How to Fail at Flirting(67)

Jake pulled our linked hands to his face and slowly kissed each of my knuckles. Finally, his voice cut into the tension. “It’s not your fault. Please don’t feel ashamed. I don’t know if I see everything, but when I look at you, I see so much. If it’s in my power, you’ll never feel helpless like that again.”

Those memories had been replaying in my head for so many years, I couldn’t imagine forgetting that helpless feeling. I knew if I told Jake that Davis was on the committee, Jake would try to fix the problem, and there was no way for him to do that without everything becoming more complicated. I worried I’d already said too much and he’d figure out it was Davis. When he didn’t ask, though, I didn’t say a word, instead choosing to let that part of the story remain untold. I would tell him eventually.





Thirty-six





Curry Palace is up the street, or we could go Italian if you want.”

The next evening, we were sprawled on my couch trying to decide what to do for dinner. My feet were resting in Jake’s lap while we watched a rerun of Law and Order. All of it felt so incredibly couply and domestic, part of me wanted to snap a selfie to remember the moment.

I should have.

“I could go for some lamb vindaloo. That would mean we’d have to get up from the couch, though.” Jake rubbed his thumb over the arch of my foot, and I let out a low moan.

“Good thing they deliver.”

“Clever girl,” he said with a wink. Just then, his phone buzzed on the coffee table and he glanced down. His expression lost its playfulness. “Sorry, it’s Carlton. Let me take this real quick.” He slipped onto the balcony.

As the glass door slid closed, I got up to find the menu in a kitchen drawer, where I thumbed through the embarrassingly large stack of carryout menus. My kitchen was pitifully underutilized, and I couldn’t claim skill with anything beyond boiling water and toasting bread. It might be nice to be able to spend time in the kitchen, versus always going out or digging through takeout menus. To do: Learn to cook. I smiled, imagining his surprise if I whipped out an apron. To do: Learn to cook Jake’s favorite meal.

I was still grinning and thinking about my plan when I noticed him pacing and running his hand over the back of his neck while holding the phone to his ear. He gripped the railing of my balcony and looked out over the city intently for a few moments before coming back inside.

“Something wrong?” I asked.

He let out a heavy sigh and sank back onto my couch, patting the cushion next to him. “I need to talk to you about something. Two things, now, I guess.”

I wrapped my arms over my stomach and abandoned the menus on the counter. No good conversation ever starts like that. “What’s going on?”

His voice was earnest, and I tensed. “I was going to tell you last night, but we started talking about everything and it didn’t seem like the right time, but then Carlton called . . .”

“Tell me what?” My mind raced at full speed in twenty different directions. “Is this about work? You know something?”

“Yes.” He paused, leaning forward, his forearms on his knees. “We’re meeting with the president on Monday to go over our initial findings.”

I nodded, urging him to get to the point before my heart jumped out of my chest.

“What is it?” The blood in my face drained. “Are you recommending my department gets cut?”

His brow furrowed. “We’re not making any hard recommendations, yet.”

My entire body pinged with anxiety. “You’re making a soft recommendation my department be cut?” I raked my fingers through my hair as I stood. This is one of the few programs in the country where I can do the work I want to do, and I’m so close to tenure. The possibility of having to start over left my chest tight.

“You know the education departments have struggled,” Jake reasoned, his tone like the one you might adopt to calm a screaming child or an agitated dog. “From a financial standpoint, there are issues, and the institution is shifting focus to business, engineering, areas like those. Teacher education is outside that. That can’t be a surprise.”

Had I expected him to go to bat for me? Part of me had. In the back of my mind, I’d assumed he’d look out for me, even though I had been the one to specify that we should keep the office and the bedroom separate.

I stood, pacing. “We’re not cogs in a machine. It’s not all about revenue.”

Taking a deep breath, he responded in an even tone, blue eyes trained on me. “It’s not all about revenue . . . but it’s somewhat about revenue. You know that.”

I opened my mouth, fists balled at my sides. “Yes, but—” I expected him to interrupt—I was used to men interrupting—but he just watched me. “But you can’t reduce education to money. It’s so much more than that. It’s the creation of knowledge; it’s young minds finding purpose. We need teachers.”

“A university is still a business. It takes money to introduce those young minds to purpose, and the department is a drain on resources. It’s naive to think otherwise.”

Condescending. Now he sounds condescending.

“I’m not naive,” I spat back. “I know revenue is involved. I’m not stupid.”

“I never said you were stupid.” His voice remained even, resigned, almost pitying, and it sent a surge of fire through me. “Naya, you’re acting like I was the one who decided all this. And even if I was, it would still be the right decision. I’m sorry, but that’s just the reality.” He looked up at me from the couch, his expression plaintive. “I wanted you to have a heads-up, is all. We’ve looked at a ton of data, and your department is in trouble.”