Page 33 of Given Our History

I clear my throat, trying to redirect my thoughts. “You didn’t have to come with me, you know,” I say. “You could have just given me directions.”

“It’s no problem.” He pauses just long enough for it to sound half-hearted—and maybe a touch bitter—when he adds, “What are friends for, right?”

With a pang of longing, I glance at him sideways. He’s staring out the windshield, shadows shifting over his features as we pass beneath a streetlight. I don’t know what he expects me to say to that—or if he expects me to say anything, for that matter. I lick my lips, trying to conjure up a response, but there’s none forthcoming.

“Right, turn right,” he urges, jarring me from my thoughts, but I react a second too late. I’ve missed the turn. It’s a good thing I have this job at the university, because I’d make a terrible Uber driver.

“Okay, right at the next stop sign,” he amends. “We can loop back around.”

We ride in silence until we pull up outside a drab-looking bungalow, a dark flag fluttering from the porch. The windows glow a warm yellow, but there’s no one outside. It’s not until I step out of my car and into the crisp autumn night that I hear faint, thudding bass. Teddy joins me on the lawn, folding his arms and hunching his shoulders against the chill.

Without exchanging a word, we head for the door. As we draw near, I realize it’s not the Maryland state flag or even a school flag flapping from the gable, but instead one that proclaims that SATURDAYS ARE FOR THE BOYS. Under normal circumstances, I might have knocked, but considering my sister is drunk and not answering her phone, I barge right in. This is university property, after all.

The would-be doorman—aka some drunk kid in a Kappa Sigma sweatshirt—leaps from the sofa, one hand spread wide as we cut through the living room, the other clutching a can of lite beer. “Whoa, whoa, dicks are five dollars,” he says to Teddy. Then he teeters, eyes narrowing as he sizes both of us up. “Wait. You’re not cops, are you? I mean, no offense, but you’re kinda old.”

“We’re faculty,” Teddy says in a sharp, authoritative voice that I’m not at all familiar with. “Now, excuse us.” He brushes past the doorman and the kid’s face goes slack. Taking advantage of the lapse in vigilance, I follow Teddy farther into the house.

It’s sparsely decorated, the walls adorned with black-and-white photos of Kappa Sigmas past. The rare bit of furniture looks like it was ordered from Amazon and assembled by a drunken toddler. We pass a folding table adorned with a half-racked game of beer pong, one of the red Solo cups knocked over and beer trickling onto the tile. There are speakers set up on the half wall, still pulsing with what I assume is supposed to be music, but there’s no one left to listen to it. This party is well and truly over. So where the heck is my pain-in-the-ass sister?

The dining room leads into a warm, earth-toned kitchen, the sink piled high with dirty dishes and an impressive collection of liquor bottles lining the granite counter. There, leaning against the island, is Reagan. I loose a breath, the full weight of my relief settling over me. She’s got a glass of tap water clutched in her hand and mascara tracks beneath her eyes, but she lights up the moment she recognizes me.

“Clare Bear, you’re here!” She throws her arms open to pull me into a loose-limbed hug. Drunken affection. This is new. When she pulls away, she blinks back and forth between me and Teddy, trying to clear the haze. “And you’ve brought—wait.” She looks back at me. “What’s he doing here?”

“I ran into Professor Harrison on campus,” I explain, hoping that a subtle reminder that he’s her professor, in charge of her grade, will keep her from saying anything too untoward. “Where’s your phone? I’ve been trying to call you.”

She waves a dismissive hand, eyes fluttering shut. “Natalia has it.”

I try to be gentle but firm, gripping her shoulders to steady her. “And where’s Natalia?”

“Here, Professor Fernsby.” From one of the adjoined rooms, Natalia materializes. I recognize her now that I have a face to go with the name: sleek black hair, soccer sweatshirt. She’s from out of state, here on an athletic scholarship, if my memory serves. “Her phone died. I’m sorry.”

She hands me the phone and I release one of Reagan’s shoulders to accept it. Reagan rocks but steadies herself. “Thank you for this,” I say. “Do you have the keys to the Jeep?”

Natalia produces the Irving-maroon lanyard. I suspect she had to wrestle it from Reagan’s neck. “It’s parked over by the administration building. I think she walked.”

“My Jeep,” Reagan says feebly, fumbling for the keys, but I pocket them and steer her by the shoulders toward the front door.

“I’ll take you to pick it up tomorrow,” I say. “Come on. Let’s get you in the car.”

Stragglers watch, bemused, as two of their professors march a student out of the party and into the back seat of my car. Okay, so maybe we do look like plainclothes cops, if cops drove dinged-up Volvos. Teddy jumps back in the passenger seat. By the time I make it around to the driver side, Reagan has already poked her head between the seats, eyeballing Teddy with the sort of brazen curiosity that’s only fueled by alcohol.

“Professor Hottison, I don’t know if you remember me—”

I balk at the ridiculous nickname, but my protest falls on drunk ears.

“—but I’m in one of your classes this semester. The American history one.”

A smile tugs at Teddy’s mouth, but he doesn’t comment on the nickname. “Of course I remember you. You’re Clara’s little sister.”

I shoot another uncertain glance at him before pulling away from the curb, but he’s not paying attention.

“I am,” Reagan says proudly, reaching into the front to grip my shoulder in what I can only assume is supposed to be a loving gesture. Yep, she’s completely hammered. “And you guys have known each other”—she hiccups on the word, and for a split second, I fear she’s going to blow chunks all over the center console, but then she gulps and continues—“known each other forever. Like, a really long time.”

“Seventeen years,” Teddy confirms with a sideways glance at me.

Reagan exhales and I catch a whiff of beer breath. “That’s, like, almost as long as I’ve been alive.”

Teddy swivels to look at her. “Are you twenty-one?” His concerned eyes dart to me. “Is she twenty-one?”