I’d have to be an idiot not to know whohimis.
“Who?” I hit her with my best blank stare.
“Pfft. You know who.” She may be stupid, but she’s not dumb. “Ethan Carter, of course.”
“Oh, him. No. Why?”
“Why? Why? Because he’ll be taking on some of the PhD candidates. That’s why.”
I don’t know why this hadn’t occurred to me. I’d normally be all over this kind of thing. It’s a measure of how discombobulated the situation has me. Now I really need to see him. Before … well, before I don’t know what. But I need to see him. Stat. I also need Riley not to know about it. So, while my heart races, I attempt an appearance of disinterest by continuing to check two cobbled-together computer systems against one another. One day we’ll have a shiny new computer system to go with our shiny new building. Maybe I’ll even be lecturing here by then.
“Ihaveto have him as my supervisor!” Most of Riley’s sentences are liberally peppered with italics and exclamation points. Everything is a life-or-death drama. Sometimes, I wonder how she’s managed to get to PhD level, although I have my suspicions. Then I realise I don’t care and move on to thinking about things that actually matter.
“I guess you could ask Jennifer to appoint him. Or ask him,” I suggest. Part of me hopes she does get him. It would certainly reduce the likelihood he’d be appointed to supervise me. Then I feel bad. Wishing Riley on anyone is cruel and unusual punishment. Except maybe for Professor Collins. He deserves her.
“Oh, Iwill.” She perches on the edge of my desk and begins inspecting her manicure. I always feel like this is a passive-aggressive dig at my short, unpainted nails. But maybe I’m attributing too much forethought to Riley’s actions. “And isn’t it just sooo sad?”
Okay. I’ll bite.
I rub my temples to ease the building tension. I suspect I’ll regret asking this. “Isn’t what so sad?”
“About his wife.” Her shoulders droop, and her mouth turns down like an exaggerated clown frown.
I take a second to respond. Becausewife?
When I think I can speak in a normal voice, I ask, “Wife?”
It comes out as a weird squeaky croak. It’s fortunate Riley is too self-absorbed to notice.
“Yes. How she died.” More frowny face.
“His wifedied?” Oh, my God. I’m starting to sound like Riley. And how, in the tight and gossipy academic community, have I not heard this story before?
“That’s what Isaid. Two years ago. They’d only been married formonths,and she just dropped dead. There was an autopsy andeverything. No wonder he always looks so sad.” Not always, I recall. Which I keep to myself.
“Where did you hear this?” I think back to his house. The unpacked boxes. The lack of anything personal. Anything homely.
“Janet heard all about it from Jennifer, who’s known him foryears.”
My heart feels uncomfortable in my chest, and my body is suddenly restless. I push back from the desk and stand up.
“I really don’t think that’s the sort of thing you should be gossiping about, Riley. It’s tragic, and you should have more respect.”
I’m down the corridor and into the unisex bathroom before Riley has a chance to reply.
I splash cold water on my face and run it across my wrists, trying to calm the emotions bubbling in my veins. Snapshots and soundbites from our night together are coming back to me, suddenly seeming more significant. Heartbreaking. Remembering how serious he was despite the flirty banter. How he allowed me to call him Solo Man and never offered his real name. The single plate and cup taken out of the brand-new box of crockery. The lone, single chair in the living room.
The fact that he never even tried to kiss me on the lips. That he seemed to prefer being behind me, not face to face. I thought maybe that was how he liked it, but it seems like he was holding me at arm’s length. Just as I was doing with him.
Tears spring to my eyes, and I’m grateful nobody else is in the bathroom right now.
I whip a couple of paper towels from the dispenser and dab at my eyes, blinking until the tears subside. Thank goodness I rarely bother with mascara.
I know Ethan Carter must be a good five or ten years older than me. I knew it when we hooked up. But he’s way too young to have lost a wife. It’s too unfair.
My fears about my PhD and my reputation now feel petty in the face of this man’s loss.
Regardless, we still need to have a conversation.
