“Sorry again,” the friend said, holding the door for Kennedy. They stepped out and Tyler rolled his eyes.
“My roommate Addison. He’s insanely impatient.”
“I guess everything’s okay now?” I asked, trying to reconcile their argument with what I’d just seen—no trace remained of the anger that had gripped Tyler just two hours ago.
“What do you mean?”
“I—” Of course he didn’t realize I’d seen them. I felt stupid and mumbled, “Nothing. Just—anyhow, I’ve got office hours until four. In Walton.”
“Okay great—wait, shit. Sorry!” He laughed, a soft and quietha ha. “I have soccer practice. But maybe I can get out early? I really want to make sure I’m caught up.”
“It’s fine,” I said, “just come by when you’re out. I’m working late anyway.”
He beamed with relief. “Thanks so much.”
“It’s nothing.” I didn’t want him to worry, it’s just school—but I appreciated that he cared enough to be stressed.
He seemed about to leave and then tilted his head, examining the book I’d picked up at the library. He read aloud from thecover—In the Dark of Night. It was a pulp paperback from the 1980s about John Wayne Gacy—the so-called “killer clown” who buried the bodies of twenty-nine murdered boys and men in his house. The cover image: a lurid face moist with hunger at the lit window of an otherwise pitch-black street. “You write about gay murders or something, right?” he asked.
“I do.”I should bewould have been more honest—it had been months since I’d gotten any writing or research done.
“I saw that on the department website. On your faculty page. I was kind of obsessed with true crime stuff when I was a kid. I guess that’s a little weird.” He laughed. “Anyway, sorry I’m rambling. But I’m excited about class.” And then, as abruptly as he’d shifted the conversation, he took off, bounding toward the rear. He paused at the door for a moment. “See you later, Mark.”
The door slammed shut behind him and I started at hearing my name. At the beginning of each semester, I told students they could call me whatever they wanted. I had a whole speech: “I don’t have a preference, whatever works for you. You can call me Professor, you can call me Dr. Lausson, you can even call me Mark.” But I didn’t really mean it, and no one took me up on the offer. “Mark” was me outside campus—it sounded weird coming from a student. Was there an outside to this place?
The door opened again and the next class flooded in. I grabbed my things and noticed on the corner of the desk—he’d left the syllabus behind.
At the start of office hours, two students from my Comp course stopped by. They were the sort of young women who dominated my classes: neat blonde hair in low ponytails, dressed in formless sweatshirts and sweatpants stamped with the Sawyer logo. Iunderstood the uniform as a defense against attention. (It worked; I sometimes couldn’t tell these students apart.) One of them sat without saying a word, shoulders stooped, hands clasped at her phone like she might misplace it. I couldn’t tell why she’d come except maybe the other had asked. Her friend was worked up about an assignment due at the end of the week. I had told them to write something about themselves, anything. “It’s just two pages,” I said, “to get us going.” “What if I don’t have two pages?” I wasn’t sure how to calm the fear that your life couldn’t yield a few hundred words. “Don’t overthink it,” I told her, but she didn’t look convinced.
The rest of the afternoon no other students showed and I frittered away the time—checking email but not replying to anything, straightening my bookshelves. It’s not like I had nothing to do. I had gotten yet another email from Susan about my overdue first-year self-assessment. I was also past deadline on two article revisions and I had to finish an application for conference funding. The semester had just started, how was I already so far behind? I stared out my window at the students crossing below, the last classes of the day letting out. I plucked at some dry leaves from the plant on the windowsill, a gift from Stephen—shit, Stephen. I’d completely forgotten.
I grabbed my phone—there was a text from him.
That movie is showing at 7:45. Pick you up 6:30?
I checked the time. Just past six. Fuck.
Hey sorry can we reschedule? I’m stuck at work.
After a moment, he texted back.All good. Everything ok?
I stared at the phone for a moment.No crisis.It would feel weird telling him I forgot our date because I was waiting around for a student.I’m sorry!
I watched for a reply. Nothing. Was he mad? But Stephen never really got mad.
And then:No worries.
I breathed a sigh of relief and started typing again.Susan is on my case about my annual report. That was true.I feel like I accomplished nothing last year, maybe I should just turn in a blank page.
Ha don’t stress. You’ll get it done. Miss your face.
Thanks.I hitSEND. Then—Miss yours too.
I put my phone away. Through the crack of my office door, the hallway dimmed as my colleagues clocked out for the night. I clicked open the overdue assessment form and filled in the first line: Name. I growled and picked up my phone. Maybe Safie was around. I could just walk down the hall and check, but I didn’t want to chance running into Susan.
I texted:Are you still here? Come over and distract me.
A moment later, Safie texted back.Mark Lausson working late?
