She’d launched the insult as a tweak. It hit like a wallop. He actually fell back a step, shoulders sagging, mouth opening but nothing coming out. Then he turned and left.
“Hartgrave—Hartgrave!”
She slumped farther into the couch. He’d allowed himself to be drawn into an interesting conversation, and the one who’d been the most unpleasant about it was still in Bernie’s office.
4
An Eye-Opening Cup of Coffee
Well, he started it.
This thought made her feel no better. She wanted his expertise in matters far removed from computers, and what was she offering beyond keeping his secret? Nothing. Not even respect.
She should apologize. But she couldn’t knock on his door without nullifying their agreement. She grabbed a sheet of paper, scratched out a mortifying mea culpa and set it by his door—right where the welcome mat belonged if there was one, which of course there wasn’t and never would be.
After that, she made a tactical retreat.
The history department break room, one floor up, was as good a place as any for feeling bad about herself. Better, actually, because it was impossible to sit therewithout considering that the history department had an entirebreak room, complete with refrigerator and sink, but couldn’t make space for one more office if that office was for her.
She laid her head on her arms. If you counted time spent together, Hartgrave was the second-closest thing to a friend she had—right after Bernie, to whom she hadn’t said much all week. Good God, but that was depressing.
She was busy, sure—she’d been busy for years. But at some point, clearly, that stopped being an explanation for complete isolation and became an enabling excuse. It wasn’t even as if all her hard work had come to much. She was teaching at a minor college on a contract that expired in six months, and then what?
She thought of calling her parents just to hear their voices. But they would know something was wrong and would ferret it out of her. And then the nagging concern in the back of their minds would be her situation rather than crop failure, a poor way of repaying them for cheering her up. Instead, she seized the faculty coffeepot and set it brewing.
If she closed her eyes, she could pretend she was back in the goose-wallpaper kitchen with her father as he waited for his early-morning fix. (Her mother needed no artificial stimulants to hit the fields at 5 a.m.) Emily loathed the taste of coffee, but oh, she loved the smell. When the machine stopped percolating, she poured herself a cup just to extend the calming by association.
Yes, that was nice. She leaned against the countertop and breathed in deeply. Then out. Then in.
“A novel way to absorb caffeine,” said the person she was resolutely not thinking about.
The cup slipped from her fingers and cracked into four shards on the tile floor.
Hartgrave considered the mess. “Now you know how I felt when you burst in onme.”
She opened her mouth, could think of nothing to say that would be guaranteed not to involve her foot, and settled on the ever-versatile, “Um ...”
“I accept your apology,” he said.
She felt slightly less disconnected from the world. Better than smelling coffee.
“Thank you,” she said, heartbeat decelerating back to normal. “How did you find me?”
“Asked my enchanted mirror.”
Was he kidding? He had to be. But shewantedhim to have an enchanted mirror, so she said “really?” with great hopefulness.
One side of his mouth twitched. Almost a smile—at her expense. “No, not really. This was just an obvious place to check.”
“Okay,” she said, wagging her finger at him, “but how did you know I hadn’t gone home for the night?”
“Your bag’s still in the Inferno.”
She grinned. “Inferno? Is that what you call the basement?”
He shrugged, looking away. Perhaps it embarrassed him to be caught out with an imagination. “Seems appropriate.”
Abandon all hope, ye who enter here.She wasn’t sure whether to laugh or worry about his state of mind.
