Every few minutes I alt-tab back to the browser window on my computer, which is currently open to one webpage—the Bradford Tree Farm, which is painfully normal. There’s cute pictures of kids and hot cocoa, the Bradford family back in the seventies, and then services, hours, etc.
Oh, and a cute little video.
I have watched theCommunity Spotlightvideo umpteen times now. Not for the trees, or the quaint interview about holiday traditions, but for the way Calvin’s jaw flexes when he says,“Some people come for the nostalgia. Some people just come for a tree.”
I don’t know how the fuck he makes something so simple sound monumental.
But maybe I just like the way his mouth moves.
I push it away and start the next essay, but I only make it through two sentences before my phone vibrates and my heart jumps. I check the screen, but it’s just a push notification from my banking app. I cringe at my account balance, now down to two digits, as if I needed the reminder that I’m burning my life down in Colorado on the fumes of what little I have left. I ignore it and slam the essay back on the desk.
Am I even getting closer to Cade?
I refresh my browser tabs, like something new will appear in the last twelve seconds.
“Hey, Dr. Williams?”
I almost don’t hear it, but the voice is right outside my office.
“Yeah?” I call, trying not to sound as irritated as I am.
The door cracks open and Ian pokes his head in. “You alive?” he askes, stepping in all the rest of the way and cradling a huge mug of coffee. “No offense… But you look like you haven’t slept.”
I shrug, unable to conjure up some sort of fake enthusiasm. “Just grading. These freshmen are killing me. I should’ve made it through these essays days ago. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”And that might not be a lie.
“Want a break?” He leans against the edge of the door frame. “I’m headed to the café if you want to walk over with me. I’ll supplement the annoyance with caffeine for ya.”
I flick my pen up and twirl it once. “I—uh…” There is a part of me that wants to tell him to get the fuck out, but I realize it wouldlook suspicious, and more than that, I need to stay plugged in with these people if I want to keep this cover and paycheck.
Besides, maybe he’ll say something useful. Who knows.
“You know what… Sure,” I say, standing up and stretching in a way so that my sweatshirt doesn’t ride up over my hips. “Give me a sec.”
I shove the stack of essays into my messenger bag, like I might actually finish them later. As I do, I catch my reflection in the computer monitor and wince. I can see the fatigue in my face. I take a breath, brush it off, and follow Ian into the hallway and out of the English department.
The student union café is as sad as ever, comprised of three vending machines, two microwaves, a glass display of cold sandwiches, and a rack of chips.
That’s it. That’s the whole thing.
I grab a soda while Ian makes a beeline for the one open table with an actual view of the main floor. He holds the chair for me, which is a weirdly intimate gesture that makes me feel uncomfortable for some reason.
“So,” he says, when I sit. “Are you adjusting to the Colorado weather yet?”
“Texas gets cold sometimes,” I remind him. “Just not… whateverthisis.” I gesture out the window, where a wall of sleet is turning the parking lot into a slip-and-slide that, naturally, I’ll have to navigate later.
He laughs, the sound thin and annoying. “You’ll be drinking whiskey and cursing at the snowplow with the rest of us by March.”
I force a laugh and then let him ramble on, not because I care, but because it gives me time to observe the room. Most of the tables are occupied by clusters of students in sweats and pajamas, all of them buried in laptops or phones. I recognize afew of the women from my first-week orientation, but none of them ever look up, let alone make eye contact.
“So any idea where you’re going after this yet?” Ian asks, pulling me back.
I don’t have to lie about this one. “No literal idea.” I take a drink of my soda, solely as a reason not to expand.
He sips his coffee. “You said your brother was in the area though?”
I almost choke. I have to remind myself that this is a normal question, that no one here knows anything about my life before last month, and that the nameKellanmeans nothing unless you’re a close reader of true crime or military blogs.
“I don’t know,” I say, and try to sound nonchalant. “He moved around a lot. I think he still does.”Not a total lie.
