The laptop cameraframed me too closely; an angle that made my face look more like a mugshot than a potential faculty member. I’d propped the thing up on a pile of books to make it halfway respectable, but the lighting in my apartment was never going to screamhire this man, he’s tenure material.
Three faces appeared in the little boxes on my screen: Dean Margaret Worthing, immaculately put together in a navy suit and pearls; Dr. Charles Hatherleigh, head of the department, with the kind of steepled fingers that screamedI hold power here; and Dr. Felicia Park, a younger professor whose smile looked genuine although she kept glancing at her notes.
“Dr. McCoy, thank you for joining us on a Sunday morning,” the dean began, her tone brisk, clipped. “Welike to see who’s committed enough to show up at odd hours. Academia doesn’t stop at five o’clock.”
A test. It had to be. “Of course,” I said smoothly. In fact, I’d spent the last two nights having to convince myself this wasn’t insane scheduling. Added to which, I had to make my excuses not to stay overnight with Wesley, and even though he’d been cool with it, I felt all the guilt.
I hadn’t told him about this interview.
I wanted our idyllic Christmas romance to last.
Dr. Hatherleigh cleared his throat. “We’ve reviewed your dossier. Two monographs, a dozen articles and invited lectures. Impressive. Sponsorship investment could be higher, but still, it’s a level we can accept as a starting point.”
“Thank you,” I said, keeping my voice level. My chest tightened—praise that felt like a prelude to something sharper.
Dr. Park leaned forward. “Can you tell us more about your current research focus? Particularly, how would it integrate with our migration studies initiative?”
That part I could handle. I launched into my work on movement patterns in the Early Republic, examining how families shifted westward after the Revolution and how this reshaped political culture. For a few minutes, I almost forgot I was being judged. Ibrought in examples from the Civil War—how westward migration affected both Union and Confederate economies, when the dean cut in halfway through.
“Your application suggests you are looking for tenure?” she asked abruptly.
“I am.”
“How important is it to you?”
The question landed like a punch. “Important,” I admitted. “Tenure means stability. A foundation. The chance to build something lasting for students.”
“Good,” she said, her smile thin. “Because here, tenure isn’t given lightly. It could be five, even ten years, before you’re considered. We expect commitment. Loyalty.”
Five to ten years—my stomach dipped. That wasn’t stability—that was limbo.
Dr. Hatherleigh steepled his fingers tighter. “This college prides itself on tradition. We’re generously supported by our alumni. In fact, one of our tenured professors in criminology is not only a graduate but also the great-grandson of one of our founders. We nurture legacy here.”
On the surface, it sounded like pride. Underneath, to me, it sounded like money. Influence. The kind of politics that had buried me atAshcroft.
“That’s… remarkable,” I managed, though my tone was flatter than I intended.
Dr. Park jumped back in, trying to soften it. “What excites us about you, Dr. McCoy, is your energy for teaching and the potential funding you might attract from companies investing in your ideas. Your references praised your ability to connect with students. Can you describe how you’d see yourself fitting into our culture?”
Fitting in. My mind went blank. Wishing Tree’s found-family chaos flashed into my thoughts—Wesley telling wild stories, kids lighting up under history club debates, cocoa and laughter spilling into my nights. Did I fit here? Or did I fit there?
I cleared my throat. “I believe history matters most when it connects past choices to present consequences. If that’s your culture, then I’ll fit.”
The dean smiled, sharp as glass. “We’ll be in touch soon. Thank you for your time, Dr. McCoy.”
The call ended with aclick, leaving me staring at my reflection in the black screen. My tie was crooked, my shoulders tight, my mouth drawn in a grim line.
LA was prestigious. LA was secure—someday. LA was everything I’d told myself I wanted.
So why did it feel like a door I wasn’t sure I wanted to walk through?
I shut the laptop with more force than necessaryand shoved back from the desk. My apartment felt too small, the air too stale, so I paced. Back and forth, heel to toe across the warped floorboards, the same agitation and worry eating me that I’d had during my last months at Ashcroft.
Déjà vu crept over me, heavy and suffocating. Committees smiled while they gutted me in whispers. Expectations stacked like sandbags on my chest. The endless waiting for someone else to decide if I was worthy of permanence, depending on how much money I attracted to the college.
I raked a hand through my hair. Five to ten years. A maybe-tenure dangling like a carrot. Another half-decade of proving myself, again and again, to people who already had their legacies sewn into the fabric of the place.
My phone sat on the counter, screen black now but humming with the weight of that flagged email. Instinct saidsee Wes.His voice, his chaos, the way he made everything feel less impossible—God, I wanted that.
