Don’t pass out.
“Prof-professor?” another voice stutters, and nausea takes shape.
Four pairs of eyes study me, trying their damndest to politely ignore the fact that I had been on a leave of absence that had started as a missing persons case nearly three years ago. And despite being back, having to only share that my case was confidential and I was unable to share more, a part of me feels like I don’t belong here anymore, that this part of me is still missing. I had my job again—it’s a luxury, truthfully, but my desire to dive into work, the passion I had for it, didn’t follow me home.
“A published article from that long ago should not still impact grant distribution...”
I maintain a tight-lipped smile, trying to ignore the audacity of that remark, along with how bored I am. Did I used to enjoy this? I spent years working and studying to practically erase any signs of my origins. It’s what I’d always wanted—difference and distance. But now, it feels more like a punishment than an achievement.
“Dr. Crowne?” my colleague in the center prods. “Are you alright?”
I shift my weight to shove down the panic. My chest burns from holding my breath, and the lack of oxygen is making me dizzy.
Breathe. In and out. Say something.
They glance at each other as if I should have something prolific to say in response. It’s been years, and all it takes is a combination of two words to trigger me. I’m stronger than this.
The lead scientist of the chemical engineering department adds, “The reentry program grants you’ve been able to secure already are really quite?—”
“Remarkable,” a deep and familiar voice cuts in.
I instantly exhale the breath I’d started holding again and smile at him. A friend, and for a brief moment, something more. Reed flexes his superpower—making everyone feel at ease.
He gives me a wink and a smile. “Brava, Dr. Crowne,” he adds with a teasing smirk.Flirt. He’s one of the only teaching assistants, better known as TAs, who didn’t flounder in his first graduate year. Instead, he could command a packed lecture hall with grad students who were his own age. Just another reason I wasn’t surprised to find that he was hired as full-time faculty while I was gone.
“Put in the address,” Reed says as I click my seat belt, and look at the brightly lit console. “You can charge your phone there too, if you’d like.” His head tips to where there’s a wireless charging pad.
When he glances at the screen and where I’ve typed, he asks, “The Whispering Fool?”
“I want to see if my sisters are still there before heading home,” I say, knowing they’ll want a status update on my whereabouts. They were both more concerned about me, now that they knew. At least the pieces I was able to tell them. I watch the campus lights off to the left blur past. I used to enjoy the luxury of living this close to campus. But now, I crave space. I want to be closer to the home I missed.
I look over at Reed as he focuses on the road. I know he spent some time with my grandmother after I disappeared. He was always thoughtful and present; it’s one of the things that made him feel comfortable. “Birdie said you came around a few times after I...” I struggle to find the right word. “Left.”
He glances at me, and I feel the need to add, “Thank you for that.”
He simply nods, nothing more. Maybe an old friend wouldn’t be the worst thing to have right now. I considered him that, some time ago. We were more than colleagues, friends who respected each other, and then briefly crossed that line. Reed has an easygoing, all-American vibe about him—an athletic, an academic, and a rule-follower. Reed was, and still is, the opposite of the type of men I grew up around—rough around the edges and bleeding masculinity as thick as their facial hair. Motorcycle club members and blue-collar boys, who rarely regarded women as anything more than a good time. I naïvely thought all men who looked like that believed the same-minded small things. And I didn’t want anything that resembled the lifestyle I grew up around.
Settling isn’t the right word, and I liked Reed, but he used to feel so comfortable. And back then, it was nice to have someone look at me the way he did after a long day and a late night in my office. But now, I know the difference between an attractive friend and attraction. When I glance at Reed again, I think to myself,you never felt right, not like it did withhim.
I lean against the door, propping my chin on my fist as I look out into the dark. My mouth feels suddenly dry, I try swallowing, and my face heats as I play with the worn, brown leather cuff on my wrist. I crave someone I’ll never see again. A shiver runs along my skin as I recall the scratch of a beard along my neck. Clearing my throat, I focus on where I am, and the person I am now. It’s only ever going to be a memory, a fantasy that I can call on when I need it.
Reed turns on the radio and flips through news talk on satellite, pulling my attention back to this car ride and out of my head.
“Are you still packing lecture halls?” I ask him teasingly.
He smiles, looking ahead. “The novelty of being a young teaching assistant isn’t in my favor anymore,” he says.
A familiar voice talking about whiskey and crime comes through the car’s speakers, interrupting.
“Wait, stop on that one. It's Stevie's,” I say as he scrolls past my sister’s widely listened to podcast. I smile to myself, loving hearing her. I’ve been listening to her podcast for longer than she even knows. It was the only thing that kept me connected to my family, to this place, and back then, I was convinced I’d never set foot here again.
“The Distilled Truth,” Reed says, glancing at the center of his dashboard. “She’s causing a bit of an uproar at the university. Lots of interesting opinions...”
“She’s always been good at making people pay attention,” I say proudly, then shift the conversation back to work. I haven’t spoken with him much since I’ve been back. “Do you plan to use a teaching assistant for the fall semester?” I ask. Immediately realizing that was a poor choice of words, I close my eyes.
His lip kicks up, and he glances at me. “The last assistant I had, decided to leave mid-semester. It caused a bit of noise, and it left the graduate program a little messy. But yeah, I’ll probably use one,” he adds. “You were lucky with me; I was post-doctoral when I assisted you, much more mature than some of the graduate students coming through the doors now.”
Needing some fresh air, I crack open the window. I look out at the dark shadows that fly past—trees backlit by the moon that barely wants to peek through the night.
