What he’d said during our last text exchange came back to me. Fifty times, I’d reread the message where he said I was scared. That maybe I was broken.
“Right now, I want to wrap you in my arms and protect you from everything.” His brows dipped. “But you don’t need me or anyone else to do that.”
Tears slipped down my cheeks, and he wiped them away with his thumbs. I opened my mouth but didn’t have the words. He’s right, about all of it.
“I don’t know what that means for us, and I’d never ask you to hash that out after everything that happened today. For now, I just want you to feel safe, and I’m not going anywhere if you want me here.”
I nodded, untangling my fingers from the fabric of his shirt. “Okay,” I said in a voice just above a whisper. “I want you here.”
He nodded and kissed my cheek, a soft peck at my temple, before wrapping me in his arms again.
Forty-three
Four weeks later, I sat in my office on a Thursday afternoon, preparing for classes to begin.
The return of the students would give campus the energy and life that made me excited to be a professor. The summer had been a whirlwind, and there was something to be said for returning to normal. Of course, not everything was normal.
Davis’s assault had dredged up emotions and memories from when we dated. I rarely slept well, but recently I hadn’t been sleeping at all, and every unexpected noise or sudden movement left me quaking, startling awake prepared to fight. Davis had been charged, though the lawyer I spoke with said it would likely be reduced and assisted me with an order of protection. Looking in the mirror, I could see that the large bruise had faded but been replaced by puffy eyes and dark circles. I’d finally admitted to myself that I couldn’t handle it all alone anymore, that maybe I’d never really handled it at all.
To do: Make an appointment with a counselor.
Out the open window, the cool breeze swept through my office, and my phone buzzed on my desk.
Jake: Is there such a thing as a groomzilla?
Naya: Eric?
Jake: Tyson.
Naya: Really?
Jake: He’s in charge of the cake—it’s his one job. Best man = my job, too.
Naya: It doesn’t sound like such a hardship.
Jake: Do you want to do the next four tastings with him? Why are there so many bakeries in this town?
Naya: Enjoy some frosting for me.
Jake had returned to North Carolina two days after the retreat, promising he’d come back anytime I wanted. We’d shared a long embrace, he’d kissed my cheek with soft, promising lips, and then he was gone.
He still loved me. He hadn’t said it, but I could feel it in how he touched me, how he looked at me. I was scared, though, and I wasn’t sure how to fix it. The night he left, he’d texted.
Jake: How are you?
Naya: I’m ok. Felicia came over.
Jake: Good.
The next night he’d sent Thinking about you and I’d responded with Good night. Same the next night. Clutching my phone like a teddy bear before bed, I looked forward to the messages, and they came night after night without fail.
Finally, I’d initiated an exchange. Good morning. I’m thinking about you, too. Since then, we’d traded short good morning and good night messages every day, periodically sharing small parts of our day or updates. Things weren’t back to the way they were, but they were within sight of normal.
Before leaving the camp, Jill had approached me, squeezed my shoulder, and we’d exchanged a knowing look. Away from the rush of the moment in the woods, I recognized the flash of shame wash over her expression. It was a look I knew so well, but I’d never looked for it on someone else. I wanted to reach out, to tell her she didn’t have to endure him, that she wasn’t alone, but I didn’t have the words, and people surrounded us. I squeezed her hand, which I hoped conveyed everything I didn’t want to say in such a public space. I hoped she found her strength sooner than I’d found mine. We hadn’t talked yet, but I knew we would.
A second retreat with nine different departments was scheduled for mid-September, obviously minus Davis. I was nervous about the announcements the president was going to make and what would happen to our department, but I’d decided if push came to shove, I’d start somewhere new. I could do it, and it would be fine. I was cautious but breathing easier than I had in a long time around my peers. I’d been given an out, an offer to not attend the second retreat, but that felt too much like Davis winning. I declined the offer to skip it.
On top of everything else, I would see Jake, and we’d made plans to meet somewhere private after the first day’s meetings. Our texting was sweet and friendly, but we hadn’t talked about us. I longed to see him and ached to kiss him, but also worried our connection was too badly damaged and that he wouldn’t want to repair it. I had a couple of weeks until I’d know, but luckily they would be filled with the busy beginning to the semester.
A knock at my office door interrupted my thoughts. I glanced up to see someone I never would have expected: Quinton or Quenton, fist poised against the doorframe. He stood before me in green seersucker shorts, a polo shirt, and his signature boat shoes.
“Dr. Turner? Do you remember me from your Intro to Learning class? Quinn Sterling. Do you have a minute?” Quinn. Damn, I was so close.
“Sure, come in.” I motioned to the chair on the other side of my desk, and he dropped into it. “What can I do for you?”
His gaze skittered around my office, down at his shoes, and back to me. “I wanted to, um, to ask you about, like, what we learned in class last semester.” He toyed with his sunglasses, which were perched atop his product-laden hair.
“Sure. Anything in particular?”
