One day we worked right into evening. We ordered food from this Chinese place that Safie had discovered. “Egg noodle cure,” she called it. We sat on her floor, the paper wreckage of a semester surrounding us, eating right from the containers. “I forgot how good this is,” I said. Safie hadn’t decided what to do about tenure, to take another year or just forge ahead. I thought forge ahead, her case was so strong. But she wasn’t sure and it cracked my heart to see her doubting and uncertain; it looked weird on her, like she’d been dressed in someone else’s ill-fitting clothes.
I’d been holding off on bringing up Stephen; I’d heard nothing from him since the night in my apartment. Maybe it was the beer or the noodles or just the safety of being in this space with her again, but I asked Safie if she’d seen him.
She nodded.
“Is he okay?”
“He’s okay. He’s hurt, and a little humiliated, but he’s okay.”
“Okay.” I fought the urge to dig for details, to cajole her into saying something I could feel wretched about, a sore spot to worry and inflame. I felt terrible about the way I’d ended things. But not that I had. Whether Stephen could see it or not, I was setting him free.
“Try this.” Safie handed me a container—pork fried rice—and took mine. “You know you’re allowed to want something different for yourself.”
If she knew what that was, what I wanted, what I was taking, would she still think that?
Her phone rang—Maria from History. I kept an eye on Safie as they spoke, watching her face, radiant in the early throes of romance. It felt good to be here with her. And it even felt good to immerse myself in work. I’d fallen behind on everything—not just grading. I missed the deadline for summer grants and was being daily hounded by a journal editor to whom I owed revisions. It wasn’t just the time I spent with Tyler, but the thought of him, the memories of a last encounter, the anticipation of the next—the fact of him consumed my days, burning through my hours so evening arrived with smoldering dismay; what had I done with the time?
I had been living in a kind of altered state. I could see that now, with a few days apart. And although I didn’t want to admit it, it felt good to have a break.
Grades were due on Thursday, the last official day of fall semester. That night, with campus emptying out and to commence our six weeks of freedom, all the humanities programs in Walton Hall hosted a kind of building-wide open house. Each department set up snacks and drinks and faculty and staff wandered between the student-free rooms and floors. It had been known as Walton Walkabout until some junior faculty pointed out the name was indigenous appropriation; it was now called the Walton Walk. (The battle over renaming, with two senior colleagues years past retirement digging in their heels, had almost ended the event altogether; whitemen proving once again they would rather destroy a thing than not get their way.)
I was meeting the others on campus and as I got ready, I checked my phone again. No word from Tyler. I had texted the night before but heard nothing back, and then again that morning. Nothing. He was probably just caught up in the end of the semester, as I had been. But it was strange to go so long without contact, and an unsettling feeling about it had started to intrude into the relative calm of the past few days. What if something had happened? I had told him I needed the week to focus on work, and I worried now that he was upset about it. It had been hard enough to ask, maybe I shouldn’t have. In a rush, I typed out a message—Just thinking of you.I hitSENDand immediately regretted it, embarrassed by my neediness. I saw myself all night long, sneaking peeks to see if he had replied, and then decided—I’ll leave the phone behind. I was being ridiculous, everything was fine. No Tyler tonight.
We assembled at Safie’s office—her, me, Colin, and Priya. When Colin called it pre-gaming, the rest of us booed. After a round of shots—or two rounds, actually—we went down the hall to get English out of the way. Previously English had a reputation as one of the rowdier stops on the Walk, but under Susan’s miserly direction, provisions had been reduced to cheap boxed wine and a chemically pungent snack mix, handfuls of which Colin was currently chomping through. Priya and Safie had gone to fetch drinks and returned, distributing small waxed-paper cups meant for a child’s birthday party.
“Susan went all out this year,” Safie said.
“I’m getting notes of—” I sniffed at my drink—“budget cuts and quiet desperation.”
“Anyway, all I’m saying,” Colin said, “is you can’t talk about the right wing turn in this country without accounting for the evisceration of working-class jobs.” He dug his free hand back into the snack mix.
“What are you talking about?” Safie asked.
“The war on Christmas,” I said. “Of course.” There’d been an incident at the beginning of the week. The local elementary school was putting on its annual, recently rechristened “holiday” recital. Some parents had shown up carrying signs about the war on Christmas. One of them, who later claimed to be dressed as an angel, wore a white robe and hood. Police were called, the event shut down.
“He’s obsessed,” Priya said. “Lots of people lose their jobs and don’t show up in Klan regalia at their kid’s school.”
“Sure,” Colin said, “but what I’m saying is—”
“Take a night off,” Safie said. And then, turning and raising her arm, instructed, “Everyone wave at Susan.” Susan stood on the other side of the room, frowning about something. We all waved. “Great, we’ve shown our faces. Let’s get walking.”
“Where to?” Priya asked.
“I don’t know,” Safie said. “History?”
Colin lifted his cup. “I’m still working on my drink.”
“Drink it or bring it,” I said, tossing mine back. “We are marching forward with History.”
Colin moaned assent and we headed out. He and Priya paired up and walked ahead. I wiggled a finger behind their backs and lowered my voice. “So there is something going on there?”
Safie nodded. “Priya said she’s just testing the waters.”
“I hate to say it, but I mean—I would test those waters.” Colin’s ass was looking particularly firm in his khakis.
“Gross,” Safie said. “You seem like you’re in a good mood.”
“I am, as a matter of fact.” I was happy to be with Safie and Priya, and Colin even. I’d been so disconnected, so caught up in Tyler, it felt nice to drop back into the rest of my life. I thought of the flip phone, sitting at home, pleasantly out of reach for the night. “And with Maria? It’s going well?”
