“I’m fine,” I lied.
“Sure, you are,” he said, unconvinced. “Tell you what, I’ll take the last two hours. You should go lie down.”
I wanted to argue, but the pounding in my head made the decision for me. “Thanks, Jamie.”
I took him up on it, but instead of heading for a nap, I sat down at my laptop—too much to do to think about sleeping. To be fair, away from the counter, I felt a little more relaxed, either that or the meds had kicked in… until I caught myself hunting down Nordic drink recipes.
Because…
Well, I had no fucking idea.
I stumbled across a recipe that called for aquavit—like I was going to find that in Wishing Tree—take that, Wesley. No ingredients, no drinks. However, the original post mentioned that there were workarounds. It suggested I could replace it with something simplerand perhaps create a child-friendly version with cream and spice for the kids. It was ridiculous that I was even considering it.
Jamie poked his head around the door. “All locked up.”
“Thank you, Jamie.”
“You look better,” he murmured.
“Thank you.”
“No worries, night, Mr. McCoy,” Jamie said.
I was immersed in Nordic traditions when a notification box appeared, alerting me to an incoming email. I imagined it would be spam, but the address was anythingbutspam, and I opened it hurriedly.
I stared at the email for a long beat, a rush of relief flooding me that someone had finally gotten back to me at all. An interview at North Hollow University in Middlebury. Relief flooded me. They might not have been my first choice, but it wassomething, a door cracked open after what would be two years out of the life I was supposed to be in.
Someone wants me.
Still, I booked the interview—next Wednesday, because apparently I was doing everything I’d sworn I wouldn’t. hated having to interview at all. Back at Ashcroft University, as Assistant Professor of History, I’d been on track for tenure, a shoo-in for when the senior professor retired—until MichaelfuckingCarrington III, my ex and fellow professor, took it out from under me.
Irritation turned to a spike of anger, and all because I thought of that rich as fuck, backstabbing trust fund baby, asshole.
I’m better than him.
I was an acknowledgedexpertin American Colonial and Early Republic history, holding a doctorate from Yale with a focus on political culture in the Early Republic. I’d published two monographs, along with more than a dozen peer-reviewed articles in journals likeThe William and Mary QuarterlyandEarly American Studies. I’d presented keynote papers at national history conferences, contributed chapters to collected volumes on the Revolutionary era, and served as a peer reviewer for several academic presses. My students praised my ability to connect complex political and social ideas to everyday lives, and I’d built a reputation as a demanding but inspiring professor. In short, I wasn’t just competent—I was damn good at what I did.
Despite telling myself I was better than North Hollow, smaller than the big-name institutions, and more of a liberal arts–style college, it had a solid reputation for history, but it wasn’t elite. The kind of place I sneered at, even while part of me knew howarrogant that sounded. The thought came with a sharp edge of arrogance, and that floored me.
I’m not above it all; I’m not too good for any kind of teaching position.
What the hell?
What had I become?
Christ, when had I turned into such a judgmental, self-absorbed prick?
Restless with my own self-importance and arrogance, I bundled up and stepped outside. There’d been light flurries of snow this morning, and the evening was cold, but I needed to move, to clear my head.
“Hi!” Duncan called from The Gift Emporium.
I waved but carried on walking even though I knew he’d probably be happy to come over and chat. I wasn’t in the mood for standing in the cold, so I went down past the Wishing Tree and kept on toward the skating pond. It wasn’t frozen yet, but soon it would be, and I could already imagine kids shrieking with laughter as they skated under strings of colored bulbs. Tonight, it was just me, the dark, and the sting of November air. I sat on a bench, pulled my coat tighter, and glanced at my watch. Seven p.m. My stomach growled, reminding me I hadn’t eaten since noon. Maybe I should give in and go out for dinner tonight—anywhere that wasn’t silent enough for me to hear my own thoughts.
What would happen if I went to this interview and it didn’t go well? What if I wasn’t good enough?
Michael said he deserved the spot, given he wasn’t as old as me, as if my thirty-four was much worse than his thirty. He said I was too focused and rigid in my teaching, in our sex life, hell, in my entire life.
“Fuck you, Michael,” I muttered under my breath, too tired to deal with all this shit tonight.
