The feed cuts back to the news station and a blonde anchor takes over for her colleague in the field. She adds little to the narrative surrounding Revelation Ranch—little that I haven’t already heard—and I find myself retreating inward. Ghosts from the past and a ghoulish image of Birdie conjured by my imagination play in harmony on multiple screens behind my eyelids. I open them, trying to shake away the vision and ground myself in the present.
I look around the room and name objects: lighter, candle, television, sofa…and so on, until I feel my heartbeat return to normal. There is a part of me that feels this was all eventual. That from the moment I met Tom, he was planted firmly on this course. I never would have imagined it in this particular way, and I can’t pinpoint the moment when I knew or say for certain how, but somehow, none of this is shocking for me when it comes to his involvement in it.
Birdie is another matter.
I cannot reconcile in my mind the thought of her, wounded in a bed somewhere, with the images of her that I hold so close from our time together at the university. They don’t mesh. Their edges catch on one another, impossible to gather.
I hear Wes again. I hear him tell me that I’m not here. That I’m never here. That she is. And I wonder if I was ever there for Birdie completely. I remember my promise to her. That I’d always come back for her, no matter what. Even if that meant hurting someone. Even if that someone was me.
With this in mind, I get up from the couch.
I go to the bedroom to pack a bag.
IONE
7 YEARS AGO
Not long after the incident at the party, I found myself finished with Anna Karenina.
I’d spent nights, curled in bed with only the novel and a booklight, letting the words—and the memory of Tom’s voice—surround me. I laid awake at night, imagining what I might say to him when I returned it, wondering if I should say anything at all. I settled on the idea that it was best to do all that I could to keep a low profile.
When I finished, I needed to return his copy and thought I’d slip it under the door of his office at a time I thought it would be vacant. I’d avoided class for two weeks, knowing that in a course that met only once weekly, attendance mattered.
So, there I stood, in the writing department offices, as I plucked up the courage needed to walk past the receptionist’s desk to the doorway of his office. Finally, I made it. But much to my shock, the door stood open just a crack and through it, I could see him.
He sat at his desk, classically styled glasses that any professor would have approved of perched on the bridge of his nose. He combed through paper after paper as though he was looking for something. My heart raced, and I wondered for a moment if I could slip the book in between the gap left by the open door without him noticing. But before I could act on this thought, he stood from the desk.
I was paralyzed. Like an animal engaging in fight, flight, or freeze, I waited to be discovered and I was.
He swung open the door.
“Ione,” he said, his composure still solidly intact. “I thought I heard someone out here.”
“Just me,” I said as he looked around. His eyes found mine.
Something passed between us then. An understanding. It was one of those moments in time where you know the course laid out before you, and you’re called to make a decision as to whether you’ll travel it.
“Come in,” he stepped aside and made way for me to pass within inches of his chest. I wormed my way through the opening without touching him and slipped into one of the chairs that sat opposite his desk.
He closed the door behind him. I swallowed, painfully aware of the fact that we were alone now. And even more painfully aware of the fact that I was glad of it. I watched as he moved back to the desk, the muscles of his arms beneath his sweater distracted me from my carefully rehearsed speech in which I’d planned to firmly reestablish the professor-student relationship in the unfortunate event that he was in his office tonight. Instead, I stared as he moved a stack of books off of the desk.
“Is there anything I can help you with?” he asked. His tone was innocent. Probably too innocent if I’d known what a predator he was then.
“I just wanted to return this,” I placed the worn copy of Anna Karenina on the desk between us. He picked it up.
“And?” he asked.
“Nothing else,” I said.
“I mean, and what did you think?” he smiled down at his lap for a moment and laughed, caught up in the tension between us. He seemed at ease in the situation. He knew how to navigate it. I was a fish on dry land, gasping for water.
“Oh,” I said, relieved. “I really liked it. I can see why it’s a favorite of yours.”
We went back and forth discussing characters and theme until I felt myself relax, back in familiar territory. The conversation pulsed with the energy of two people fully immersed in a book, longing to discuss it with someone who shared their mind. It was the kind of comfort that can only be found in holiday food and sex. That’s how intimate it felt. I should have known.
His smile crawled under my skin and stayed there like a disease. Tom was a chemical burn that couldn’t be washed off. I wouldn’t shake him for years to come, if ever. In one of those moments where I felt enveloped in his expression, he stood and walked to the bookcase behind me.
“I have another book you might like,” he moved the other
