Teach Me (23 page)

“Harper,
just tell me you made it home all right. Please, at least give me
that. And I have all your stuff, I’ll . . . ”
I hiccup, and, mortified, hang up
the phone in the middle of the message.

Shit
.

This
is not the way to go about this. I need to give her space, time to
cool down. And I need to get my own shit together, not go calling her
completely pissed out of my head. I screw the cap back onto the
whiskey, wincing at how much lower the line of liquid in the bottle
has sunk. I’m going
to feel this tomorrow, I think blearily, as I climb into the wide,
king-sized bed alone.

I’m
going to feel a lot of things tomorrow.

I
wake up to three voicemails, each more desperate than the last. Part
of me wants to feel guilty for the last one—it’s
clear he’s
completely wasted, and moreover, that even while wasted, he’s
still worried about my safety. I owe him this much at least. And I
can’t say what I
need to say to him over email.

But
I’m afraid to say it
in person, too, because I know myself. I’m
weak. If he says the right thing, gives me the right puppy-dog look,
I’ll fall all over
myself to forgive him. I need to be stronger than that. I need to do
what’s truly right
for me.

So
I wait until he’ll
be in class on Monday morning, the class I’m
skipping today, and then I call his cell phone. As predicted, it goes
to voicemail in a couple of probably silent rings. I wait for the
tone, swallow hard, and go for it.

“Jack,
I got your voicemails on Saturday. And the suitcase you had delivered
to my dorm on Sunday, thank you for that. I’m
sorry that I didn’t
let you know I made it home safe—I
hope this message eases your worries on that count. As for the
rest . . . I
just don’t think
this is working. I’m
sorry to do this to you while you’re
going through heartbreak at home too, but I need to concentrate on
what’s best for me
right now. I hope you can understand that.”

I
love you
, I think.
“Goodbye,”
I say, and I disconnect the phone before I melt into a puddle of
tears.

#

Class
the next week is surreal. I watch him at the front of the room
speaking, and I can still hear his voice so much closer.
I
can’t
live without you.

You’re
acting insane.

I
can’t be with
someone who does that. Who switches from getting-serious to telling
me I’m a child in a
single day. Mentally, I know this is for the best.

Emotionally?
Well.

My
eyes track him across the classroom. Even from the middle of the
room, I can make out deep purple bags under his eyes. His handwriting
on the chalkboard is shaky, and his voice scratches a few times,
halfway through the lecture. He doesn’t
look like he’s been
sleeping.

I
think about everything he’s
going through right now, and I physically ache to just wrap my arms
around him, try to take his pain into me. His father’s
death, after the rocky relationship I knew they had, hit him harder
than he’ll admit.

But
for my sake (and his sake, even if he can’t
see it), I know I need to stay strong. To stay away.

So
I take notes, my eyes glued to my textbook and paper, and resist the
urge to go to him.

#

Throwing
myself into my work is easier than thinking. Luckily, for some
reason, the deadline on the Eliot papers has been kicked into high
gear. I hole myself up in my room for the next two weeks, sending
Jack—
Professor
Kingston
, I correct
myself—updated page
proofs every couple of days, with nothing written in the body of the
emails. He replies with corrections, suggestions, and requests for my
next section of work. But he always signs the emails with the same
line.

Please
talk to me
.

I
hit reply, attach the new pages, and that’s
it.

Finally,
after two weeks of almost constant labor, I reach the end. When I
send him the final draft, he invites me to help present it to the
dean. For the first time since leaving him my final voice message, I
write out a reply.

Thank
you, but I’m
afraid I have to decline the offer.

Stupid
career move, but what would be worse: avoiding this presentation, or
having the dean or some other higher-up find out about Professor
Kingston’s and my
history? I’m not
sure I could remain professional and stand in the same room as him,
in close proximity, presenting on the same material.

So
I take the safe route out.

In
the meantime, however, while he’s
gearing up for whatever the presentation will be, I have other work
to do. Specifically, capturing the poems that are pouring out of me
right now. I write pages and pages of first drafts, at least ten of
which are decent enough that I can settle in to revise them.

