“No.” Jonathan laughed awkwardly. “I’m sure Peter just forgot to tell me about it, whatever it is. He’s been working so hard on the house and his book. You know what that’s like, Derrick. He’s consumed— I mean, in a good way. A great way.”
“I thought Peter was a web designer,” I said. Before that I could have sworn I’d heard actor.
As far as I was concerned, they all had one translation: gold digger. Though I tried to keep that opinion to myself. Jonathan did seem genuinely happy, and Peter did seem genuinely devoted to him. There was a possibility I was being overprotective.
“Web designing was just a day job. Peter has always been a writer. And he is so talented,” Jonathan said, eyes still scrutinizing the wood. He turned to Derrick. “A big-name literary agent compared him to David Foster Wallace, and he’s not even finished with the first draft. Derrick, you have to read it— you’re going to love it.”
“Sounds interesting,” Derrick said tightly. Notably not saying he would read it.
Derrick would never actually say no, though. He’d admitted to me once that this was because both his parents had been alcoholics. His survival had always been predicated on accommodating people.
“Oh, good. I knew you’d be willing to help, Derrick. Maybe read it and pass it on to your agent?” Jonathan was as generous with his connections as he was with his money, even when those connections were us. “Peter was so nervous you’d say no. Anyway, thank you for helping him. You know how hard it is to break into the writing world.”
“Right, yeah. Definitely,” Derrick said with forced politeness. “I’d be happy to read it.”
“I’ll text Peter about those boards, too— I’m sure they’re nothing. He runs a very tight ship with the renovation.” Jonathan typed out a quick text, hit send, and tucked his phone back in his pocket. Then he leaned in close to whisper, “Now, come on. Help me get Keith stashed away upstairs so we can regroup. The clock is ticking.”
TWO WEEKS EARLIER
It’s strange being back on campus after all these years. It looks much smaller than I recall, which is the way of all things, I suppose— swelling to outsize importance in your memory. It’s more beautiful, too, the grounds so lush and leafy, the flower beds overflowing with red and pink blooms. That’s the thing about youth: beauty being so readily available, it’s easily overlooked.
I sit on a bench and watch the students walking this way and that, bright-eyed and fresh-faced. Hopeful. It’s only just after Labor Day, the start of a new semester. They are so naive and open still, rushing headlong with the reckless confidence of youth. They don’t know yet that danger will lie in the most ordinary places, tucked deep within the very best things. Like love and loyalty and friendship. Everyone thinks love will be the thing that saves them, and yet it leaves so much destruction in its wake.
But as much as I feel worried for all those young, eager, naive faces, I also feel sorry for myself. For what’s already been lost. What I could lose still. I didn’t ask for any of this, certainly not this sudden fork in the road. I know I can’t ignore it, but I’m also not quite sure what to do. And so I’m doing this: watching, hoping an answer will come.
After a while, I push myself up off the bench in the center of the quad. Following the sidewalk as it curves past the library and the chapel, I finally stop at another bench across from the English building, Sanders Classroom. I sit down again and watch the door. I’m earlier than I planned. Derrick’s class doesn’t even finish until 5:00 p.m., but he’ll be coming out right after that. He’s a punctual, responsible guy, always has been. He lives an hour’s train ride away these days, with his wife. Married young, which isn’t much of a surprise. Derrick was a grown-up early on. The fact that he is also now old enough to be a full-fledged Vassar professor himself is still hard to wrap my head around. All those years gone, and yet in so many ways time is frozen still.
Finally the door to the building opens and out the students pour, laughing, in twos and threes. Eventually there’s a pause in the stream, and a moment later there is Derrick, walking quickly, bag in hand. He looks good. Older, of course, but he’s no longer the nerdy, ghostly pale writer he once was— he is legitimately an almost-hot literature professor, fair skin tanned, stride much more assured. He even looks taller. I feel relieved seeing him. Derrick is a kind person, always has been— even if, in a way, you could say it was his terrible decision at the very end that was the actual key to everything. Literally and figuratively. Like handing a match to someone soaked in gasoline. Were it not for him being so generous with his car, everything could have been different. That’s what everyone thinks, even if they’d never say it to Derrick’s face. I’m the one person in the world who knows it isn’t true.