I place a hand on my hip. “Also, you’re accomplished.”
“Not like Kayla. She’s tenured. She’s published.”
I wrinkle my brow. “You’re published.”
“I’ve had essays in a collection, co-authored a few papers, and am currently being bullied by my incompleteJane Eyreretelling. It’s hardly thesamething.” She lets out a heavy sigh. “Kayla is a visiting professor from Oxford. She’s one of academia’s foremost Austen scholars. She’s here to host graduate seminars exploring the intersections of gender, class, and sexuality in Ms. Austen’s work, while I teach freshmen the proper placement of semicolons.”
“Semicolons are very complicated.” A scowl twists my face. “Also, my dad would call this some stinkin’ thinkin’.”
She groans.
I go on, “You’re amazing. Look at everything you’ve accomplished. Be your own measuring stick.”
“Ugh.” She makes a disgusted noise. “I know. It’s momentary imposter syndrome brought on by my nerves about this interview, the lack of progress in my writing, and the envy for hot professor Barbie.”
“You are also a hot professor. Let us not forget the boys’ baseball team getting in trouble for that top ten hottest professors ranking.” I tilt my head and flash a cheeky expression.
“I was only number two.” She makes a dismissive gesture.
“I demand a recount!” Kayla’s smooth English accent pops our little bestie bubble.
“Kayla! Hi! Hey! You’re here!” Spinning towards the sound of her voice, I grin awkwardly, hoping she didn’t overhear Catherine calling her hot professor Barbie.
“Hello, ladies. For the record, you’re number one in my book. Once we’ve concluded the mock interview, we’ll use our lady bonding time to plan our vengeance for this injustice.” Kayla motions to the hostess stand. “Shall we?”
Despite the crowds waiting for a table, Catherine uses her connections to sneak us in without a wait. The hostess, Jela, is one of Catherine’s former students. She theorizes that since it’s past tense, there are no ethical issues with Jela allowing us to cut the line forming in front of the restaurant.
Tucked into a table in the corner of the outdoor seating area, we place our order. We share a pot of English breakfast tea as Kayla and I put Catherine through her paces in our mock interview. Kayla reads from the questions I prepared but adds a few of her own.
Catherine’s essence is reminiscent of a rainbow cutting through a gray sky. She is captivating with every response.Poised. Engaging. It’s a sharp contrast from the self-doubting version of herself who appeared in front of the café.
“A proposed course exploring intersectional feminism and romance novels sounds intriguing. The department would be foolish not to scoop you up as an associate professor. Even more foolish to not add that course to the fall semester offerings… I’ve played with the idea of developing a course on the contemporary politics of the historical romance novel,” Kayla muses before sipping her tea.
Catherine clears her throat. “You’re a romance reader?”
“Devout. Any Austen scholar worth their weight in hardbacks is a romance reader.”
I beam. “Catherine is a romance writer.” I flinch at the pinch of my thigh from below the table.
“Oh, what subgenre? Is it published?” Kayla asks.
“It’s not finished…” she says softly.
“It’s a sapphicJane Eyreretelling where Edwina Rochester is a grumpy ranch owner and Jane is the horse trainer,” I add, ignoring the icy glare I’m sure Catherine is tossing my way.
My bestie is too modest at times. What snippets she’s let me read are amazing. Perhaps some encouragement from Kayla will help smooth the imposter syndrome getting in Catherine’s way from finishing this book.
“What!” Kayla squeals. “Brillant! A Brontë retelling with cowgirls, yes please.”
“Agreed!” I hoot.
“Cowboys. Cowgirls. Werewolves. Dukes. Ghosts. I even got into Big Foot shifter romances last summer.”
“Big Foot?” Catherine chokes on her drink.
“Don’t mock it until you’ve tried it,darling,” she coos with a flirty lilt.
“Please tell me there’s an audiobook.” I laugh.
