Page 5 of Given Our History

I climb into the passenger seat. It smells like artificial cherries, dried-up jars of gel air freshener cluttering the drink holders. “When did he say that?”

“The Merry Wives of Windsor.”

I pause in the middle of buckling my seat belt. “And you memorized it?” I don’t recall The Merry Wives of Windsor being standard reading, but then again, I didn’t major in literature.

“Of course not. I Googled ‘quotes about punctuality’ a few minutes before you got here.”

I resist the urge to roll my eyes. “That would explain it.”

We swerve out of the parking lot and onto a narrow one-way street, shaded beneath Federal-style brick buildings and gnarled trees. I rest my fingers in the overhead grab handle as a precaution. Reagan’s driving is terrifying. She’s not a bad driver, per se—she’s got a clean driving record as far as I know. It’s more that the Jeep instills a tad too much confidence in her. If another car gets in her way, she could probably just run them over. That’s what Reagan’s used to doing: just barging her way through life and hoping it works out.

She stops at a stop sign, but she only seems to remember to do so at the last second: the tires squeal in protest, and I brace myself against the dashboard.

“Stop doing that,” she says, continuing through the intersection like it’s nothing. Thankfully, there are no other cars around, but there are students waiting at the crosswalk, and they’re staring at us.

I hide my face by resting an elbow against the door, shooting a covert glare at Reagan. “Doing what?”

“Putting your hand on the dash like that. It reminds me of Mom.”

“Seems to be a trend among your passengers. Maybe you should take it as a sign.”

She huffs, but doesn’t acknowledge the dig. We swing into the parking lot of Bucky’s Burgers and Dogs—less of a burger joint and more of a sports bar using sloppy hamburgers as a cover story, but the good news is that it’s completely dead at noon on a Monday, so I can drop the whole professor act without worrying about bumping into any students. We order at the counter and then grab a table beneath a lazy ceiling fan that’s fighting a losing battle against smoke from the grill.

I watch in horror as Reagan pops the lid off of her iced tea and proceeds to add not sugar, but several pink packets of Sweet’N Low. “What are you doing?” I ask warily. Mom was born and raised in Tennessee and sweet tea was sacred in our household, growing up. This is blasphemy. It’s like I’m sinning just by looking at it.

She mixes the abomination with her straw, ice clattering. “I’m on a diet.”

“Yes, but—” I resist the urge to remind her that she just ordered a chili cheeseburger and fries. “Wouldn’t you rather let yourself enjoy things?”

Her forehead crinkles. “You’re one to talk. Look at you.”

“What about me?”

“Old. Single. The antithesis of fun.”

Ah. There it is. The payback for my driving comment. I take a long sip of my Pepsi through the straw, trying not to focus on any one accusation in particular, but try as I might, there’s one that eats at me. “I’m single by choice.”

“No one’s single by choice. If they say they are, they’re lying. Or maybe working through some shit. You don’t even have shit to work through.”

“I’m too busy for a relationship.” That’s always been my reasoning, but it tastes especially bitter today. Ever since finishing grad school, I haven’t had the time to meet people. Always working on the next paper (right now, an article analyzing the language used in a letter from Elizabeth of York to Isabella, Queen of Castile regarding the betrothal of their children) and juggling three classes with student advising and committee meetings. University of Irving isn’t exactly a hotbed of attractive singles—not ones in my age range, that’s for sure—and between hours spent figuring out the nightmarish departmental transition from Blackboard to Instructure and recently learning that Facebook is for old people, it’s become woefully apparent that I’m no longer tech-savvy enough for dating apps.

“Anyway, how’d it go this morning?” I ask, hoping to change the subject.

“Fine,” she says on a sigh. Reagan language for incredibly fucking boring. “We’re not really allowed to talk. This lady kept shushing us while we were shelving books.”

“That is generally the nature of a library,” I point out. This morning marked her first day of training for a student position in the Reynolds Library at the heart of campus. It’s part of a work-study program that the financial aid office set her up with after she failed to qualify for any of the merit-based scholarships on admission.

Reagan’s relationship with school couldn’t be more different from my own. Not that it’s her fault. She’s younger than me by ten whole years; Dad’s vasectomy wasn’t as foolproof as they’d assumed. I was homeschooled for most of my life, but circumstances had changed by the time our parents enrolled her at a local public elementary school. When her high school GPA landed squarely at 2.4 and her SAT scores were underwhelming, our parents shrugged and told her to enroll in community college.

That’s where she got it together, at least academically—visiting the tutoring center when she needed help and staying up late editing her papers until they earned her a passing grade. But while it got her admitted to Irving, it wasn’t enough to earn her a free ride. Our parents are still knee-deep in medical bills, part of an ongoing battle with worker’s comp. I co-signed some of her loans for this semester, but I’m still paying off the loans I took out for my Ph.D. This isn’t sustainable long-term.

Just another reason tenure would work in my favor.

Which reminds me of the conversation in Julien’s office this morning, no matter how hard I’m trying to push it aside.

Absently, I use the straw to push the ice around in my drink, plastic squeaking against the lid. “Maybe you were too young,” I say, “but do you remember I had this friend a long time ago, Teddy Harrison?”

Reagan shakes her head.