Page 10 of Given Our History

He exhales. “Right,” he agrees, tossing a thumb over his shoulder. “I’ve got a meeting I should really be—”

But for the briefest of moments, neither of us moves. We’ve kept our distance this whole conversation, so we’re certainly not going in for a hug and a diplomatic it’s so good to see you. “This is weird,” I say instead. “Right? Seeing each other again.”

He nods, Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat. “Weird,” he agrees, and we leave it at that.

Between class and meeting with a couple advisees, the remainder of the day keeps me on my toes and out of Teddy’s way. I’m a little relieved that our first encounter is over and done with, but there’s a lingering anxiety that we won’t be able to dodge the awkwardness all semester. And seeing him again was like a crash course in all the little details it was easier to forget: his hair curling at the nape of his neck whenever he’s gone longer than usual without a haircut, and the way he always smells like pencil shavings and Earl Grey tea. On the drive home, I try to call Izzy again over Bluetooth, but it goes straight to voice mail. It’s ten at night in Lisbon, so she’s probably already in bed.

My sister’s Jeep is parked in the driveway when I pull up to the house. I’ve been renting for the past four years, waiting for tenure before I commit to buying anything, so it’s not quite mine—the clapboards are painted an uncomfortable shade of pistachio green and the hedges beneath the living room window could use a trim. But it’s home for now, at least. And it’s given Reagan a place to stay off campus, so she doesn’t have to worry about the cost of housing.

I unlock the door and hang my bag on the hall tree before heading for the kitchen, where I grab some strawberries and canned whipped cream from the fridge—it’s been a dessert before dinner kind of day. Like the rest of the house, the kitchen isn’t quite to my liking, all white cabinets with disinterested steel hardware and a peel-and-stick backsplash. But I do like the window behind the sink, which overlooks the old maple on the side of the house, its leaves the first herald of the changing seasons every year. They’re still mostly green right now. I stare out the window as I rinse the strawberries in a colander beneath the tap. The sun sinks behind the neighboring houses, wispy clouds tinged salmon pink.

I’m alerted to Reagan’s presence by the sound of bare feet slapping against the vinyl flooring. I glance over my shoulder to see her dressed in a satin pajama set, toweling off wet hair. She flips her head upside down and twists it up in the terry cloth.

“Hey,” I say before turning back to the sink. “How was class?”

She settles on one of the barstools on the opposite side of the counter and reaches across to pluck a strawberry out of the colander, popping it into her mouth. “Good. I think the instructor for women’s lit is going to be a real stickler about MLA, though. She made us all go to the Purdue website and popcorn read the guidelines.”

I raise my eyebrows. I don’t know all of the English literature faculty by name, but I can think of a few who would do that, and I can’t say I blame them. “She’s probably tired of juniors and seniors not properly citing their sources.”

“But the medieval lit professor seems cool. He started class by reciting the opening lines from Beowulf. We were all like, whoa, what language is this? And then he explained that it’s Old English, but that Old English isn’t like Shakespearean English. Old English is a whole different language.”

I toss the last of the strawberries onto the cutting board and dry my hands on a dish towel before chopping them and adding them to a mixing bowl. “I could’ve told you that.”

“Yeah, but you didn’t.”

Shaking the can of whipped cream, I shoot her an exasperated look. I uncap it and squirt a mound on top of the strawberries. She pokes out her tongue before continuing. “And then I had political science with this guy who seemed like he was having a super bad day. Like I thought maybe his dog died or something.”

“That’s probably Gary Reid.” The Poli-Sci Department shares the old social sciences building with us, so we’ve had our fair share of run-ins—plus he’s on the scholarship committee with me. “His dog didn’t die, he’s just like that.” I grab a wooden spoon out of the dishwasher and mix the strawberries up before scooping a generous helping into a bowl. I stick a fork in it and push it across the counter to Reagan, and keep the mixing bowl and wooden spoon for myself. “Is that everybody?”

“Mmm.” Mouth full, she shakes her head and swallows. “I’ve got history with Professor Harrison.”

I freeze with my spoon halfway to my mouth. “Why didn’t you mention that first?”

“I didn’t know if you wanted to talk about him,” she says. “I didn’t remember him being so good-looking. A couple of the girls in class already nicknamed him ‘Professor Hottison.’”

I press my lips together. “That’s an awful nickname.”

“What’s wrong with it?”

“Well, first off, it’s objectifying.” I point the wooden spoon at her, end coated in whipped cream. “Don’t objectify your professors.”

“I didn’t say I nicknamed him that,” she protests.

“And second, it doesn’t really roll off the tongue.” I shovel a whole heap of strawberries and whipped cream into my mouth.

Reagan arches a brow. “But you don’t disagree.”

“With what?”

“You think he’s hot.”

I’m not sure it really matters what I think. That train left the station years ago, and there’s nothing I can do to change that. He’s with Mindy now. Wishing things were different will only end with me getting my feelings hurt. “Teddy’s always been good-looking,” I say in what I hope is an offhanded way. “The only reason you don’t remember is because you were, what, six years old?”

A devious smile spreads across her face. “Oh my god. You do think he’s hot.”

“I’m not going to dignify that with—”

“Come on,” she groans. “Just own it.”