Page 57 of Given Our History

If we’re going with his simile, then Irving is the first person to come along. I’d applied to a number of schools, but this was the only one to offer me a position on the tenure track when I was still fresh out of grad school. It had seemed like a good enough reason, at the time. “They’ll help with Reagan’s tuition, once I’m tenured.”

“What about your parents?” he asks. “They can’t help at all?”

I wobble my head back and forth, noncommittal. “They’re doing better now, financially.” Better in general. “Dad’s still dealing with the whole worker’s comp nightmare, but Mom moved up to assistant manager a couple years ago. But they can’t afford this. And I hate the thought of Reagan drowning in loans.”

Teddy considers this for a beat. “I’m not sure that’s your responsibility.”

I stare at him. “She’s my sister.”

“Yeah, well.” He shrugs. “She’s an adult. If this is the school she chose, I’m sure she knew what she was signing on for.”

He’s not entirely wrong. I tried to encourage Reagan to apply to other schools, but she was set on Irving. Something about the old buildings, the intimate campus, appealed to her. Maybe because she’s a bit of a romantic at heart, no matter how much she tries to bury it beneath layers of snark. She is a literature major, after all. “Anyway, I don’t know why you’re questioning me,” I say, deflecting. “You’re on the tenure track at Carnegie, you seem to be happy enough.”

He shakes his head.

I frown. “No, what? No, you’re not happy?”

“I’m not tenure track. I’m adjunct.”

“What?” It comes out louder than intended, apparently, because several people in our immediate vicinity turn to stare. I lower my voice. “Why?”

“Well, my plans got sort of derailed after my dad had the first stroke,” he says, matter-of-fact. “It took me a couple years after that to finish my thesis. But I guess you could say I just haven’t found the right school yet.” He tosses me a cheeky grin. “Not ready to tie the knot.”

I shake my head and roll my eyes, but I can’t help smiling. We’re interrupted by Trina Madhani, who drags him away to meet one of her former advisees. I end up chatting with Wendy McAllister from the Communications Department about the renovations on Martin Hall, but I find that I keep glancing over at Teddy in the next room. After a little while, I excuse myself and cut through the crowd to take momentary refuge in the kitchen.

It’s empty except for Bel, eating what remains of the pastitsio directly out of the aluminum serving tray. My stomach grumbles just looking at it—I’ve been rushing around so much that I forgot to eat.

“Feels like it’s going well,” she says.

I pluck the last dolma out of the tray with my fingers and bite off the end, leaning my back against the counter as I chew. “Better than I’d hoped.”

“So,” she says slowly, “are you ever going to tell me what the story is with you two?”

She levels me with a significant look. I can’t pretend that I don’t know what she’s asking about. “We just—” I try to find the right way to sum everything up, to explain where it went wrong. “I was really focused on school.” She waits for me to elaborate, and for some reason, I do. “My mom, she was working this dead-end job at the time, and everything about it just looked so bleak. Not having anything for yourself. Counting on someone else to make it all better. I didn’t want to end up like that, so I sort of just put everything else on the back burner.”

As soon as I’ve finished talking, I feel like I’ve overshared. But Bel just nods, like she understands. “Right person, wrong time?”

“More or less.”

“But now it’s…” She waits a beat for me to fill in the blank, but I don’t. “The right time, maybe?”

I pop the rest of the dolma into my mouth and push off the counter. “I’m still trying to figure that part out.”

The remainder of the night is spent shaking even more hands, thanking donors, announcing the winners of the raffle. Guests begin filtering out by eight thirty. At eight forty-three, the band stops playing and Goodman steps outside with the bassist to smoke a joint beneath the portico, the rain coming down in sheets. Bel complains that she pulled a muscle hanging up the banner, so instead of asking her to stay to help clean up, I tell her to head home and draw herself a hot bath. I think she suspects that I’m doing this on purpose, but she doesn’t call me out for it.

By nine, it’s just me and Teddy. He heads upstairs to change back into his normal clothes and find his glasses. When he comes back down, he plays some music on his phone, a throwback playlist that fades into the background while we clean—“Famous Last Words” and “Demolition Lovers,” songs he used to send me on burned CDs. We exchange few words and fewer glances as we work. We’ll have to talk before the night is over, but for now, we crisscross through the rooms, boxing up decorations and bagging up trash, paper cups and plates that were left on the mantel and upright piano. I’m standing on a stepstool to reach the banner above the fireplace when he finds his way over to me.

“Looks like this is the last of it,” he says, staring up at the words CULTIVATING COMMUNITY.

I tug a pushpin out of the horsehair plaster and the top left corner of the banner flutters over my hand. “Can you grab the other end?” I ask.

He reaches to help and then I climb down from the stepstool. We meet in the middle, lining up the corners of the banner, which he folds and sets aside. I cross over to the coffee table and pop my fake fangs from my teeth one at a time, stowing them in a plastic bag in my purse.

When I turn back around, Teddy’s offering me a hand, palm up.

I stare at him, wary. “What are you doing?”

“I’m asking you to dance.”