“She’s still as beautiful as ever, I see,” Dr. Ryan comments as Alis walks away. His declaration seems inappropriate, especially considering she was his student, but he doesn’t watch her long enough for me to assess the intent behind his words. “How long have you two been together?” he asks.
“Not long. It’s new,” I say, still not certain whether Alis’s omission of anything pertaining to her acquaintance with Dr. Ryan was out of humility or something else.
“Is she yours?” he continues, lifting his drink toward the hall where Alis disappeared.
“My, what?” Alis isn’t property. She’s not an animal. Is she my girlfriend, yes. Is she the most beautiful woman in this house, most definitely. Is she mine? I want to lay claim to her, to make her mine in every sense of the word, but those desires are mine alone to share with Alis — not fodder for conversation at a faculty dinner party.
“Your student.” Of course. What is wrong with me? Why am I suddenly so wary of this man? This man who is well respected, admired, even celebrated in academia?Get it together, Dex. There’s nothing wrong. Alis will explain her connection to Ryan later. Focus on the conversation. Focus on the seminar.
I laugh, “Oh. Of course not. I believe dating your students is frowned upon, even in the most liberal and casual academic circles. And we both know Abigail Matthews would never condone such behavior.”
He lifts his glass in acknowledgment. “She certainly would not,” he laughs.
I’m beginning to wonder why Alis has yet to return from the washroom when a commotion stirs in the living room beside us.
“Oh, my goodness. I’m so sorry,” I hear Alis exclaim. She’s covered in red wine, crouching down to retrieve the other woman’s now empty wine glass from the carpet. She stands and looks around for somewhere to set the glass. I cannot tell if she’s unaware of the wine literally dripping down her leg and into her shoe, or if she’s intentionally ignoring her own dilemma in lieu of making sure Abigail’s area rug isn’t ruined.
“You!” The woman who spilled her wine all over Alis and the floor shrieks. For the second time in less than an hour, Alis’s entire body goes taught. Before she can say another word, Abigail sweeps into the room, laden with paper towels and promises to Alis that everything is fine, she shouldn’t apologize, and the rug is not important.The other woman is still standing there, glaring daggers at Alis. Had her voice not revealed her displeasure with Alis, her eyes would leave no doubt to the fury within.
Dr. Ryan scurries into the room, approaching the offended woman and wrapping an arm around her waist. He pulls her closer to him and whispers something in her ear, and if I thought this woman hated Alis, it has nothing on the rage she directs at Jonathan Ryan. Thankfully, whoever this woman is — his wife, I assume — has been instructed to stand down. From what? I cannot be certain, but I’d bet my salary this has to do with much, much more than an accidental collision and spilled pinot.
I quietly follow after Alis as she returns to the washroom, where I find her sitting on the floor with her back against the tub. “Alis, are you okay?”
Her face is buried in her hands, her back shaking. She’s crying.
I sink to the floor beside her and envelope her in my arms. “Sh, baby, it’s alright. Who was that woman? Do you know her?” Alis doesn’t answer, but continues to cry, removing her hands from her face to clean the smeared makeup from under her eyes.
“I’m ok,” she sniffs. “Promise. I’m fine. Just… I’m just embarrassed.” Embarrassed?
“You heard Abigail — it’s just a rug. And it’s not like you did anything on purpose. All you did was exit the hallway.” I try to lighten the mood, to no avail.
“Yeah,” she huffs. “That’s all. No biggie. Nothing to see here, folks. Just a woman, minding her own business, carrying on with her life, moving FORWARD and not BACKWARD.” I know if I interject, even to ask for clarification, she’ll stop talking. What has her so shaken by seeing Dr. Ryan? She’s never alluded to anything besides her sister’s death and becoming Sunny’s guardian, drawing her away from school. Is there more to the story?
Surely, there has to be a logical explanation for why Alis never mentioned him. Perhaps they weren’t as close as Ryan let on, and he was trying to make her feel seen, feel important. He greeted me as if I was a long-lost friend, when in reality, I met him at a conferenceand had one conversation with him. He probably didn’t even tie the face to the name until Abigail sent him my credentials and explained that I would be the one to co-teach the seminar with him.
Alis hasn’t offered any more information, and I’ve now convinced myself that I’m overthinking the entire situation and need to let it be. “I need to go home. I’m so sorry, but I cannot be here.”
“Of course, baby. Let’s go.” I stand and offer Alis my hand, helping her from the floor. I’m sure she feels worse than she looks, but I’d never ask her to stay after the clear toll this night has already taken on her. Alis checks her reflection, removing the last of her smudged mascara from underneath her eyes, and takes a steadying breath.
“You should stay,” she says, catching me off guard once again.
“What? No,” I retort. “We arrived together; we will leave together. Besides, I drove us here. I’ll make our apologies and then we can leave. We can go to my place, you can take a bath and decompress, and then I’ll hold you until you fall asleep.”
“No. I am going home. You are staying here.” Her tone is firm, her words sharp.
“Alis —” I start, but she cuts me off, shaking her head adamantly.
“No, Dexter. I’m covered in wine, the only change of clothing I have in your car is a pair of gym shorts and an oversized hoodie. This dinner is important. Not just for you, but for Abigail. For MPU. I know Jonathan Ryan. I know the influence he has in the academy. I, probably better than anyone else you know, understand the magnitude of what this opportunity could mean for your career. You are not leaving this party with me.”
So she really does know him? Were they close? Why hasn’t she, even once, mentioned him?
“Why…?” I start, “How—?” Once again, Alis refuses to let me finish speaking.
“I will explain everything to you later, but not right now. I’m overwhelmed, exhausted, sticky, and I need to leave. I already called for a cab.” She glances down at her phone, saying, “Actually, he’s here.”
“When the hell did you call a car? Andwhywould you call an Uber when I fucking drove us here?” Now I’m getting angry, and while I don’t mean to yell at her my words come out in an undoubtedly accusatory way.
“I called the cab the second I got in here.” I scoff, no longer capable of controlling my frustration at the situation. This night was supposed to be the start of everything I’ve ever wanted. I was supposed to secure this partnership with Jonathan Ryan and end my night lost in the throws of passion with Alis moaning my name. Instead, I’m arguing with my girlfriend in my boss’s washroom — my girlfriend who, might I add, already knows Jonathan Ryan and never mentioned him once in any of our conversations during the last four months — and now she’s bolting, without me, before the dinner has even begun, and acts as if this isn’t a big deal. She just needs to go home. Toherhome. Her apartment. Without me.
