by Wendy Qualls
“Sit.”
Paul sat. Neither of them closed the door. Dr. Kirsner rounded the desk and settled opposite him like a pharaoh claiming his throne. He eyed Paul for several seconds, nose wrinkling in disgust, before finally turning his computer monitor and displaying exactly what Paul had initially feared—the same pixelated image of himself and Brandon on his sofa that first night together. Obviously him. Obviously with a man. Obviously sexual. Paul expected to feel embarrassment, but oddly enough he felt…nothing. No, not nothing—satisfaction. The knowledge that he was going to make it through this, and that Brandon would stay by his side the entire way. That no matter what hurtful things Dr. Kirsner might accuse him of, he’d be able to let them roll off his back because they weren’t true. And that, despite the circumstances of the picture, Brandon still looked damn gorgeous.
“I find myself in the rather unique position of not knowing what to say,” Dr. Kirsner declared once the silence was nearly unbearable. “Normally when there’s been a conduct violation, I meet with the department member in question and at least attempt to get their side of the story—but there’s really no denying this, is there?”
There wasn’t. Paul shrugged. “I didn’t write or distribute the e-mail, if it matters—and I didn’t consent to that photo being taken. But yes, that’s me.”
“Performing an immoral act with another man.”
“Being stalked, photographed, and forcibly outed by a vindictive ex-partner.”
“Irrelevant.”
“If you say so.”
Dr. Kirsner frowned. “You don’t seem too concerned by this—you realize you’re being terminated, don’t you?”
Yes, he did. And it did hurt—all that time spent jockeying to get track for tenure, all the ridiculous lengths he’d had to go to in order to get his research funded and his papers published. All down the drain. And yet, on the other side of the scales, was Brandon. For real, for good. Who made everything that happened all worth it.
It must have been apparent that Paul wasn’t going to melt down and beg for forgiveness, because Dr. Kirsner finally nodded and broke eye contact to shuffle some papers. “You’re being removed from employment at St. Benedict’s effective immediately. If you wish to challenge your firing, you’ll find the information about how to do so included in the paperwork, which will be mailed to you with your last paycheck. Dr. Carrington will escort you to your office to retrieve your personal effects. The computer has already been removed, since everything on it belongs to the school, but you may pack up whatever items you personally have purchased and brought in for your own use. No office supplies, no paperwork. Everything left behind will be held for ninety days or pending a challenge hearing if you request one, whichever comes first. You will be escorted from campus and—God willing—will never be in a position to corrupt students like this again. Have I made myself clear?”
Crystal. Paul nodded. He had no questions because there was nothing to ask—it didn’t matter. Some part of his brain tried to point out that he really ought to be paying attention in case he needed to fight some aspect of this later, but his mind was already filtering everything about his life at St. Benedict’s into some sort of mental “before” file folder, never to be worried over again. Or—more likely—to be worried about at length, but sometime far in the future when everything had had a chance to sink in. He didn’t even jump when the knock came on the door behind him.
“Dr. Carrington.”
Grace nodded at Dr. Kirsner, then offered Paul a tremulous smile. “Paul.”
“Security will meet you at Mr. Dunham’s office by the time you’re finished—and thank you for taking the time to help.” Dr. Kirsner stood and held the already-open door for both of them as they exited his office, then rather pointedly shut it behind Paul the moment he was outside.
“Mister” Dunham. I guess that is me, again. Paul wasn’t sure when he’d gotten so used to being “Professor”—probably related to how he never had much of a social life outside St. Ben’s. He did still have his doctorate, so he should technically be “Dr. Dunham,” but refusing to show even that much respect was obviously Dr. Kirsner’s way of twisting the knife a bit further. Not that it mattered. Grace’s wide eyes and forced smile hurt much worse.
“I take it everyone saw the e-mail, then,” Paul said softly as they walked down the nearly-empty hallway together and headed for the stairs.
Grace blushed and looked away, but he could read the guilt in her expression even so. “Just the confession at first. One of the grad students forwarded everyone the pictures a few hours later, though. I didn’t want to believe it was true.”
“I’m sorry.” Paul drew to a stop ahead of her on the stairs, forcing her to stop too and look up at him. “For what it’s worth, I would have liked to have felt that spark for you. And I didn’t write that e-mail—that was crude and small-minded and intended to hurt by outing me in the worst way possible, which it did. But I am gay and I’m not going to deny that.”
“I know.” She smiled at him sadly. “I guess I’ve known for a long time, but I never wanted to admit it. And Paul… I’m not going to pine. But I will be praying for you.”
There wasn’t much he could say to that. She obviously didn’t mean it in the snarky, judgmental way some people did when they used that phrase, the “you’re going to be in so much trouble when Our Father gets home” kind of way, but in some aspects that made it worse. She thought he was so beyond human redemption that his only chance was divine intervention. Nothing Paul could say would change her mind, and certainly nothing she had to say on the subject of homosexuality would change his. They walked the rest of the way to his office in silence.
