Perfection. Why was he so good at making sandwiches? Gideon set it down on the plate and brushed the crumbs from his fingers before pulling his silver laptop closer. He never intended to work during dinner every night, but that had become his unintentional routine. Probably because mealtimes were when he felt the most lonely.
It had been three years since Jess had moved out, and it still felt like something was missing in the apartment. He didn’t miss her, exactly. That relationship had run its course months before they finally pulled the plug. But he missed having someone to make a second sandwich for.
Gideon opened his laptop, and the screen lit it up. He signed into his portal and clicked over to the semester assignments. Each student had been tasked with submitting a simple recording, highlighting one of the techniques he'd taught in the past weeks. He pulled on his headphones and pressed play.
The first submission was decent. It had some minor interference but overall, good. He made a quick note in the feedback section and keyed in the grade. The second was surprisingly better. He went down the list, the rhythmic pattern of play-grade-note becoming almost meditative.
Not for the first time, he applauded himself for making the assignments less than three minutes. He didn’t hate grading like some of his colleagues, but the quality of work in the first few weeks was flattered by short and snappy. He finished offhis sandwich as he worked and eventually got to the last student without a grade.
Gideon paused when he scrolled over Megs' name. There was a blank space where her assignments should’ve been submitted. He hadn’t asked if Megs knew where to find the course material, but she’d taken classes before. She had to understand how the system worked.
Since she’d barely decided to officially join the class yesterday, he doubted she’d had time to complete anything if she’d even read through the assignments. Still, he needed to put in something now, even if it was a placeholder. He wouldn’t deduct points for submitting late, so whenever she submitted, he could change the grades.
As Gideon typed in the zeroes, his stomach clenched. And this was why it was a terrible idea to have more than a professional relationship with a student. He wanted to omit the assignments for her and have her start at week three, but that wouldn’t be doing her any real favors. His curriculum built on itself, and these four assignments wouldn’t take her more than a couple of hours once she caught up on the lessons.
She’d understand that, wouldn’t she? He shouldn’t be worried about whether she understood. He shouldn’t be worried about anything other than giving her the same concessions he’d give any other student. Gideon exhaled and closed the laptop.
Megs’bedroom door slammed open, and her head snapped up. Sylvia DeBosse was in the doorway. Her wild curly hair framed her face like an untamed halo as her eyes darted around the room, finally landing on Megs sitting on the bed. Megs was instantly transported to her high school self, when her room was plastered with posters of Broadway shows and art supplies littered everyavailable surface. Now her walls were clean, and the only creative tools sitting on her dresser were a tripod and a few black pens, yet she still cringed at the look on her mother’s face.
"Really, Megs?" Her mom brandished a printed sheet of paper in front of her, and Megs knew precisely what it was. The list of finalists for the audiobook competition. "You're still playing around with this nonsense?"
Megs, sitting cross-legged on her bed, phone in hand, felt her face heat up.Playing around.Nice. "Umm, yeah . . . I thought it might be worth a shot."
"Megs, you need to grow up." Sylvia tossed the paper onto the bed next to Megs. "Stop distracting yourself with things that are only going to lead to more disappointment."
Megs’ chest tightened as her mother's words sliced through her. Nonsense. Disappointment. How could her mother say those things when she loved acting and theater just as much as she did? She wanted to ask the question out loud but knew it wouldn’t get her anywhere.
Her mom had a safe job. She had something to fall back on. That was the difference, and truth be told, Megs had started to doubt herself far before her mother had ever spoken her thoughts out loud.But she couldn’t force herself to stop wanting it.
Sylvia softened her tone. "Look, Megs, I just want you to focus on something that has a real future—like your coding certification course. It’s a much more stable career path that will allow you to have hobbies like this. Eventually, right?"
Megs nodded slowly, not wanting to meet her mother's eyes. She was twenty-five, and right now she felt as impotent as when she was fifteen.
Her mother groaned and dropped down on the end of the bed. "I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to get all confrontational. When I saw this—” She shook her head. “I do see the progress you’re making. How’s the course going, by the way? We haven’t had a good conversation since the weekend.”
Megs hesitated, her fingers twisting around a loose curl. This was going to be painful, but the longer she delayed her horrifying revelation, the worse it was going to be. "I missed one of the classes, which means I have to wait to certify during the next session.”
There. She said it. Ripped off the bandaid.
"What?" Her mother’s voice rose as the whites of her eyes expanded. "Why? How did that happen?"
"Because I was fifteen minutes late to class and they locked me out of the building," Megs refused to slump or drop her head, even though she felt like crawling into a hole and hibernating. This was always how it was between her and her mother. Sylvia dug in, and Megs dug in even harder.
Sylvia blew out a breath. “I don’t understand how you were late.” Her voice was low and calm, which meant she was working to keep an explosion at bay.
Megs couldn’t help herself. “You don’t understand how someone could be late? There’s no possible explanation for someone showing up fifteen minutes after they’d intended to?”
Her mother’s eyes flashed. “Not when it’s important. Like, say, to secure a roof over your head. Why were you late?”
“I’m not a child any—”
“You’re acting like one.”
Megs threw up her hands. “There was recording equipment on campus. I went early to record that audition, and the professor—”
"Are you kidding me?" And there it was. The explosion Megs knew was coming. "You jeopardized your entire future for an audition? Megs, when are you going to learn? You’re twenty-five years old, and it's still always aboutyourdreams,yourfantasies . . .”
As her mother ranted, Megs shriveled like the flowers in the pots by their front door when she forgot to water them. What was the point of having dreams if they always got in the way of being successful? What was the point of her existence if she was always a disappointment to the people who knew her best?
