United States History, with a concentration in military history or U.S.-Caribbean relations preferred. Something flutters in my stomach, and I click to open it.
It might as well be describing me. All the electives I’ve ever wanted to teach, all the questions I asked myself while I was writing my dissertation. It’s been a while since I last touched my book manuscript, but I could fudge that if I got an interview, maybe send out that draft journal article that’s been languishing in a folder on my computer so that it looks like I’ve actually been doing something. I’m already making plans, thinking about how I can update my documents, drafting an email to my graduate advisor in my head.
But then I scroll to the end of the listing to see where the school is. And it’s in fucking Montana.
I sit back in my chair. It’s in fucking Montana, and it’s a 4/4 load, which means four classes a semester. Just as much work as I’m doing now, but with the pressure to publish, the tenure clock ticking every minute of every day. It’s not like I have any friends anyway. But here in Brooklyn, at least I have —
I swallow hard, my eyes stinging. Someone on another floor must be cooking a late dinner, because the whole building smells like beets.
I pull up a map of the small town. No major airports nearby, just a tiny dot in a sea of green. I bet it’s pretty there. But there’s no ocean and there’s no community and there are no tall buildings or bodega owners who have your coffee ready before you step in the door. There’s no — there’s no —
“Cole.”
I say it out loud, and my face crumples. My shoulders are heaving and my cheeks are wet and I’m making sounds that I don’t like, pressing the palms of my hands over my eyes —
And I’m not someone who cries, Inevercry, but a dam inside me is breaking and all of it, all the bullshit, all the — okay, I’ll say it, the fuckingheartbreak— is pouring out and it’s all I can do to hold onto the pieces of myself in the current —
It doesn’t last long.
I’m still in my chair and my nose is stuffy and my eyes are scratchy with salt. I dash the moisture from myface and I pick up my phone and I scroll through my recent contacts. When I find the number, I press it with my finger and hold the phone to my ear, counting the rings.
“Hey, Ezra?” Seth’s voice is groggy and a little concerned. “It’s late. Are you okay?”
“Um — yeah, I just —” My voice is hoarse from crying and I clear my throat. “You know that job you mentioned, when we were on the Cape? Is that still a thing?”
“Yeah, it’s absolutely still a thing.” Seth’s voice is clearer now, more alert. “What about it?”
“I want to take it,” I rasp. “Or at least, I want to talk about it. I — I don’t think I can do this anymore.”
“Whoa, that’s amazing! I’m so glad. I’ll have my assistant set up a meeting with you first thing tomorrow, okay? I can’t wait to get started.”
Already, I feel lighter. “That sounds great. And hey, Seth — sorry to wake you up.”
Seth yawns. “Any time, little bro. I’ll talk to you in the morning, okay?”
I know I’m still completely fucked up. But at least there might be the tiniest glimmer of hope.
Sixteen
What the Hell Happened?
September 2025
“DON’T FORGET THAT CLASSwill be meeting in Special Collections next week!” I shout over the scraping of chairs and the shuffling of papers and backpacks. “And if you have any questions about the research paper, please make sure to email me or come to my office hours.”
I don’t know why I bother to try to make announcements at the end of class. Nobody ever listens to them.
It’s a little after two o’clock on Friday afternoon, and I’m finally finished with teachingfor the week. Not that I have any crazy plans or anything. I’ll probably spend the next few days shuffling back and forth between my bed and my desk, digging myself out from the mountain of shit that’s been piled on top of me this week, just so I can start the whole process over on Monday with a new mountain of shit.
It’s a glamorous fucking life.
I shut my laptop and unplug it from the projector, then turn to slide it into my bag. My phone is stashed in the front pocket, set to silent for the duration of class, and I pull it out, switching on the screen.
Seven missed calls from Seth.
My stomach drops straight through the floor.
As I stare at it, my mind churning, it rings for an eighth time. Hastily, I gather my things and step out into the corridor, pressing the phone to my ear.
