By the time my third class was over, I was ready to hide in the shed again and lose myself in glass cutting and metalwork.
My professor in this class even made a joke about Dante having a mean throwing arm for footballandfights. As the class laughed, I’d been biting back my scream.
My phone buzzed as I left the auditorium, and I checked it with a mix of hope and dread. I felt instantly bereft and relieved when I saw it was just Dad.
Dad: I’m in the languages building. Meet me there?
That was almost casual for Dad. I typed back that I’d see him there, and I made my way out of my building to the one adjacent.
I was in jeans, a sweater, and a leather jacket today. I was sure Dad would be frowning, but it was raining, and jeans were the only things that looked good with my black biker boots. Even if I didn’t have a bike — good God, I could imagine my father’s face at the thought. But after a few home truths from Dante on Saturday, I think I was past caring what he thought of my clothes. If I were parading around naked, then I would expect judgment, but for Tuesday morning classes, I was fine in jeans.
Dad was coming down the steps as I was going up them, and not seeing the point in meeting him in the middle, I stopped.
“Morning,” he greeted me. His dark brown suit and trench coat made him look like he was missing a fedora and a pipe from a 1950s movie.
“Hey,” I said. “What brings you to my neck of the woods?” I teased him.
He sighed. “Budget cuts.” He shook his head as we walked. “You’d think with all the dinners, galas, and endless functions we attend, I’d not have to worry about funds coming into this place.”
“Maybe if we didn’t have as many dinners, galas, and endless functions, you wouldn’t spend as much out of the funds,” I said honestly, with a saccharine sweet smile.
He gave me a look, and I grinned back at him.
The snap of a banner above us sprayed us both with water residue, and Dad glared at the image of The Den like it personally offended him.
“Maybe if I didn’t have to pay for coaches’ inflated salaries, I could keep ancient languages as a full program and not just a summer elective.” He glanced around quickly. “You didn’t hear that,” he said in a low voice.
“Never heard a word,” I promised.
We walked in silence, passing one of the coffee shops. “Coffee?” Dad asked.
“Here?” I blinked. “Um . . . yeah.”
My father, the dean of the whole school, was walking into a franchise coffee chain that sold, according to him, ‘overpriced swill and foam.’
I ordered a latte. Dad ordered a tea and failed to mask his horror as he was handed a to-go cup of boiling water with a teabag floating in it.
“Thisis what I need to cut,” he muttered as he went off to secure a table, and I waited for my order.
One steaming cup of deliciousness later, with extra foam, I was sitting across from him and wondered what alternate universe I was in where this was my Tuesday morning.
“How goes tutoring?” He dipped the teabag and eventually gave up, pushing the whole thing away from him. I smoothly took over, and he didn’t protest. “Your mother used to do that,” he said with a wistful smile.
“You mean before she was Overlord of the West?” I asked him, avoiding his stare.
“Savannah,” his tone held a reprimand, but it lacked any sting.
“You know my golden rule, Dad. We don’t talk about Eliza Cole.”
“She called last night, wanted to know how your studies were.” He took the ‘fixed’ tea off me, with a murmured thanks.
“And?”
“And I told her you were top of your class, and doing well.”
“And?” I sipped my coffee.
“And that you still didn’t want to talk to her.”