I’m
not consciously thinking about it, not every day, but I have the
pamphlet about the poetry grant pinned above my desk. The
requirements may or may not include a sampling of ten original poems
by the applicant.

I
may or may not be hyperaware of that now.

If
nothing else, it’s a
good way to keep the isolated, obsessive work pattern going. And an
even better way to keep myself from thinking about anything else
whatsoever.

Three
more months and I won’t
have to worry about this anymore anyway. I’ll
be on a plane back to the US in January, and this will all be a
distant memory. Maybe someday it won’t
hurt anymore. Maybe someday I’ll
be able to look back on this whole experience and smile.

Maybe.

“Thank
you for bringing this to my attention,”
Warden Johnson replies as I finish speaking.

I’m
having flashbacks of my PhD defense all over again, only this time
it’s five deans of
the college, the warden, and, even more terrifyingly, the
vice-chancellor of Oxford University on the whole all staring at me
from the front of the room with the analysis Harper and I co-wrote
spread before them.

A
now-familiar pang jolts through me: the absence of her at my side.
She should be here for this. Half the paper is hers, she deserves the
credit, the recognition she’d
earn from this. But I can guess why she decided not to come.

I
can guess, and it makes me feel even worse than I already do about
what’s happened
between us. I can stand the pain of separation, if that’s
truly what she wants. But I can’t
stand the idea of hurting her career on top of it all.

Warden
Johnson clears his throat, and I snap to attention.
Concentrate,
Jack
. The fate of the
department depends on this moment. I know our analysis is spot-on,
and the presentation was as good as I can give. The rest is up to
them.

“We
will be bringing this under consideration as we move forward with our
allocation decisions this year. Now, have you considered which
publications you would like to pursue with this article?”

Publications
.
Which is essentially signing off, giving the paper the university’s
blessing. I steal a glance at Pierson and catch him flashing me a
thumbs up from under the table.

Then
I fight to keep the sheer, exhausting relief from my face as I start
to list which journals I’m
looking at sending this to, once we’ve
finished polishing it up. If nothing else, Harper will have a
publication credit to her name, since I’ll
obviously be listing her as my co-author. That will help, even if she
couldn’t be here for
this presentation.

It
makes me feel only slightly better.

Luckily,
work doesn’t give me
much time to think. Straight from the presentation, I’m
ushered into a strategy dinner with Pierson and another dean. At
least it allows me to ignore the burn in my chest, the searing pain
that accompanies every quick glance she flashes my way in class, and
every day that passes without a reply in her emails beyond the next
assignment.

I
have never felt like this before. This . . . 
weak
.
And yet, for the first time in my life, knowing that there’s
someone out there who can do this to me doesn’t
make me want to run away. It makes me want to run toward her.

But
she’s made it clear
what she wants. Which is nothing to do with me. So I keep my head
down, and I get back to work.

It’s
been three weeks. Three weeks since the funeral, and my heart
splitting in half in my chest, and the whole world feeling like it
will come crashing to an end at any moment.

So
far, it hasn’t. But
the night is young.

I’ve
spent those weeks alternately embedded in my writing (including
finishing and sending off the application for the poetry grant
program) and sulking in my dorm room. Stacey and Mary Kate are having
none of it tonight.

“You
need to get out. Get some fresh air,”
MK says.

“And
some fresh booze,”
Stacey adds, sniffing at the open bottle of wine I forgot about on
top of my bureau with a grimace.

“I
don’t know if
drinking when I feel this shitty is a good idea, guys,”
I mumble. They know the basics of the breakup, though obviously not
the details. And that simple little fact, the fact that I can’t
tell my two closest friends here what was really going on in our
relationship, should be the wake-up call. It wasn’t
working.

“Drinking
is
always
a good idea,” Mary
Kate contradicts me as she pulls one of my shorter, more revealing
dresses from the closet.

