftly navigated a conversation with my mother. I doubt he lacks confidence.

“My parents mean well,” I say, trotting out a tired old phrase for lack of a better one.

“Speaking of.” Michael loops his scarf into an elegant knot that makes me scratch at my neck just thinking about it. “As you probably suspect, our moms set this up.”

I glance through the archway toward the living room. “I didn’t meet your mom.”

“She’s not here. She has a work thing, but she’s friends with your mom. And she means well, too.” He offers me a kind smile, and I can’t help but return it.

“It’s okay,” I say. “We can skip the ‘no spark’ conversation.”

Michael’s smile widens. “You get that one, too?”

“All the time.”

We share a look of understanding as he buttons his coat and adjusts his cuffs.