Total pages in book: 52
Estimated words: 52643 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 263(@200wpm)___ 211(@250wpm)___ 175(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 52643 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 263(@200wpm)___ 211(@250wpm)___ 175(@300wpm)
Adjusting my tie, I look over my reflection in the mirror one last time before heading to the library. The senior administrators are hosting a private party for all the professors tonight with unlimited alcohol.
Two rules on the invitation sealed the deal for me:
1. No discussions about courses or students
2. See rule number 1
I’m halfway through the courtyard when my phone buzzes again. I glance at the screen and see a unfamiliar zip code. I eye the distance to the party and decide I have time for one last round of entertainment.
“Yes?” I answer.
“May I speak to Mr. Donovan, please?”
“This is he.”
“Mr. Donovan, this is Maya Pearson with Manhattan Obstetrics,” a woman says, killing my telemarketer hopes. “Is now a good time?”
“Never would be better.”
“Great!” She completely misses my sarcasm. “We’ve recently switched systems, so I wanted to confirm the special cupcakes you wanted to have ready for your wife’s next appointment with us.”
“I won’t be attending any more of my ex-wife’s appointments,” I say.
“Oh. Well, would you like to give me your email address so I can set you up on the new patient portal for updates?” She’s not hearing me at all. “I’m sure that’ll be a fun way to keep up with your son before he arrives!”
“I’m not the baby’s biological father, so I’m not interested in speaking to you or your office about anything ever again.” I enunciate every syllable.
Silence.
“Please remove my number from her files.” I end the call and let out a sigh.
Just months ago, I thought the baby was a renewed sign of hope for my toxic and failing marriage. That maybe, just maybe, we hadn’t made the biggest mistake of our lives by marrying young and rushing into adulthood against everyone else’s advice.
That was until my wife decided to randomly suggest getting a DNA test “that we can frame,” and I discovered her infidelity.
Shaking away the ugly memory, I continue walking toward the party.
The moment I open the doors, a server holds out a tray of champagne.
“Would you care for a glass of Goût de Diamants, sir?” He smiles.
“No, thank you,” I say. “Is there any whiskey?”
“Only the top brands.” He gestures to the balcony. “Enjoy your night, sir.”
I walk in that direction, but a pretty redhead suddenly blocks my route.
“I don’t believe we’ve had the chance to formally meet.” She holds out her hand. “I’m Vanessa Shaw. I teach Advanced Cinema Appreciation, and I live a block away from you.”
“Nice to meet you, Miss Shaw. I’m Liam Donovan.”
“I know that already.” She blushes. “I read your profile and saw that we have a lot of things in common.”
“What types of things?”
“Morning runs, swims in the ocean, and a few other things you didn’t publicly mention.”
“I didn’t list anything inappropriate in my bio.”
“I could see it in your eyes.” She’s still smiling. “Your irises practically screamed ‘Come fuck me’ in that photo.”
I smile at her, unsure of how to respond to that.
“I’m old school, so I slid my number under your door earlier,” she says. “Call me whenever you want a running buddy. No pressure.”
She winks at me before walking away.
I make it to the bar without another introduction, and order two glasses of Jack Daniels.
“Glad you showed up to this, Liam.” My grandfather pats my shoulder. “I was beginning to think you’d be M.I.A.”
“Almost.” I set my glass on the railing. “I’m committed to change, though.”
“I’m concerned about Miss Edwards,” he says. “Deeply concerned, actually.”
“I don’t know who that is.”
“The young woman you tried to get removed from your class.”
“It’s not ringing a bell.”
“You picked her up from Boston for me. Remember that?”
“I wish I didn’t.”
“Every time I look at her file, I wonder what I’m doing wrong.”
“I could’ve sworn conversations about students were off limits tonight.”
Especially that student.
“Now and then we admit an intellectual who is miles ahead of her peers.” He sips his wine. “A Beethoven in a world of musicians.”
“The invitation mentioned authentic Cuban cigars.” I change the subject. “Where can I find those?”
“She’s gifted beyond measure,” he says. “There are some college literary journals that publish her writing under a pseudonym," he says. “She denies this, of course, but it’s gone on far too long for me to do anything about it.”
“Were they lying about those cigars?”
“Last semester, I hired a Harvard professor on a part-time contract and asked him to create a course just for her.” He pulls a cigar and a lighter from his pocket, handing them to me. “She finished his syllabus in five weeks, and then he started using her to grade the college students’ papers.”
I light the cigar and inhale, refusing to ask any follow-up questions.
“She’s always struggled to make friends and acquaintances here, and between you and me, I think some of the students may be a bit jealous.”
“Or maybe she’s just a trash individual who lies to every man she meets.” I shrug. “That’s not jealousy.”