Page 67 of Given Our History

“You specialize in the colonies,” I point out. “History of the Mid-Atlantic. It’s not like there would be a ton of jobs for you in Edinburgh.”

“I specialize in colonial maritime history,” he corrects me. “Key word there. Which generally involved a lot of back-and-forth across the Atlantic, so I think I’d be just fine.” Another pause, during which he seems to fully absorb what I just said. “Why Edinburgh?”

I shift, suddenly a little self-conscious. “Just something Lorna Foster mentioned before the guest lecture. I sort of got the impression she was offering to vouch for me, if I ever wanted to apply to be a visiting researcher.”

He looks at me like he’s worried I’m coming down with a fever. “Why wouldn’t you take her up on that?”

“Because I might be getting tenure here,” I say, defensively. “And then it’ll be years before I can take sabbatical, and anyway, I don’t know.”

“Strong finish to a strong argument.”

I shoot him an exasperated look. “And what would you do if I packed my bags and jumped on a plane to Scotland tomorrow?”

“Follow you,” he says, not missing a beat.

“Without finding a job first?”

“I’ve got enough in the bank that I’d be fine for a year or two. I could take my time. Focus on research. Write. And if you decide you want to stay longer, I’d just have to look for a job.”

It all sounds so simple, when he says it like that. Idyllic, even. I’ve spent so much of my life chasing after security, both emotional and financial. But somewhere along the way, it feels like I lost sight of the finish line. “I don’t know,” I say again. “It’s a lot to think about.”

“Then take your time,” he says. “Think on it.”

CHAPTER26

PRESENT

The remainder of November is hectic, spent meeting one-on-one with students to discuss their final papers and piecing together my dossier between classes. It’s dense work, breaking down every contribution I’ve made to Irving these past however many years, and to academia at large. Pages discuss at length my research, publications, the courses I’ve taught, my services to the school. A curriculum vitae detailing my work experience, the years of adjunct professorship while I worked on my Ph.D. at University of Notre Dame, the Fulbright award that took me back to England for six months to conduct research for my dissertation. It’s all very stale and methodical, but also deeply personal, in a way: my life’s achievements, stuffed into a manila envelope too flimsy to bear the weight.

I submit it for consideration on the first Monday in December, the last week of instruction before finals week. Letters of recommendation are submitted separately by the recommenders, so I have no idea what they say—not even Teddy’s, which Julien suggested I add after our work together on the gala. Teddy offers to let me peek at it, but it feels like cheating, so I decline. “Okay,” he says in a mock-concerned tone, leaning over his desk with his hand on the mouse, threatening to click send. “Just wait until you find out that I’ve told them all about that time you misattributed a Winston Churchill quote.”

“I’ve never quoted Winston Churchill.” I widen my eyes, feigning worry. “Or maybe I didn’t know I was quoting him.”

He shuts down the computer and straightens up, taking me by the hand and dragging me toward him in the privacy of our shared office. “‘It is a good thing for an uneducated man’—or woman—‘to read books of quotations,’” he recites, hooking his arms around my waist.

I arch a brow up at him. “Is that a suggestion?”

“No. That’s Churchill.”

He tugs my body flush against his, but we’re interrupted by my phone vibrating between us. I draw back just far enough to dig it out of my pocket to check who’s calling.

Izzy.

That’s weird. Save for a handful of texts, we haven’t spoken for the past month, so this is a little out of the blue. My knee-jerk reaction is to assume something’s wrong. “Sorry,” I say, slipping out of Teddy’s grasp, “one sec.” I swipe to answer, stepping out into the hall.

“What are you doing December fourteenth to nineteenth?” Izzy asks by way of greeting.

“I don’t exactly have my schedule in front of me,” I say slowly. “That’s right after finals week, so probably not much.” The board should have made their decision by next Friday, so that will be out of my hair by then.

“I’m planning a visit,” she explains. A keyboard clacks in the background. “My parents have been begging me to come home for the holidays the last couple years and I figure I might as well squeeze in a trip to see you while I’m at it.”

“Oh,” I say, my eyebrows raised. I don’t mean for it to sound disinterested or ungrateful, but it’s fairly short notice with everything else happening. Still, we haven’t seen each other in a few years. And no matter how long we go without talking, how long we spend apart, the moment we’re together again, it’s like nothing’s changed. Not unlike my friendship with Teddy, actually. We all adapted to spending time alone during our formative years, managing friendships through periodic visits and long-winded catch-ups. Everyone always says that homeschooling doesn’t prepare you for the real world, but maybe it does, at least in this regard: it prepares you for how disparate your lives are going to be.

“Unless that doesn’t work for you,” she says uncertainly. “We could always plan something separate. Maybe in the summer.”

“No, that should be fine. Sorry, zoned out there for a minute.”

Behind me, the door to the office cracks open, and I step out of the way. Teddy locks up and pockets his keys. We’re supposed to be headed for lunch. “Everything okay?” he asks in a low voice, meant only for me. I nod.