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That was two months before my graduate application was due. He was on the evaluation committee. He would be directly responsible for whether or not I may be accepted. He’d written a stunning letter of recommendation for me as well. Though, he hadn’t given it to me yet. He merely told me that ending things with him wouldn't be in my best interest. That he had on good authority that I was unlikely to be accepted into the program without hishelp.
I’d become so reliant on him, I so surely believed that I couldn’t be successful without it.
That no class I’d passed, no exhibition I attended, no connection I had made had been done without him. Thathehad chosenmeand had deemed me worthy of him. Of his guidance, his mentorship, his presence. I believed him when he said those things. I was desperate.
I wanted to be just like him.
I continued that affair for another three months, until I got accepted to the Graduate Programme at Oxford. Not long after, his wife found some emails between us on their home computer. They were incriminating. Incriminating for me. There was one email where I, in a little game we’d play, offered various sexual favors in return for answering questions I needed for different class assignments. The email was old, from before I knew he had a wife. He hadn’t responded to it because he’d just called me and explained to me what he wanted in person.
She’d found condoms in his car. Apparently, she found my underwear in one of his bags too. So she knew he was having the affair, even though the only concrete proof she had was the email I sent. She reported the email to the school. When James was called in for questioning, he claimed that it had all been me. That I was desperate for acceptance into the Graduate Programme, that he’d taken me on as a mentee, and so I offered him something more in exchange for his letter of recommendation. Even when everything in both our lives had blown up, even when there was no more hiding things, no way out; he still shredded me apart to uphold any ounce of his reputation.
He held no regard for how it would affect me.
I was so numb by that, by what he did, that when the committee held my hearing, I did nothing to defend myself. I didn’t even speak. I only nodded or shook my head at their questions. They asked me if I had an affair with my professor. If I offered sexual favors in exchange for his letter of recommendation. I had to say yes, because he hadn’t been lying. He’d just downplayed the role he played in it too.
In the end he lost his job. He lost his credibility. He lost his family. I lost Oxford. I lost my reputation. I lost my dignity and my identity. I moved home after that. I’ve been crawling through the last year of my life, through the shattered pieces of myself, trying to find a way to glue her back together. I had thought I’d at least begun to recover, but speaking all of it out loud to Macie, the first time I’d ever done so, made me feel like I was shattering all over again.
I didn’t realize I was even crying until I felt the tear drop off my chin. I looked up at Macie and realized she was crying too. Crying for me, or because of me, I wasn’t sure. I couldn’t tell if she was shocked that I wasn't the person she thought I was or angry that I could do something so awful.
“Penelope, are you serious?”
It felt strange to hear my full name come from Macie’s lips. She started calling me Penny the day she met me. I wasn’t sure she’d ever used my full name before. I buried my face in my hands. “I know, I know. It’s the worst thing I’ve ever done.”
She leaned across the table and pulled me hands away from my face. “The worst thingyou’veever done? Penelope, I– I think you have Stockholm Syndrome or something.”
Stockholm Syndrome?
“What the fuck are you–”
“Do your parents know about this?”
“Of course they know, Macie. I had to call them when I was kicked out of school over it. My visa was revoked. I had to move back home.”
“No, Penelope. Do they know what James did to you? Did Oxford? Have you ever told anyone the full story?”
I opened my mouth and shut it again several times. I just shook my head. My parents had been informed that I’d offered a professor sex in exchange for help getting into grad school. That was the extent of what they knew. I think they believed I had sex with him one time. Carter knew there was a man named James and that I was a fraud. He didn’t know the two were related. Maddie and Easton knew as much as my parents did, or maybe less. We didn’t talk about it.
“Penelope, you have to tell someone. He…hegroomedyou. Hemadeyou do those things. Do you understand that? Do you understand what happened to you? Penelope, you need to tell your dad right now. You need to tell Oxford. Is he still teaching there?”
I shook my head profusely. “No, Mace. You’re not understanding. I did–” I stuttered. I wasn't sure what to say. I couldn’t comprehend what she was talking about. I’d heard that word before,groomed, but it wasn’t what this was. I was an adult. Stupid, naive, but an adult. A consenting adult. I made those choices as much as he did. I blew through my nose. “No, he’s no longer teaching. He was punished just as much as I was. There is no point in re-opening all of it. That’s not why I was telling you.”
She sighed, wiping her face. I’d never seen her look so serious. “Youshouldn’t have been punished for this, Penelope. You are the victim.”
“You’re not understanding. I’m not. I– I am not a victim. I fucked up, big time. And I am asking you if you think I need to tell Carter. If you think it’ll make him rethink being with me.” I looked down at my lap, murmuring that last sentence. It had been the hardest one of all to get out.
She glanced at her phone and stood up, throwing her purse over her shoulder. We only had fifteen minutes before we both needed to be back at school. My cinnamon roll sat untouched in front of me. “I think you should tell him, but not for the reasons you think. I think you need to come to terms with this situation for yourself first before you involve him. You need to understand what happened to you.” I stood up with her, caught by surprise as she embraced me. She said into my shoulder, “And you need to talk to someone about this, Penelope. If not your parents, if not me, then a therapist. I don’t think you’ve even begun to process this, and you need to. Before you can move forward, with Carter or otherwise, you need to talk to someone about what happened to you.Please.”
I was too stunned to respond, so I nodded. I followed her to the parking lot, then into the school. She hugged me again before she went to her classroom. I went straight to Christine’s because I was late. My chest, my stomach, and my head felt hollow. But I could only come to the conclusion that Macie was horribly confused. She had misunderstood everything I said. Which was fine, I guess. Because I somehow felt relieved that she agreed I wasn’t ready to tell Carter about it. That made me feel less guilty.
I agreed to think about seeing a therapist, but I wasn’t sure I’d follow through on her request. I vehemently avoided therapy since I was about twelve. My parents made me go for years after my adoption, my mom’s death. But at some point, it became more tedious than helpful. I asked if I could stop going, and they didn’t push it. But maybe I could try again. Maybe, at the least, it’d help me find a way to tell Carter. I wasn’t convinced it would fix me. It wouldn’t fix the actions I’d already taken, the things I’ve already done. But maybe it could help me get him to understand.
My head throbbed with all the conflicting thoughts that floated through my mind.
I navigated throughout my day in a blur. I told Carter I had to stay after work again to help Christine. Our parents had already made dinner plans on our behalf to celebrate my acceptance and we agreed to meet directly at the restaurant. We agreed to act platonic while we were at it. We agreed not to tell anyone about us yet.
After work, when I knew Carter had left for the day, I snuck back into the art room. Christine hadn’t needed my help, just like she didn’t need it any other day this week. I sorted through the closet I knew Carter never used until I found everything I needed. I locked the classroom door to be safe.
Throwing on my smock, I stood in front of the easel and stared for a long while, determining my next move. The process of painting was feeling a little like my life. Maybe that’s why I kept coming here day after day. Where life felt stagnant before, it was flowing again. Just like my inspiration. I began mixing blue and white together, then orange and white, then pink and purple. Creating three different shades of the soft, peaceful sunrise that I was remembering in my head. I swept my brush across the canvas.
