Page 42 of Given Our History

“Fine. Great,” Gary says, his tone a mixture of boredom and annoyance that doesn’t sound anywhere near fine, never mind great. “Let’s get this thing over with, shall we?”

We cruise through everything on the agenda at breakneck speed, partly because everyone’s over this and just wants to get on with their day, but also because there isn’t a ton to address. Beside me, Bel fidgets with an acorn-shaped earring, twisting it between her thumb and forefinger. Asking her to participate on the scholarship committee wasn’t part of our deal, but subcommittee members are technically required to be part of the overseeing committee, so she’s shown up like clockwork every Thursday—looking bored out of her mind, sure, but present, and words can’t express how much I owe her for all this. As soon as I declare the meeting adjourned, everyone pops up like dandelions, collecting their things. I’ve met students less eager to escape a classroom.

“Before we go,” I say, earning a murderous look from Bel and a very audible sigh from Gary, “this is off the record, not official committee business or anything, but I just wanted to ask to see whether you guys have any local performers to recommend for entertainment. For the gala,” I clarify, because Trina is looking at me like I’m from Mars.

“I haven’t listened to music since ’83,” Gary says, deadpan. I can’t tell if that’s his idea of humor or if he’s serious. Neither would really surprise me.

“I could ask my band,” Dean Goodman offers, running a hand through his thinning blond hair so that it stands on end like he’s Beetlejuice. Trina narrows her eyes at him, like he’s betrayed some secret pact to barricade my progress every step of the way. Considering how standoffish they’ve all been, maybe he has. But he just shrugs. “I might not buy into this whole gala business, but a gig is a gig.”

“What sort of music do you guys play?” I ask.

“We’re a cover band. Mostly indie rock or alternative. Think Arcade Fire, Death Cab for Cutie, that sort of thing.”

Not exactly in my wheelhouse, but not that far off, either. “Are the songs clean?” I ask. “I mean, are the lyrics sort of family friendly?”

Goodman squints. “We could make them family friendly.”

“Then great,” I say. “That works for me.”

He digs around in his laptop bag and unearths a business card that identifies the band as Eleventy-One Elephants, complete with an Instagram handle and a SoundCloud. Afterward, Goodman and Trina and Gary all leave in a whirlwind of notebooks slapping shut and book bags swinging from slumped shoulders. Bel and Teddy are left behind, both seeming to purposefully linger, and I’m not sure whose purpose I’m dreading more.

“So I won’t be able to make it to the subcommittee meeting tomorrow,” Bel says. I already suspect she’s abandoning me for Krav Maga. “My aunt is flying in from Atlanta and needs a ride from the airport.”

Okay, so maybe not Krav Maga, though I can’t rule out an elaborate cover story. “No worries. I’ll email you the minutes.”

Bel mumbles a thank you. She’ll likely never read the minutes even if I do email them—and to be fair, I don’t blame her, because she’s only really in this for me. And maybe for her resume. She scurries out of Franklin 106 and I follow not far behind, slinging my messenger bag around my neck as I go.

“Hey, wait up.”

I turn. Teddy jogs to catch up with me in the bright, fluorescent hall of the Franklin Complex. I wasn’t trying to skip out before he had a chance to talk to me, but if I’m being honest, I’ve thought about him more than I’m comfortable with these past few weeks. I feel like I need to put a little distance between us.

“So for tomorrow,” he says, “I was thinking maybe we meet at The Falconer again.”

“Why?” I ask. We’d met on campus the past couple of meetings after I emailed administration and managed to secure one of the conference rooms on the third floor of the Hall of Letters.

“To be entirely honest, because you look like you could use a drink.”

I snort. He’s not wrong, but I don’t want to admit that he’s right, either. I push through the glass double doors, emerging into the brisk evening. The beech trees have turned yellow and the maples have faded to a dull ochre; their leaves sweep up in the wind. “How do you figure?”

He gives me a sidelong look, because there’s nothing he could say that I don’t already know. I’ve known you since you had braces, so I can sort of tell when you’re stressed out and overworked.

I press my lips together. “Right.”

He flips around and walks backward so that he can look at me, his coffee-brown curls tousled by the breeze. “So, The Falconer, then?” he asks. When I just keep walking, he ducks down in a way that forces me to look at him, all puppy dog eyes. That’s a new one. I guess he’s learned a few tricks over the years. “Please say yes. If I’m being honest, I could use a drink, too.”

I sigh, resigned. “The Falconer it is.” I’m certain this is a bad idea, but I’m helpless to put a stop to it.

By the time I arrive at The Falconer on Friday, seven minutes behind schedule, it’s packed with people. A Dropkick Murphys song rattles the dark wood paneling, so loud that it’s hard to hear myself think. I find Teddy at one of the booths, a pair of drinks already on the table. He’s almost drained his gin and tonic, the wedge of lime bled dry. The other drink—a chocolatey one in a skinny martini glass—sits untouched on the opposite side of the table.

I slide into the booth across from him. “What’s this?” I ask, indicating the martini. I have to raise my voice to be heard over all the chatter.

“A cold brew martini with gin.” Upon noticing my raised eyebrows, he explains, “That was still your drink of choice, last I checked. Which was”—he pretends to consult an invisible watch—“a couple weeks ago, I’m pretty sure.”

“Thanks.” I pinch the stem between my fingers and raise it in a quick toast before taking a sip.

And then I cough.

He winces. “I might’ve asked them to make it a double shot,” he admits. “Thought you might need it.”