Normally, this little hiccup wouldn’t phase me. After all, I’ve spent a good portion of this horrible semester with unbrushed hair. But today is my meeting with Dr. Cynthia Rivera—the chair of Carver University’s Art History department—and I’d rather not look like I murdered a telly-tubby.
“How bad is it?” I ask Marianne, but it’s pretty clear that the grapefruit-sized blotch seeping through my shirt isn’t coming out.
“Here,” she says, pulling off her chunky, turquoise scarf and wrapping it loosely around my neck. “Problem solved. As long as you don’t move, like, at all, nobody will even notice!”
I take a deep breath, the discussion points I’ve prepared for today’s meeting running through my head like ticker tape. I’ve never been particularly passionate about teaching undergraduate Art History—passion is something reserved for teenagers and Italians–but ever since my breakup, my motivation has been at an all-time low. So when one of our senior faculty members announced he’d be taking a semester off for paternity leave and needed a fill-in for his upper division courses, I knew I’d found my chance to get my mojo back.
And, perhaps most importantly, I can finally stick it tohim.
“Stella,” Marianne grabs my hand, the look in her eyes equal parts compassionate and exasperated. “Do you wanna know what I think?”
She leans in conspiratorially, and I know that regardless of my answer, I’m about to hear it.
“I think the only person sabotaging you here is yourself. That pretentious, low-effort beta male never deserved you, and you know it. Honestly, you’re lucky his childbride took him off your hands, because if she hadn’t, you’d probably be too stubborn to ever dump that overpaid mollusk.”
Despite myself, I let out a laughing breath.
“Geez, Mer. Remind me not toeverget on your bad side.”
I jolt as my back pocket begins to buzz and my phone launches into my sister’s personalized “Super Troupers” ringtone.
“You gonna get that?” Marianne asks.
“It’s just Jules,” I tell her as I fumble to silence the call. “Probably something wedding related.”
I knowexactlywhat the call is about—she’s only sent me about a hundred texts—but I’m too focused to deal with it right now. I’ll call her back when I have some actual good news to share—and when I’m in the right headspace to turn her down.
“Shoot,” I stand and collect my heavy messenger bag when I see the time on my phone. “I’ve gotta get going. How do I look?”
In preparation for today’s meeting, I’ve traded in my trademark jeans and t-shirt for a pair of silky palazzo slacks and a sleek navy blazer that may or may not still have the tags on it. It’s a look that says, yes, I may have let my performance slip, just a little, over the last few months. And no, I haven’t made any new progress on my dissertation other than several lines of question marks. But if you’ll let me, I will rock this interim position harder than a dad band on dollar night.
“Like a woman who’s about to land her dream job,” Marianne says proudly, adjusting my scarf. “Now get out of here and show Dr. Rivera who’s the baddest bitch on campus.”
I burst into the brutal winter air, ignoring the gravelly slush that splatters around my ankles as I jog across the road to Carver’s Art building and up the stairs to my department floor. Normally I’d be skirting the edge of the lounge in fear, but today I march confidently across the room despite my obvious wardrobe malfunction. If all goes according to plan, this will be the last week I have to worry about an untimely run in with Dr. Dickhead. No more eating lunch in the storage closet and timing my bathroom breaks to overlap his classes. No more fielding pitying glances from the entire Art History department. But more than that, with a semester of senior-level classes under my belt, I’ll be qualified to teach at any university in the country.
I’ll finally have a first-class ticket out of Chicago and back to the West Coast where I belong.
Mer is right—I’ve got this. I am unstoppable. In my lane. Thriving. There’s nothing in the world that could bring me down.
Except, maybe, the oversized muppet standing by the coffee bar.
My unimpressive chest flattens with my sudden exhale as I throw myself behind the nearest bookcase. I can feel my heart rattling off like a pinball machine.Heis not supposed to be here—Ispecificallyscheduled my meeting during his office hours to avoid a run-in like this. But pasting a flyer on the announcement board, no doubt a shameless promotion for another one of his pedantic faculty lectures, is the corduroy-wearing, five-year plan-ruining, neck-bearded dragon himself.
Not today, universe. Not today.
I pull out the first book I can find and use it to hide my face as I sneak a look around the corner. At first glance, I think there might be enough potted plants for me to duck behind if I make a run for Dr. Rivera’s office. But the clock hanging above the armchairs tells me I’m running out of time. I don’t have ten minutes to wait for a maintenance cart or group of sophomores to conceal my escape. For the first time since his new engagement, I’m going to have to face him. I’m going to have to gather all my courage and woman-up. I’m going to have to?—
“Stella?”
I’m going to have to throw myself out the nearest window.
I jolt up from the book, which horrifyingly turns out to be something calledPrimitive Erotic Art, to see my bespectacled nemesis staring at me from the other side of the bookcase, his left eyebrow raised like a cartoon villain. I always thought staring at a man through a gap in the shelves would be like a scene from a romantic comedy, but this definitely feels more like a horror film.
“DoctorVandenholt,” I manage to eke out, emphasizing his title to remind him just how little he means to me. Because I am a professional. And professionals do not dissolve into panic-flavored jello when speaking to their tenured ex-boyfriends.
“This is a nice surprise. I haven’t seen you around much, lately,” he says in a lofty tone that makes me wonder if he’s oblivious, or just that much of an asshole.
I hold the book against my chest like a shield as I say, mechanically, “I’ve been very busy.”
