Teach Me(62)

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.





Harper




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.