Page 62 of Given Our History

“Right,” Reagan says with a sage nod. “You were probably too busy to look at the clock.”

“Get out,” I say, grabbing a balled-up napkin from eating nachos last night from the coffee table and chucking it at her head. I miss by about a foot, the napkin sailing over her shoulder into the kitchen. “Go to your room or something.”

“So, does this mean I’m going to get special treatment?” she asks Teddy, ignoring me entirely. “As your future sister-in-law and all that. Because I’d really like an A, but I suppose I could settle for—”

“Out,” I order, pointing down the hall, and she finally obliges, vanishing from the room with an evil cackle. “Sorry about that,” I say once we’re alone again. I push myself off the couch and head to the kitchen, the tile cold beneath my bare feet. “She doesn’t know when to mind her business,” I call over my shoulder. I put on a pot of coffee and open the refrigerator in search of something to eat. “Are you hungry?” I ask. “Closest thing I have to breakfast is an expired carton of eggs, but we could go out and grab something to eat, if you want.”

He enters the kitchen, his hand finding my waist. “Actually, I need to get going.” He pulls me toward him and catches my mouth in a kiss. “But I’d like to take you out for dinner tonight. I think a proper date is about fifteen years overdue.”

He collects his things and I walk him out to the car. We share a long kiss leaned up against the driver side door of the Datsun and then he leaves with a promise that he’ll text me later before picking me up for dinner. I head back inside, butterflies fluttering around my stomach. Reagan is waiting in the kitchen with her arms folded on the counter, a smug smile on her face. “About time.”

I hide my smile by turning my back to her, pouring myself a mug of coffee. I grab a couple sugar cubes from the lemon-shaped sugar dish and drop them in. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Despite the spring in my step all morning, I am determined not to rush into anything with Teddy. We’re both adults, and both practical to a fault; we know that whatever this is, it comes with a little baggage. One of our biggest roadblocks has always been communicating—sure, we’ve mostly said whatever we felt, but there’s also been this persistent pattern of waxing and waning, pulling back whenever it was convenient, but there’s no backing out this time. Our lives are inextricably intertwined.

Dinner feels less like a date and more like a negotiation. Sitting across from each other at an orange-lit booth beside a faux-brick wall in Lucretia’s, we talk at length about what this is, where we see it going, the numerous reasons it might or might not work.

We work together.

We’re very similar.

Perhaps too similar?

But we’ve known each other long enough to work around that; or at least we should be able to, in theory.

We’ve both wanted this forever.

We have a lot of history.

It’s not clear if this last point belongs in the pros or cons column. I’m well aware that our track record is far from perfect—but then again, we were practically kids when most of it happened. I was twenty-one when I stood outside the Manchester Cathedral, my thumb numb with cold as I pressed the screen to END CALL, effectively shutting down whatever might have been. Our track record ends there. It’s been a whole decade since.

“So we take things slow,” Teddy says. “See whether we can get it right, this time around.”

Julien asks me to swing by his office after my HIST-111 lecture on Monday afternoon. I knock at the frosted glass door and it swings wide.

“Ah. Good. I was wondering whether you got my email. Come on in, have a seat.” He’s already moving over to the bar cart, unscrewing the cap on a bottle of single-cask Macallan. “Care for a glass?”

I settle onto the chair, crossing my legs beneath my breezy skirt. “Please,” I say, because why not? As much as it might offend the very American sensibilities of our colleagues, it’s not technically against campus policy. And you know what else isn’t against policy? Getting romantically involved with visiting faculty. I triple-checked the rules because I’m a little worried that that’s why Julien called me in here today—that he’s somehow found us out. But I’m prepared to stand my ground. My only concern is whether it will reflect poorly on me when it comes time to go before the advisory committee in December, but so long as Julien is on my side, hopefully word won’t spread.

He pours me a finger, placing it on the desk before walking around to his chair. “I wanted to commend you on the success of Saturday’s gala.” He settles into the creaky, worn leather, swirling the amber liquid around his own glass before downing it in a single go. “I’m sorry I couldn’t be there.”

I exhale, some of my tension unraveling. “Thank you. But I can’t take full credit. I couldn’t have done it without the help of the other committee members. And the generosity of all our sponsors.”

He smiles, setting the empty glass on the desk with a dull clink and leaning back in his chair. “Always a good idea to acknowledge the efforts of those around you. Though a word to the wise: when you describe your contributions to the school in your dossier, be sure to take some credit.”

“Of course.”

“Speaking of which,” he continues, “I’ve been meaning to ask how that’s going. Your dossier.”

“Fine,” I say. “Great. I arranged with Lorna for a guest lecture next Friday.”

“I’m glad to hear it.” He squints at me. “A solid application for tenure also requires the recommendation of your colleagues, as I’m sure you’re aware. People who have worked with you on the day-to-day, who have a good sense of your teaching style, whether your methodologies align with the ethos of our institution.”

I take a sip from the crystal highball glass. The scotch is earthy and smoky and burns in my throat. I cough, covering my mouth with the sleeve of my sweater. “Belinda Jones might be willing to write something,” I choke out, my voice hoarse.

“Fantastic. Though I think it would be prudent to get recommendations from tenured faculty, as well. People who have been in your shoes and can speak to whether they feel you deserve to move forward with the process.”

I clear my throat. “I can ask the other members of the scholarship committee. Beyond that, I’ll have to think on it.”