“Well, I had to do community service this summer.”
My attention caught on the had to, which made me envision Quinn in an orange jumpsuit.
Not his color.
“And we helped with, like, um, this summer school program in the city for, like, poor kids. I didn’t want to do it at first, but then, it was, um, it was cool.” He took his sunglasses off his head, then put them back on, fidgeting.
“That’s great,” I commented, trying to sound pleasant and reassuring.
“And, um, the kids had a hard time doing, like, totally basic math, like multiplication and shit—er, stuff—but they loved video games.” He relaxed a little, letting his hands drop to my desk, and he leaned forward. “And I remembered you talking about that in class.”
“Sure, gamification can help kids get excited about math.” He was paying attention when I talked about my research?
“Yeah! This one kid really didn’t get it. We didn’t have anything fancy, it was, like, a really poor school, but I brought in my tablet, and we found this free app, and like, we played these games and it totally helped him. It was really cool. I felt, like, really good about myself.”
I smiled. I’m proud of the little shit.
“Anyway, I liked doing it a lot, and I was wondering if you could help me do it, like, for a job.” His dispassionate, too-cool-for-school mask was gone, replaced with genuine curiosity and vulnerability.
“To be a game designer?”
“No. A teacher.”
I could have been knocked over with a feather. “Definitely.”
“I don’t know a lot yet. It’s, like, new still, but using games to help was cool. My major is marketing, but can you help me, um, switch or whatever? This seems way more interesting.” His expression was hopeful, and I couldn’t stop my smile from widening.
“I’d be happy to help, Quinn.”
When he walked out thirty minutes later, I shook my head. If someone else had been in the room, I would have given them a wide-eyed did-you-see-that? A sense of professional wonder filled me like a balloon, and I wished I had someone to tell
.
Naya: The strangest thing just happened.
Jake: Yeah?
Forty-four
President Lewis stood at the front of the main lodge in a TU sweatshirt and jeans. I glanced around the room, wishing there was anyone near me who would share my incredulity. Is our seventy-year-old university president wearing skinny jeans? The people to my left and right, including my stuffy colleague Anita, looked unperturbed. Joe would have at least given me a raised eyebrow, but he was still recovering and on strict orders from Elaine to step back.
We’d departed early that morning from the parking lot outside the main administration building, piling into a charter bus. Professors from nine departments settled in awkwardly, stilted conversation buzzing through the vehicle as people whispered about “Camp Job Search” and “Retreat to the Unemployment Line.” I’d wanted to ask Jake a hundred times what to expect, but everything between us still felt fragile, so I’d held back, even though we’d made plans to meet up that night by the lake to talk.
Flip walked across the front of the room where forty of us sat in folding chairs. “Thank you all for being here. I know we’ve been tight-lipped about this, and I appreciate the trust you’ve placed in me and this process.” Despite his grandfatherly tone of voice and an impressive ability to pull off wearing those jeans, the room vibrated with anxiety. “So why are we here? Put your minds at ease; this is not ‘Camp Pink Slip’ or any of the other colorful nicknames you’ve heard.
“I wanted all of you here as we figure out how to move forward with the consultants’ recommendations. There will be cuts, but none of your programs are in that position.”
I let out a breath along with the rest of the room before Flip spoke again.
“Not yet, anyway.”
The older man kept speaking. “The boys from the consultation firm will walk you through it, but before I sit down, know this—” He paused, and I admired his bright white tennis shoes that looked fresh out of a box. “Many of you know I don’t go in much for traditional. I like to shake things up. I think that’s why the trustees hired me, and I’m sure that, someday, that’s why they’ll fire me.” He smiled, eyes crinkling, and a chuckle moved through the assembled group. “But until then, it’s my job to make sure TU is the best damn university in the country, and you’re all going to help me make that happen.”
My muscles unclenched, and a surge of air left my lungs— my job was safe. I could keep studying and teaching the things I loved.
Carlton and Jake walked to the space just vacated by Flip. Jake wore a pale blue polo shirt and dark jeans. I loved him in blue, and I wondered if he’d worn it for me. I bit the inside of my cheek, attempting to suppress the myriad of emotions I felt in the moment.
“Thank you, Flip,” Carlton said. He explained that they had placed all departments of the university into four categories along the axes of success and potential. As Carlton spoke, Jake illustrated on a nearby whiteboard, drawing the four quadrants.
“And we didn’t measure success just in dollars—we included notoriety, reputation, and student enrollment, among other factors,” Jake chimed in over his shoulder.
“First, we had the high success/high potential programs—your cornerstones that are doing well. Think of accounting and engineering. Second, low success/low potential programs—unpopular programs not doing well. Those are easy to move forward on.” Carlton motioned to where Jake had scrawled on the board.
“Next, high success/low potential programs. This is more complex. Take, for example, a program that brings in lots of money, but for which there is little recognition for research or few job opportunities for graduates.”
