Page 4 of Given Our History

Julien clicks around on the computer for a few seconds, squinting at the screen. “No, sorry. Harrison, that’s it. Theodore Harrison. Specializes in maritime history of the Mid-Atlantic colonies, so perhaps not quite your cup of tea, as conversation partners go, but—” He breaks off, staring at my hands on the back of the chair. “Is something the matter?”

I follow his gaze. I’m gripping the chair so hard that my knuckles are bone-white. I release it and the blood rushes back to my fingers, itching, tingling. “Nothing’s wrong.” I plaster on a tight-lipped smile and shake my head, hoping I don’t look as robotic as I feel. “Everything’s peachy.”

CHAPTER2

PRESENT

I push through the swinging wooden door to the women’s restroom with such force that it ricochets off the door stopper. The restrooms in the Hall of Letters are vaguely Edwardian, reflective of the hundred or so years that the building’s been standing: lacquered wooden stalls and glazed subway tile, the grout blackened with age. The handle on the sink squeaks as I turn it and splash cold water on my face, but even after I finish patting dry with a paper towel, my reflection still looks like I’ve seen a ghost. I grip the sides of the porcelain, sniffing hard. “Get yourself together, Clara,” I mutter to the tarnished mirror.

Behind me, there’s the woosh of a toilet flushing and the stall door creaks open. A lanky girl in a skater skirt and ripped fishnets emerges. Likely a freshman—classes don’t start until next week, but new students arrive early to move into their dorms and attend orientation. She stands at the sink next to mine and lathers her hands with three pumps of citrus-scented soap, casting a concerned smile at my reflection. Her hair’s that bluish-black color of box dye, pale roots peeking out. She reminds me a little of how I wanted to dress when I was a teenager.

I return her smile, albeit weakly. I should probably feel embarrassed, but chances are she doesn’t even know I’m an instructor. I’m only thirty-one, easy enough to mistake for a stressed-out grad student having a pre-semester bathroom breakdown. And my clothes don’t exactly scream professor, in part because I’m not doing any professing today: tennis shoes with black jeans and a sleeveless graphic tee. Just have to cross my fingers that she doesn’t turn up in any of my classes this semester.

She digs a violently red lip tint out of her bag and pumps the wand a few times before leaning close to the mirror to apply it. “I saw their Reunion Tour,” she says offhandedly. I shoot her a questioning look and she nods at my shirt. “A couple years ago.”

I glance at the shirt in my reflection, the backward letters spelling out MY CHEMICAL ROMANCE. I’ve had it since high school. “I saw them once, during the World Contamination Tour,” I say, smoothing the age-crackled graphic of the lovers from the Three Cheers for Sweet Revenge album cover.

Her crimson-tinted mouth drops open. “Dude. I’m so jealous. I was like, five. I wasn’t even born when The Black Parade came out.”

Great. On top of everything else, I’ve now been made aware that the infamous opening G note—the calling card of all former emo kids—is officially old enough to buy itself a pack of cigarettes.

She peppers me with a few excited questions before losing interest, parting ways with a rather ominous, “See you around campus!”

As soon as the door swings shut behind her, I blow out a breath. My eyes are rimmed with pink, and errant blondish hairs have escaped my braid. I wet my hand in the sink and smooth them flat against my head, hoping to salvage some semblance of professionalism.

Get it together.

Nine years. It’s been almost a decade since that phone call outside Manchester Cathedral. A lifetime, really. Empires have risen and fallen in less time. But it still stings like it was yesterday, a self-inflicted wound that never quite had the chance to heal. It’s not that I think I should have said yes. I’m firm in my belief that the timing just wasn’t right. But I wish I hadn’t handled it all so recklessly. I wish he would’ve answered my calls or texts in the weeks that followed, and I wish I hadn’t given up on calling altogether.

I wish, more than anything, that I hadn’t lost my best friend.

I dry my hands on a paper towel and toss it in the wastebasket before digging my phone out of the front pocket of my messenger bag. I search my contacts for Izzy Santos and press call. While the phone rings, I push through the bathroom door and out into the hall.

The call goes to voice mail. Unsurprising. We’ve been playing phone tag all summer. She’ll call me back later, probably when I’m in the middle of something and can’t answer. By the time I’m off work it’ll be 10 P.M. in Portugal and she’ll be at some club where they play electro house music so loud it’s impossible to think, let alone hold an actual conversation. And so it continues. I stuff my phone back in my purse and start down the stairs.

I run my hands along the handrail as I descend, tracing the places where the quarter-sawn oak has been worn smooth by a century of hands. Irving isn’t that old or prestigious a school, comparatively speaking—it’s a private liberal arts college, built in the early nineteenth century—but I’ve always appreciated what history it has, even if it’s a bit recent for my tastes.

My phone buzzes in my purse. And then buzzes again. And again. I pause on the landing to check it, the etched-glass window refracting a kaleidoscope of colors across yellowed hardwood planks. I’m not so naïve as to think it might be Izzy. Our texting habits are even worse than our long chain of missed calls—GIFs and shared Instagram reels that have gone largely unanswered, nothing of substance.

The President: Helllooooo

The President:?!?

The President: Where are you

The President: Don’t tell me you forgot AGAIN

Technically, I did not forget. I remember full well that I’m supposed to meet my little sister in the parking lot so that we can go to an early lunch, but I maybe lost track of time. I zip my phone back into my purse and take the remainder of the stairs at a gallop before exiting the Hall of Letters, emerging onto the patio beside the rose garden.

The skies are clear and the air is thick with humidity—the death throes of a muggy Maryland summer. I wave at Westley the security guard across the parking lot, sitting in his Polaris, his Hi Vis vest gleaming in the sun. Freshmen stop in the middle of the sidewalk to squint up at brick buildings and consult the campus map on their phones, familiarizing themselves with campus before the start of term. Parking placards dangle from rearview mirrors. A couple of the Spanish Department faculty chat by the curb. It is, for all intents and purposes, a perfectly average prelude to the semester.

Except for the parts that aren’t. But I force myself not to dwell on that, shoving it into one of the dark filing cabinets in the far corner of my brain. I’ll deal with that when I come to it. Adjusting the strap on my cross-body bag, I power walk toward a bumblebee-yellow Jeep Wrangler idling in a faculty parking space. Exhaust rises from the tailpipe in billowing clouds. Our campus green initiatives are a lost cause as long as that thing is still on the road.

“William Shakespeare,” Reagan announces as I approach. Her golden-blond hair is pulled back in a ponytail. She’s leaning against the hood of her Jeep, arms folded over the University of Irving crest emblazoned across the front of her hoodie.

I arch a brow. “What about him?”

“He once said ‘Better three hours too soon than a minute late,’” she says, pushing herself off the Jeep and walking around to the driver side door.