I turn her back to me, pulling her lush body against mine as I tuck my face into the crook of her neck.
“I love you,” I whisper. “You’re a part of me. Please don’t take a piece of me away.”
“I love you, too,” she whispers back, and I nearly cry in relief. “But I couldn’t live with myself if you gave up your dreams for me.”
I pull back, placing my hands on either side of her face. “It doesn’t have to be one or the other.”
She has tears in her eyes, and I hate seeing her this way. “But it does. Dr. Guarino said there would be fallout for fighting against the initiative, for me and for anyone who stands with me. Hewillcome after you.”
For the first time since coming home, I feel a spark of fear that doesn’t have to do with losing Quinn. Dr. Guarino is a good man, but he’s passionate in his beliefs. He isn’t championing the initiative because he hates the staff. In his mind, Billings is at a crossroads, and the only way to protect the students is through this hard-line solution. Anyone who disagrees is, in his mind, the enemy. A threat. And he’ll do away with any threats.
Quinn reads the fear in my eyes, and her own mist over. “Can you look me in the eye and tell me you wouldn’t regret it if you lost your job? That you wouldn’t hate yourself if your mom needsto sell her house because you don’t have the money to pay her mortgage anymore?”
I want to give her the same answer I’ve given her since I took the job at Billings—that I’m not worried. That I’m confident in myself and my abilities. That of course I’m going to get tenure. But all that confidence has been wiped away by the truth of what happened with the fellowship. I don’t know if I’m good enough, not without Richard backing me or my best friend handing me life-changing awards. And I can’t bring myself to ask Quinn about it while everything else is falling apart around us.
She smiles sadly and goes up on her toes to press a light kiss to my lips. It tastes like salt, and I realize I’m crying.
Her phone pings, and she pulls away. “My taxi’s here.”
“Quinn,” I say, following behind her as she gathers her things, dragging her ridiculous suitcases to the door.
“I’ll text to let you know when I’m home, but we should avoid each other on campus.”
“This isn’t— I mean, we can’t just— Please don’t leave.”
She flicks away a tear, pasting on a bright smile. “A few months is nothing. It’ll be fine.”
And then she walks away without a single hesitation, leaving me behind with nothing but the heavy thud of the door.
I don’t knowhow long I stare at the elaborate wooden door. The decorative swirls will be etched into my mind until the day I die. But I can’t look away. To do that would be to admit defeat, to accept that this conversation—and this beautiful life with Quinn—is over.
Eventually, I move, knowing I have to do something—anything—or I’ll be frozen in place forever. Quinn is the only person I want to talk to, but since she isn’t an option, I call my mother.
She picks up after a few rings. “Just the man I wanted to talk to! Bobby has some interesting ideas on lighting I wanted to throw your way.”
“Wh-what?” I stammer.
Momma pauses. “What’s wrong?”
I clear my throat, trying to dislodge the knot that settled there the moment Quinn walked through that door. “Quinn and I broke up. Or… I don’t know. I guess we weren’t officially together to begin with. But she’s done with me.”
“Now, I don’t believe that for a second.”
“It’s true.”
She huffs. “Then what the fuck did you do?”
“Language, Momma,” I say on instinct, my voice low and flat. I can feel her smile through the line, picture it like she’s right in front of me, and the warmth of her love breaks me. I’m not numb anymore, not in shock or denial, and the truth of our situation hits me like a ton of bricks.
Sobs escape me before I even realize the tears are coming. I sit on my bed, clutching the phone to my ear like a lifeline, while my whole body shakes from the force of it.
Momma’s shushing and murmuring encouraging words down the line. After lord knows how long, the tears slow enough for me to explain the fight and everything that happened afterwards.
“I don’t get it,” she says. “Why doesn’t she want you supporting her?”
“Because it could cost me tenure,” I say. It doesn’t matter how many times I explain “tenure” versus “tenure track.” She can’t conceptualize a world where I don’t succeed.
“And who gives a flying rat’s ass if you lose tenure?”
