“You don’t like me much,” the Provost said at last. “And we both know why. I can’t say I blame you. It was handled badly, and I didn’t make it any better.”
Ryan didn’t say anything. He wasn’t sure that was true. His memory was so fragmented.
“I’m proud of what you’ve accomplished since then,” McShane went on. “The Honors College thinks highly of your scholarship. Your leadership at the newsroom has been exemplary, if controversial at times.”
Get to the point, man, Ryan thought. I’m going to be late, and I really don’t want to be late because you’ve gone down memory lane.
“So, I figure I should tell you. Professor Black will be back on campus winter term. He was given a sabbatical, as you probably know, and he’s extended it several times for research. But those have run out, and he’s published a book — one that’s getting good early reviews — and he will be back to teach. In fact, you may encounter him on campus this term. I believe he has opened up his office.”
Ryan was silent. He didn’t know what to say to that. Didn’t know how he felt. So, he did what he always did, he refused to feel anything at all. He nodded his acknowledgement that he’d heard him. “I don’t want to be late,” he said, and he walked away into the building where his class was housed.
Well, wasn’t that a fucking reminder of the past he didn’t need?
After class, he decided to write his paper about homosexuality among women in the Greek and Roman empires after the oh-so-esteemed scholar had blown off a question about it. Then he made the call to Dr. Clarke’s office and scheduled an appointment.
“She told me to fit you in if you called,” a cheerful voice told him. “How about 2 p.m. today?”
“Today?” Ryan said, startled. Had Rev. Washington said something? Probably mentioned Rafael, he decided, when he picked up J.J. And he had no reason ready to procrastinate. The lady knew him well. “Yes, I can be there,” he said.
He stopped at the coffee shop for an espresso, a place he would normally have holed up and read for a while. But they no longer had inside dining, and it was getting too chilly to be sitting out on the sidewalk. He couldn’t go to the SMU lounges either. Well, he could, but they were depressing, with so few students on campus, and even fewer in the student union. He shrugged and walked up Mill Street to the newsroom. He glanced over to make sure his car was still parked across the street — it was, even without a ticket.
He stopped in the advertising office to talk to Gregory. He respected Cage’s older brother, but he’d never have the camaraderie with him that he had with Cage. Gregory was going places, and he was going to go there wearing a cashmere overcoat and expensive black leather gloves.
“Bianica tells me Rafael is cute, friendly, and the perfect age for John Lewis,” Gregory said.
Ryan smiled. “Yeah, they hit it off immediately.”
Gregory nodded. He hesitated, then shrugged. “Look, I know the reason Alumni Affairs came in with that big buy was something you did so we could fund a full-time newsroom over the summer.”
Ryan said nothing and just waited.
“So, without getting into the details about how you did it, it seems to me that you should get the commission on the sale,” Gregory continued, not meeting Ryan’s eyes. “I talked to bookkeeping. They can do it without triggering those blasted university rules about pay. Do you want it?”
Ryan hadn’t planned on taking a commission. He had worked the budget numbers, could see they would be short if they went full-time year around, even with the increased ad sales Gregory could bring in. So, he... pulled a few strings, as the euphemism went, and then there was money for the newsroom. He didn’t need the commission, he had money.
“Look, you’re going to have expenses you didn’t plan for with Rafael,” Gregory said. “Believe me I know. And you’re planning to pay Bianica for childcare — which we appreciate by the way — and I suspect you’re planning on paying my parents rent. And you still have your loft. So, take the money.”
Ryan nodded. “OK,” he said. Gregory had him sign some paperwork, and he was out of there and up the stairs to a dark newsroom.
He rarely saw it empty like this. It was 11 a.m. and people would start to drift in soon. For them, like him, this was a home away from home. Especially now with COVID. He dreaded the day someone got it and brought it in. Yes, they followed distancing guidelines, yes, they tried to be careful and wear masks and use hand sanitizer. But he suspected it wouldn’t matter. The virus would go through here rapidly.
He realized he needed to double down on his own precautions. I have a son, he thought for the umpteenth time.
He flipped on the lights in his office and unlocked the desk drawer. He pulled out Teresa’s journal and began to read. The first entry was about her return home to Yakima, Washington, where her extended family lived. He didn’t know whether that meant she started keeping a journal then, or whether she just didn’t want to share the journal from their relationship. And he didn’t know whether he was disappointed or relieved about that.
He compartmentalized as he always did. He took the turmoil that had been raging inside him since Teresa’s appearance in the newsroom and locked it up. He would deal with it later, he promised himself. Right now, he needed to glean what he could about where Teresa was, and what happened before he called her mother. Something had happened, he was sure of it. The Valdez family was too interwoven into the Yakima community for them to have been picked up by ICE like this.
He settled in to
