Page 77 of Given Our History

“You should come out for drinks tonight,” I suggest. “I’ve got a friend visiting from Portugal. We’re planning to stop by The Falconer later. I feel like you guys would really hit it off.”

Bel raises her eyebrows at me, like she’s not sure whether I mean hit it off or hit it off, but before either of us has a chance to say anything more, we’re interrupted by a sharp knock on the open door.

“Thought I heard voices.” Julien hovers in the doorway, arching a brow at the pair of us—Bel kneeling among the scattered boxes, me perched on the desk—before his gaze settles on me. “Sorry to interrupt, but did you still want to discuss—?”

He doesn’t quite finish the question because I didn’t tell him what I wanted to talk about. Mostly because I’m still not sure. Heart hammering in my throat, I hop down from the desk. He retreats into the hall and Bel mouths something at me behind his back, miming a texting motion with her thumbs. I give her a thumbs-up before following Julien down the hall, a silent march to Hall of Letters 301 that feels a lot like marching to my own execution. Once inside, he shuts the door with a snap and pours two fingers of scotch, setting the etched crystal glass on the mahogany desk in front of me.

“Let me be the first to offer congratulations,” he says as he pours a second glass, and then holds it out in a toast.

I stare at him, nonplussed.

“I’m looking at our newest associate professor.”

“The advisory board invited me to apply,” I point out. “They didn’t offer me a job.”

“Yes, well”—he settles in his chair, leather creaking, his glass still held aloft—“formality. But it’s already been discussed. You’re a shoo-in at this point. The obvious woman for the job.” He frowns. “The only woman for the job, when you really get down to it.”

I stare into the glass of scotch. I’m not sure how to feel about that. I’m still angry, I suppose, at the way the advisory board handled things. But it’s not a white-hot anger. It’s more … tepid. Like I’ve left it sitting for too long. And I can’t really be bothered to bring it to a boil. “Teddy—Theodore Harrison, I mean,” I say. “He applied to extend his stay as a visiting professor.” Julien doesn’t say anything. He just waits for me to continue, so I do. “I know you don’t get the final say, but you choose whether or not to push that application through. Or it can stop with you.”

He dips his head, acknowledging this fact.

“I guess what I’m asking,” I continue, “is whether you’re going to push it through?”

He regards me curiously. “Are you asking me to push it through?”

I don’t answer. No. Maybe.

“Clara.” He sighs, sitting up in his chair, and sets his untouched glass on the desk in front of him. “You can’t choose whether or not you want this job based on who’s still going to work here in six months. I like you very much. You’re professional. Goal-oriented. And a charismatic lecturer. Students like you because you’re passionate about what you do, and that translates. Irving would be lucky to keep you around a little longer. You,” he emphasizes, “not a package deal.”

I nod. I understand all of that. But I’m also not quite satisfied by his explanation. All those things he’s complimenting me on, it’s nice to hear them—but they’re not really me, specifically. They’re a part of me in the same sense that they’re a part of so many other professional, goal-oriented, passionate historians. I’ve strived to be all those things, but that doesn’t change the fact that they’re my most replaceable qualities. There are thousands of hungry grad students who’d be happy to be those things for Irving.

I guess it just would’ve been nice to hear how they value me as a Tudor historian in a department that has none. How my publications have contributed to the overall prestige of our institution. How I’m … I don’t know. All the other things I am. But I suppose they haven’t really been privy to all that. Whatever “that” is. I’ve buried it all beneath layers of professionalism.

I look up from my glass. “Did you know it’s been like eight years since I’ve said the word ‘fuck’?”

A smile tugs at the corner of Julien’s mouth. “I did not.”

“I thought it was unprofessional,” I explain. “Never mind the fact that Gary Reid drops seventeen F-bombs in a single lecture.”

“It’s not against any university policy,” Julien says diplomatically.

“I was also worried that it would be unprofessional if I told you that I didn’t want to share an office with Teddy.” I’m rambling now. “Which was fine, by the way, in the long run—I mean, he wasn’t even in there half the time, and we obviously worked things out, so it didn’t really matter—” I take a deep breath. “That’s not the point. The point is,” I say, “I’m going to take some time off.”

He doesn’t say anything. He just raises his eyebrows, the ghost of a smile on his lips.

“But assistant professors don’t get sabbatical,” I press on. “And associate professors—I’m guessing they don’t either, not if they don’t have tenure. Sabbatical is for tenured professors. Someone that the school has invested in, whom they trust to come back.”

He dips his chin. “You’d be correct.”

“So in that case, by ‘time off’”—I hold my breath for a split second, wondering if I’m really about to do this, and oh my god, I’m about to do this—“I guess what I’m really saying is that I quit.”

I’m met with silence. Julien sucks his teeth and picks up his glass, but he doesn’t take a drink. I stare at him. He stares back.

“And I guess what I’m saying is”—he nods at his whisky—“I’ll drink to that.”

I blink at him. “You’re not mad?”

“On the contrary,” he says. “I’m happy to write you a glowing letter of recommendation, should you ever need one. Irving would’ve been lucky to have you, but off the record, I’m not sure I’d accept a consolation prize after the way you were treated, either.”