It took less time than he thought it would—much less time—to clear out all signs of himself from his office. There wasn’t a lot to pack: the framed picture of Danielle from right before she left for France, the handful of action figures from various old video games he kept scattered around his desk, a box and a half of textbooks and paper copies of research journals he had brought with him when he first was given his own office with actual office hours and the possibility of students stopping by. Grace stood in the doorway and watched. She didn’t offer to help, but she didn’t breathe down his neck and challenge him over every item he threw in the box, either. The desk already looked naked without the monitor and keyboard on it; removing the scattering of nerdy knickknacks only made it look more bare and impersonal. He ignored everything in his drawers and the papers stacked in neat piles near the window—he had electronic copies of everything related to his research on his personal laptop anyway, and nothing else was worth keeping.
“I guess I’m done.”
Grace looked at the two file boxes full of his things, looked at him, and nodded. “Need a hand getting those to your car? No point waiting here for security to come and escort you out when I’m headed that way anyway.”
* * * *
It was just as well Brandon had left him the keys, or the whole situation would have been even more awkward than it was. Paul loaded the two boxes in Brandon’s trunk, daring Grace to comment on the obvious fact that it wasn’t his car, but she said nothing. The campus security guard caught up with them as he finished. Grace stammered her way through an awkward good-bye, hesitated long enough over shaking his hand for Paul to consider going in for a hug just to give her gay cooties, then escaped back to the psychology building. The security guard eyed him with significantly more sympathy.
“So you’re the gay one,” she said matter-of-factly. “You’re not going to do anything stupid now, are you?”
He snorted. “Define ‘stupid’?”
“Usually it involves coming back here and trying to start a fight with your former boss or co-workers.” She tilted her head to one side and studied him. “I wouldn’t blame you for being mad, you know—it’s total crap that they can fire you for stupid stuff like this—but that’
s what happens when you work for a religious college. For what it’s worth, I think you’re going to find something better. You were faculty, right?”
“Psychology. Yeah.”
“So go do something else for a while and come back to the field when the shitstorm dies down. I mean, what do I know? Students all seem to think I’m barely a step up from mall cop. I never went here or anything. But you don’t look like the usual kind of idiot I have to trespass off school grounds, and I’m hoping that means this is a step up for you and not a step back. Good luck.”
“Thanks.” Paul sucked in a deep breath. Get fired, get pitied by the woman I once thought I might marry, get kicked off campus—all of that he could take with his chin up. And yet one random stranger, a blunt-spoken woman in a security guard uniform, managed to slip through the cracks in his armor and get to him.
He accepted her nod of dismissal with a nod of his own and pulled into a gas station a few blocks away before calling Brandon.
“Let me guess,” Brandon said by way of greeting. “You’ve been asked to leave?”
“‘Trespassed off school grounds’ is the term the security guard used.”
“Can you give me another twenty minutes or so? I requested to be removed from this contract, since I’m not a neutral party anymore, so I’m passing off as much as I can to my team and then I’m free to head out with you. I suspected we might need the manpower so I pulled in a few favors. We’ve got three more guys on-site as of this morning, but they’re still settling in.” He covered the phone and answered someone’s muffled question in the background. “Sorry about that,” he said when he came back. “Right, so as much as I’d like to stick this out and personally slog through every piece of data St. Ben’s has, I pretty much got to cherry-pick the fun parts and then pass the boring stuff on to the guys with less seniority.” A laugh from somewhere else in the room. “Yeah, that’s you, Jacob—learn to love it.” There was the sound of a door closing, then the background noise dropped off and Paul’s tone sobered considerably. “All right, I’m leaving those clowns by themselves for a minute. Honest question now that nobody’s listening in: How are you holding up? I mean, truly?”
Paul was mildly surprised to discover that yes, he honestly was. “Probably still in shock a bit, but I’m fine. I think.”
“I really do want to get that bastard for what he did to you,” Brandon said slowly, “but this was a logical time to admit to my personal stake in the result of this investigation. Everyone on my team has been really understanding and supportive, despite being called out here on no notice. I’ve been told to take a day or two off and let them all mop up the details before I come back to the office. Hope that doesn’t disappoint you too much. I’m still leaving them strict orders to keep me in the loop as much as they can, though, even if I’m not technically on this contract anymore.”
“It’s okay.” More than okay. “I … kind of don’t want to be alone right now. And I don’t want to go back to my place. I know it’s silly, but I keep thinking about Christopher lurking around outside with a camera, and I just—”
“Totally understandable,” Brandon interrupted. “I’m in the admin building on the north side of campus right now—tell me where you want me to meet you and I’ll be out as soon as I can.”
Chapter 25
“Christopher has been picked up by the police for questioning,” Brandon announced as soon as they both were in the car. Paul hadn’t adjusted the seat or the mirror, but Brandon fiddled with them anyway the moment Paul surrendered the wheel. “They’re still figuring out what exactly to charge him with, but there’s a pretty long list to choose from—and a good chunk of what he did to get into the more secure databases in the first place falls into federal anti-terrorist territory.”
Paul slumped back against his seat in relief. “God, I didn’t realize how much happier hearing you say that would make me feel.”
