Page 78 of Given Our History

I realize Julien’s still waiting for me to join him in a toast, so I clink my glass against his and then toss it back. The scotch is peaty and strong.

“The advisory board,” I ask, leaning forward to set my glass on the desk, “they spoke to you?”

“They did.”

“Did they—” I try to find the right way to phrase it. “Did they threaten to take any sort of action against you? Because I tried to make it clear that there was no bias involved, but—”

“You forget that I’m already tenured,” he interrupts with an apologetic smile. “There’s not much they can do to threaten where I’m at. Though I will say—again, off the record—that Andrew Greene has had it out for me ever since I was elected chair.”

“Why?”

“He thought it should go to a more … distinguished member of the faculty.”

In other words, Andrew Greene thought the chair position should’ve gone to him. I can’t help smirking at that. At the risk of sounding completely corny, I say, “I’m not sure it gets much more distinguished than you.”

As soon as I leave Julien’s office, I dig my phone out of my messenger bag and scroll through my contacts while I’m making my way down to the parking lot. We’d exchanged numbers after the guest lecture, but I haven’t spoken to her since. I’m so amped up, I don’t even pause to consider the cost of making an international call. The least I could’ve done was open WhatsApp, maybe shot her a message first. Actually, it’s like nine thirty at night in Scotland, and on a Saturday. Maybe I shouldn’t—

“I was hoping I’d hear from you,” she answers.

“Lorna,” I say, “I am so sorry for calling after hours, I wasn’t thinking about the—”

“Ah, no bother,” she says. “I’m something of a night owl, anyway. Any particular reason for your call, or are you just looking to have a blether?”

“You mentioned something in passing before giving the guest lecture,” I say as I unlock my car, “about a program there in Edinburgh?”

“Yes, I was hoping you might be calling about—” A dog yaps in the background, and she holds the phone away to have a brief but heated argument with it—most of which I don’t quite catch. “You know,” she says, returning the phone to her ear, “let me send out a few emails tomorrow. Or, wait, what day is it?”

“Saturday,” I say.

“Monday. I’ll send them out Monday.”

By the time we hang up a few minutes later, I’m feeling quite good about things. Well, most things. I still haven’t spoken to Teddy. I guess maybe I’ve been putting it off, because a part of me is scared it’ll be like last time all over again—calls sent to voice mail, text messages that go unanswered. But the longer I wait, the less chance I can mend whatever damage has already been done. So I suck it up. I press call.

It’s ringing.

Izzy is probably going to wonder what’s taking me so long … except who am I kidding? I already know it takes her two-point-five hours just to blow-dry her amazing hair. Not to mention, she’s going to have to duke it out with Reagan over that flat iron.

It’s still ringing.

For all I know, he’s back in Pittsburgh right now. Maybe he packed his bags Wednesday and never looked back. I didn’t even stop by our shared office to see whether he’d boxed up his things. He must’ve, if his application for next semester wasn’t approved. Though maybe he doesn’t know that yet.

There’s a click, and for a moment, I wonder if he’s sent me to voice mail. But then a familiar, deep voice says, “I was starting to worry.”

I breathe a sigh of relief at the warmth in his tone—no hurt, no exasperation. “Hi.”

“I thought maybe you weren’t going to call,” he says. “In which case I would’ve had to show up on your doorstep to beg you to reconsider.”

“Of course I was going to call,” I say in a small voice. But I don’t really want to have another serious conversation over a phone call. “Can you meet me at The Falconer in maybe”—I hold the phone away from my ear to double-check the time—“twenty minutes?”

CHAPTER31

PRESENT

It’s after sundown and snowing again by the time I find parking behind Lucretia’s, but I came prepared. I straighten my beanie before checking my reflection in the rearview. I look ridiculous, but oh well. Shocking revelations are way easier to swallow when they come from an almost-thirty-two-year-old woman in mittens and a pom-pom beanie, right?

Right.

Snow crunches beneath my boots as I make my way along Bridge Street, brick buildings cast sepia by the dim glow of the old streetlamps. Most of the businesses have shuttered for the night, but cars dot the curb. Music and voices drift from inside The Falconer. A gaggle of students push out into the cold, laughing and stumbling. They start up the street, back toward campus, the few that chose to stay in their dorms over the holidays. The group parts for a man in a peacoat and a plaid scarf, walking in the middle of the sidewalk.