“Have you read it?”
The words were saturated in condescension.
“Not yet.”
Ian took a breath as if he were humoring her.
“Well, are you familiar with his work?”
“Yes,” Merritt said. She wanted to stop there—this man didn’tdeserve her explanation—but she couldn’t resist. “I’ve read everything else he’s written.”
His eyes widened, and his lips formed a smile that seemed to suggest she had passed some sort of test.
“Oh, well then. A true fan, I see.”
“Well,” was all Merritt could say, and when she looked at Whit, something passed between them. A sad sort of understanding, perhaps. Had he figured it out? Was this what dying felt like?
“Well,” Ian said back, “then you know, I’m sure, that the man is a creative writing professor, like the man in the book. And after a truly negligible amount of snooping, I’ve learned that this supposed champion of progressivismalsohas a history of—how do I put this delicately?—unscrupulous behavior. He likes tosample the merchandisehis university offers.”
Whit laughed humorlessly. “He what?”
Ian looked at him. His face was suddenly prudish and disapproving. “You know.”
“Hesamplesthe university’s merchandise?”
“Yes.” Ian’s posture was pure superiority, as though he would never stoop so low.
“So in this scenario,” Whit continued, “the university is selling something that Graydon Lyons samples?”
Ian opened his mouth, his forehead crinkled.
“Well—”
Whit laughed again. Merritt wanted to hug him.
“So, what, Graydon Lyons likes to audit classes? Borrow T-shirts from the spirit shop? That doesn’t sound as nefarious as all that eyebrow work you’re doing would suggest.”
Ian’s hand went instinctively to the brows in question.
“No, you’re overcomplicating it, I was just saying—”
“We know what you were saying, Ian,” Whit interrupted, his voice now flat. “You’re just not saying it very well. The metaphor seems to have gotten away from—”
“He fucks his grad students, how’s that?”
Like Whit, Ian’s voice had lost all traces of amusement, but Merritt hardly noticed as she absorbed the sheer forcefulness, the harshness, of the verb. Sweat spread across her body like sudden condensation. Her stomach felt as if she were looking over the edge of a sharp precipice.
“As I said, Ian, we get the picture.” Whit turned his whole body to look at Merritt, positioning himself between Ian and herself. “Would you like to get some air?”
“Yes, please,” she said, her voice faint.
Whit’s eyes filled with an empathy that was equally comforting and mortifying.
“The back porch is that way,” he said, taking her empty glass mug. The fingers of that hand brushed hers as his other palm came to rest, just briefly, on her elbow. “I’ll get us refills and meet you there.”
He held her eyes in his for a moment, then nodded once and walked toward the kitchen, and she watched him go.
“It was nice seeing you, Ian,” he said without looking back.