“I’ll
come out on one condition,”
I say, snatching the dress from her to stuff it back onto its hanger.
“It’s
got to be a place where I can wear jeans.”
I shake a leg at her, and she laughs.

“Fair
enough.”

Less
than half an hour later, we’re
clustered into a back room at the Eagle and Child. It looks
completely different than the last time I was here, way back at the
start of the semester, when I had no idea what I was getting myself
into, flirting with Jack in front of his friend at the bar.

This
time, Christmas decorations cover the walls. An upbeat, overly peppy
Christmas song I actually recognize plays on the speaker system, and
the whole pub seems to vibrate with energy. The back room has been
strung with tinsel and holly, and I catch a glimpse of more than one
undergrad wearing a Santa hat or elf ears.

“Is
there something going on tonight?”
I ask MK as we pile into the booth.

“Tail
end of Santa Con,”
she says. “It’s
this thing where—”

“Oh,
I know all about Santa Con,”
I interrupt, one palm raised. I remember enough from making the
mistake of venturing into downtown Philly during one, and nearly
drowning in a sea of overly festive red and white pukers. “I
just didn’t realize
it had infected this side of the Atlantic too.”

“Everyone
here loves a good excuse to get pissed,”
Stacey says. “Speaking
of, here come two more!”
Nick and Patrick join us, Patrick immediately sliding into the booth
beside me, one arm draped along the back panel. Stacey wiggles her
eyebrows at us both, then disappears to fetch a round of pints.

“So,
I hear my favorite American eye candy is single again.”
Patrick hip-bumps me, tearing me away from whatever whispered
conversation Mary Kate and Nick have started up.

I
must make a worse face than he anticipated, because suddenly
Patrick’s pulling me
into a tight hug. And it feels nice. Not sexual or anything.
Just . . . nice.
I squeeze back gently, before I draw away.

“I’m
sorry,” I murmur.
“I’m
just, I’m not ready
to—”

“Hey,
hey, Harper.” He
pats my hand. “I’m
not trying to push you or anything. I mean, yes, if you want a
rebound, I am 100 percent game, call me anytime.”
He winks. “But it’s
obvious this wasn’t
just some fling, so . . . If
you need to talk or anything. Y’know.
Call me for that, too.”

Stacey
reappears with our beers, and as he passes me my pint, a genuine
smile sneaks onto my face for the first time in what feels like
forever. “Thanks,
Patrick.”

“Like
I said, love.” He
clinks his glass against mine. “Anytime.”
We both take sips of our beverages, but then he breaks off to tug at
my arm. “Hey, have
you seen the décor
up in the front room yet?”

“If
that’s a pickup
line, it’s the worst
one I’ve heard you
try yet,” I say.

“No,
he’s right, it’s
really pretty,”
Stacey adds. “Let’s
go check it out.”

Confused
but obliging, I trail the two of them through the crowded middle
room, past the bar just oozing with mistletoe (creative, guys), and
into one of the other private rooms. The ones up here are occupied,
but none of the mostly halfway-to-Piss-Town occupants seem to mind a
couple more people popping in.

As
far as I can tell, the decorations look exactly the same up here. I
raise an eyebrow. “What
gives, guys?”

“Just
giving them some space,”
Stacey says with a nod toward the back.

I
blink a few times, but Patrick doesn’t
look surprised either. “What,
MK and Nick?” I
glance back and forth between my friends, but neither one speaks.
“Shit, what’s
going on with them? I thought everything was okay.”

“Nooot
exactly,” Stacey
mumbles under her breath.

As
if on cue, we watch Nick storm past the entrance to our side room, a
furious scowl on his face. There’s
a blast of cold air as he storms out into the night, and then the
door slams shut behind him and I’m
left gaping at my friends in surprise.

I
am such a terrible friend. I’ve
spent weeks moaning to MK over dinner every night, wrapping myself in
a blanket in her dorm room on Saturday nights to marathon every
Disney movie ever made while I sniffled into the world’s
largest mountain of tissues.