Present
After Saturday dinner in my backyard with Henry, Patrick and Elaine, we start popping popcorn and refilling wineglasses before heading to the den to watch theBlood OathNetflix series.
A.D. Hemmings. August Dansworth. My heartbreak passed quickly, and I’m fine bingeing the series with everyone else. Who knows, I might even readBlood Offspringwhen it hits bookstores next summer. I’m curious about Inspector Hall’s new widowed love interest.
I tuck Heathcliff in bed, leaving on only his night-light, which radiates the Bat signal onto the ceiling. Most nights he asks a hundred questions and gets up several times for water, but not tonight. Bonnie wore him out playing in the yard this afternoon. He’s already falling asleep, talking sluggishly about a pill bug he and Bonnie found in my garden box. As his eyelids droop, I brush his blond bangs from his forehead. He looks like his father and grandfather in the dull light.
“I love you, Heathcliff.”
As he drifts off, he rolls over in the bed, yawning widely. “I love you too. You’re brave like Batman.”
My heart full, I walk back downstairs, pausing in front of the fireplace mantel. The orchid Dad sent after Philip died still blooms. Framed photos line the rest of the shelf. Of course, there’s a black-and-white picture of Philip and me cutting the cake at our wedding. There are photos of Philip, Heathcliff and me at the state fair, another of us dressed up as matching superheroes for Halloween. I’d been Poison Ivy in a silly andexpensive wig. There’s one of Heathcliff looking sulky and unhappy in a little seersucker suit at one of Mirabel’s events. And now there’s a framed photo of Heathcliff and a smiling Frank at a USC football game, both wearing team colors, garnet paint smeared on their cheeks.
I stare at the picture from Meg and Will’s wedding. We’re by one of the tiki torches, just before we slipped off for our walk by the river. Philip’s kissing my cheek, looking like he’s the luckiest guy in the world. I remember that moment, the feel of his chin stubble on my skin, how happy I was. Then the ache swells. I take a breath and return to the den.
After Patrick and Elaine leave, Henry and I sit on my front steps. The first episode ofBlood Oathwas about what we expected. Brad Pitt looked the part, ruggedly handsome as he drove back roads too fast in his sleek Bentley. But as Ms. Fernsby predicted, his Welsh accent stank. The chase scenes were fun and well edited, with Cardiff as a stunning coastal backdrop. But my thoughts kept drifting.
“Everything okay?” Henry asks.
“Yeah.”
“You’ve just seemed a million miles away this evening.”
My street is never as beautiful as it is at this time of year. Little bats flit around the streetlights; star jasmine spills thickly over front yard picket fences, swelling in these last breaths of summer.
“Some nights Philip just feels more in my thoughts than others.”
Henry puts his hand on my knee.
“I know. Me too. Sometimes I just can’t believe he’s gone.”
I put my hand over his. “I haven’t told anyone this. But Philip and I talked once about how we would live if something happened to one of us.”
“And how were you going to live?”
“With happiness and purpose,” I say, before I kiss him.
After a few seconds, I pull away.
“What is it?” he asks.
“Let’s take dancing lessons together. Soon.”
He puts his palm gently on my cheek. “Anytime you want to, Lizzie.”
Two Months Later
I walk through the narrow, windowless halls of the administration building, and my brain hurts as I wonder why I would be called to Dean MacGregor’s office the day before fall break. It seems far past the time when he would pressure me to retroactively pass Brad for the spring Jane Austen seminar. From what I’ve heard, Brad has other problems. According to Patrick, he’s skipped at least a third of his poetry classes this semester; he streaked across the field at the last football game and was caught pouring soap into the campus fountain. Then there was a vaping incident in the campus bell tower.
I find Dean MacGregor sitting in his sprawling office, framed photographs of his wife, Annie, and Brad on his desk. He has lists of this academic year’s dwindling donors in front of him as well as budgets for every academic department spread out on his desk. I see an X overGender Studies, so I assume that department might be on the chopping block come spring.
“Hullo, Dr. Wells!” he exclaims cheerfully, hurriedly collecting the papers and sliding them into a binder. His iPhone lies face up on the desk, my Instagram account open to a photo of me sipping champagne with Bella Patel at a red-carpet event. Dean MacGregor blushes and quickly flips the phone over.
Maybe this is about me missing the last faculty meeting due to my televised interview with the cast on a morning news show in New York City.
“I just took a call from a prospective student wanting to come here to take your classes. You’re quite a feather in our cap.”
I smile, still confused. “So I suppose that means you’re not firing me.”