Some heads around the room nodded, everyone piecing together where their department fell. I was surprised when Anita nodded and leaned forward.
This might be the first time in twenty years she’s been interested in something someone else is saying.
“Now we get to all of your departments, which fell in the last quadrant—low success/high potential programs; what we’re titling ‘stalled programs.’” The room met him with a stony silence, expecting more explanation.
I desperately tried to focus on what this meant for my job and not on the curve of Jake’s shoulder blades as he turned to add something. “Your nine departments are here,” Jake said, pointing to the fourth quadrant. “All have a high potential for impact—job prospects are good for graduates, faculty could bring in big research dollars, and the potential for solid enrollment is high; unfortunately, successes aren’t there yet. In terms of TU’s goals, your departments are stalled, and we will work together to push them forward.”
To do: Tell Joe we’re safe.
Jake scanned the crowd as he and Carlton took questions about the model. He held my gaze for a moment, the corners of his lips tipping up, before focusing on a woman asking a question two rows ahead of me.
“Let’s get to work,” Carlton said, clapping his hands together before breaking us into small groups.
Forty-five
Hours later, the sun was low in the sky, casting the lake and surrounding woods in a shadowy, warm glow. We’d been released from our work, and most of the crowd had joined Flip for dinner in the camp’s dining center. I’d ducked out, the sloppy joes doing little to entice me. Instead, I grabbed a granola bar from the kitchen and trekked toward the lake where Jake and I’d agreed to meet. I was early, but I figured I could find a spot and run through what I wanted to say.
I’d been sleeping better and talking with the counselor about all the things I’d kept buried for years. It was so much harder than I’d anticipated, but every time I left her office, I could pick up one or two more pieces of myself, even if just to hold them for a few minutes.
As I neared the shore, the broad shoulders were easy to recognize. Jake sat on the sand, his back to a group of Adirondack chairs. He’d come early, too. I held my breath, admiring the way the wind blew his hair askew—it was a little long for him, like the night we’d met. His legs were stretched in front of his large frame, and he was reading something on his phone while he waited.
I closed my eyes and inhaled the fall air, and then slowly exhaled, willing myself to step forward, despite the urge to turn around. With the counselor, I’d figured out running and avoiding was a tactic I’d used to stay safe, but one that had become routine for me in every other facet of my life. With another slow inhale and exhale, I pulled my phone from my pocket. I’d thought a lot about how I would start this conversation, how I’d jump into everything that needed to be said to get us back. I missed him, but I missed me with him, too. When we were together, I didn’t worry I wasn’t measuring up or feel like I was always guessing what he wanted. I knew what he wanted, and it was me.
Now or never.
Naya: Knock-knock.
Still hiding along the tree line, I watched his body language carefully. I imagined two expressions on his face: the relaxed, playful grin I’d come to know so well and the pained, pinched grimace from our fight. Jake’s head remained dipped over his screen, but his posture relaxed.
Jake: Who’s there?
Naya: Doorbell repairman.
He laughed, the sound carrying to the tree line, where I bit my lip and smiled.
Jake: Do people still say LOL?
Naya: IDK
His chuckle was quieter, more subdued, and faded into silence before he checked his watch and my phone buzzed again.
Jake: I figured you’d be early. But I figured you’d get a little closer than those trees. Still coming over?
Naya: Do you still want me to?
Jake: That’s a silly question.
Jake pivoted to face me.
My breath caught in my throat as he looked up and smiled. It was a small, closed-mouth smile, but the expression was soft and kind. “Yes, I want you to come talk to me.”
He patte
d the ground next to him, tilting his head.
I’d accused him of hurting me, I’d ignored him, and I’d shown I didn’t trust him at the first bump in the road. Jake had been so gracious, more than I deserved, but he’d have every reason to write me off. Instead he was patting the sand and inviting me over, which said so much about why I needed him in my life. I lowered myself to sit, our elbows inches apart.
Slipping his phone into his pocket, Jake rested his forearms on his knees.
We sat in silence, both taking in the sight of the water, and I stole quick glances at his profile.
His voice broke the silence, the low rumble stirring something in me. “I liked the joke.”
“I thought you might.” I wrapped my arms around my knees and rocked, my feet sinking into the sand. The silence fell between us again, but it wasn’t uncomfortable, just unfinished. I toyed with the ring on my middle finger, deciding where to begin.
Jake spoke first. “You’re nervous?”
“A little,” I admitted.
“How did it go with the counselor?” he asked.
“Really good, actually.” During one of our brief texts, I’d shared I was going to see someone. “I should have done it years ago.”
“Good.”
“How was the cake tasting?”
“I can now tell you the pros and cons of fondant.”
I chuckled, and we fell back to silence; the breeze moving through the trees and the gentle lapping of the water were the only sounds. It was so strange to sit next to him again, next to the body with which I had become so familiar, but with so much distance between us. Can’t we skip ahead through this awkward part and be us again?
How to Fail at Flirting Page 25