“Me too, to be honest.” Brandon smiled suddenly, then lunged forward for a quick close-mouthed kiss before sitting back and putting on his seatbelt. “Sorry.” He didn’t look sorry at all. “Was thinking I wanted to kiss you and realized I could. In public and everything.”
They weren’t exactly “in public”—Brandon had walked to the McDonalds across the street from campus so Paul didn’t have to risk getting arrested for trespassing by driving on school grounds to come pick him up, which meant they were literally just sitting in a parking lot—but the McDonalds was far from empty and they were getting at least one double-take from another driver. Paul didn’t care. “So what now?”
“Now we detour by my hotel room to let me get my stuff and officially check out. Maybe a quick grocery store run because I am not going another morning without coffee if I can help it. And after that…” He grinned. “Then maybe we can go back to my apartment and find somewhere to walk around holding hands and looking soppy. But mostly I’d be in favor of us staying in bed so I don’t have to take my hands off you for at least twenty-four hours.”
It sounded like a fantastic plan.
* * * *
They did end up grabbing lunch together on the way back to Atlanta. Brandon held Paul’s hand under the table and didn’t look at his phone until they got back in the car, even though it kept buzzing. The relief of finally putting St. Ben’s in the rearview mirror was enough to have Paul grinning stupidly the entire time.
“I shouldn’t be so happy.”
“Yes you should.” Brandon looked up from where he was either texting or e-mailing something, his thumbs flying across the tiny keyboard. “There’ll be time to freak out about everything later—enjoy the giddiness while it lasts.”
That drew a startled laugh out of Paul. “You think I’m giddy?”
“I may be projecting a bit.” He flashed a grin. “Although you are getting to keep me around, so…”
“Twit.” But Paul couldn’t help but grin back.
* * * *
Paul didn’t even think about his own phone until they got back to Brandon’s place. He’d turned it off when they left his apartment the previous day and he really, really hadn’t wanted to turn it back on again. He needed to face the music eventually, though, so while Brandon unloaded his suitcase and their meager selection of groceries (i.e. “whatever had looked good at the Publix they’d passed on their way out of town”), he powered it back up and ran through his missed calls.
Grace. His parents. Danielle. His parents again. Christopher—Paul was suddenly very glad he didn’t see that name flash on the screen yesterday. His parents. Brandon. And about twelve calls from Danielle over the course of the last two hours.
“Anything important?” Brandon asked, coming around beside him to peer over his shoulder.
Only the real world, waiting for me to let my guard down. “I should call my sister.”
“Can I say hi? I’d love to meet her in person, but at this point I’d settle for just finding out how much she sounds like you.”
Paul snorted and leaned into Brandon’s shoulder—his warmth and solidity felt fantastic. Grounding. “I guess so.” He dialed, put it on speaker, and followed Brandon over to the sofa so they could put the phone down between them to talk.
It only rang once before being picked up. “Good morning, honey.”
Paul froze. “Mom? Why are you answering Danielle’s phone?”
“She left it here when she went out, and you wouldn’t answer for me. And your father wants to talk to you. Bill! It’s him!”
Damn it. He wasn’t ready for this conversation, wasn’t ready for the cross-examination his father would undoubtedly want to throw at him.
Paul’s mental castigation was cut off by the nudge of Brandon’s knee against his own. He looked up to see Brandon studying him with a worried expression.
You okay? Brandon mouthed.
And somehow the sight of Brandon being right there—open and atte
ntive and ready to have his back—made Paul’s panic recede a bit. He still didn’t want this, didn’t want to have to hear what his parents were going to tell him, but it was going to happen, and it was better with Brandon at his side rather than some surprise ambush later on. Paul took a deep breath and nodded.
There was a soft clunk on the line, most likely his mother picking up Danielle’s cell and putting her end on speakerphone as well, and then Paul’s father’s voice came on. “Do you… You’re not working at St. Benedict’s anymore, are you?”
Not something I want to go into details about. “No.”
“We saw your e-mail.”
“I didn’t send it.”
“Your sister mentioned that. But it was you. In that picture.”
Paul swallowed against the sudden tightness in his throat. “Yes.”
“So you’re a…” His father faltered for a moment. “You’re a gay.”
Brandon squeezed Paul’s hand, tight, but he stayed silent. Just as well. “This wasn’t how I wanted you guys to find out,” Paul admitted.
His mother’s voice, hesitant but clear. “Are you sure? I mean, you never really dated much…”
That drew a little strangled laugh from Paul’s throat. “I’m sure, Mom. I’ve known for—well, for a long time. And I was planning to pretend I wasn’t, as long as I could, but I couldn’t hide anymore.”
“The other man?” his father asked. “The one in the—was he a prosti—? Are you being safe?”
“Boyfriend, Dad.” Paul squeezed Brandon’s hand back and flashed him a tiny, private smile. “The word you’re looking for is boyfriend, and yes, he and I are dating now. His name is Brandon and he’s from Atlanta and I’m moving in with him as soon as I can get the rest of my stuff packed up from my apartment. I would love it if you could both be happy for me—this isn’t how I wanted to come out, not at all, but he’s the most wonderful person I’ve ever met and I love him very much.”