You Between the Lines

Chapter Three

T HERE’S A KNIFE IN MY head, surely. I wake up on Saturday hungover, lying in the same twin bed I had in high school that my dad drove from Ohio to North Carolina. Something about that feels poetic—how I’m clearly no smarter than I was at seventeen.

The harsh morning sun peeks through the blinds of my rented apartment, a 610-square-foot one-bedroom in Perrin, a seven-minute walk from campus. Because I’m still in the throes of unpacking, the place is messy, cardboard boxes scattered along the perimeter, my closet bursting with unorganized color. The hangover lets me ignore the mess. My throat is dry and my head is spinning, so I chug the bottle of water I had the foresight to put next to my bed.

“Fuck,” I say aloud, to myself, to this room.

Small pulses of last night come back to me. The most harrowing image is Will’s chest, broad and firm, and I close my eyes and try to re-imagine that moment. The jolt of force where we collided and I soaked his shirt. The low gravel of his voice spiraling into the dip of my spine.

This brings up another image of Will’s chest pressing me firmly into his apartment wall, the afternoon six years ago at Middlebury, one hand snaked around my waist, the other twirled in my hair.

But I push that image down, down, down.

My phone buzzes with a notification from Instagram. Kacey and Hazel have requested to follow me. I accept and follow them back. I scroll through photos of Hazel—her backpacking in Turkey, her fishing on a lake in Oregon, her posing with lit journals with captions like My poem has found a home! , as if her poem is a sentient being with housing needs. Her bio reads MFA candidate @PerrinUniversity . Closer to my own aesthetic, Kacey’s grid is filled with pictures of her rescue dog Bruno and well-lit selfies with friends.

While I’m on Instagram, I go to Will’s account. It’s public, but I never followed him. Instagram didn’t get big until after he and I last saw each other, and it always felt like out of sight, out of mind was the safer route when it came to us. But now that he’ll be in sight for the next two years, I can’t help but take a look.

There’s not a single photo of him. His feed is all landscapes, still lifes, billboards, nature. Some in black-and-white, some in low-saturation color. There’s a photo of a stack of books, a giant Maine coon cat, a lone evergreen tree at what he’s tagged as the Cuyahoga Valley National Park, a field trip staple of my own childhood.

It’s all completely insufferable, like he always has been. I toss my phone across my bed.

What I need to do with my only weekend before school officially begins again is grocery shop, unpack, and decide on a first-day-of-school outfit. I’ve already taken my schedule and added it to my Google Calendar, and the color-coded classes feel deliciously structured after working full-time. On Monday, I’m in a nonfiction seminar in the morning, then poetry workshop in the afternoon. In between is my first shift at the University Writing Center, where I’ll be helping undergrads tweak essays for abysmal pay.

I gulp down the rest of my water bottle and finally manage the strength to go into the bathroom cupboard and pop two ibuprofen. Then I go through my closet to plan my first workshop outfit, mixing and matching skirts and tops until I find something that feels put together. I decide on a pink slip skirt and a ruffled blouse, which I quickly swap for a white tank top. Less girly, more serious.

I pull up Will’s Instagram again. Its somber aesthetic is coated in a thick layer of ennui and Cleveland kid angst. He would hate my pink skirt.

Tapping on the photo of the stack of books, I pinch my fingers to zoom in—a tattered copy of the Goldfinch Review , a W. H. Auden collection, a Poetry magazine.

Pretentious, pretentious, pretentious.

I set a goal for myself for the next semester: Do not engage. Be civil. Create the kind of art I want to create, and not what people like Will or Hazel probably think is cool.

And absolutely do not bring up Middlebury.

The first thing I learn in grad school has nothing to do with writing at all.

It’s Monday morning, Gilman Hall, Creative Nonfiction, first class ever, and Kacey takes the seat next to me. All ten of us first-years are piled around a large oak table. Kacey’s to my right; quiet poet Jerry is to my left. Will is several seats away, making it hard for me to accidentally make eye contact with him, which is a plus.

“So,” Kacey begins in a whisper, setting her New Yorker tote bag next to her seat because even she, apparently, can’t help it. “Friday night. August. Things happened.” She can barely hide her grin.

“Oh? Things we are happy about?”

She smirks. “You could say that, yes.”

“So did I miss everything after I left?”

“Hardly. Once you left, William left, and the rest of the first-year poets went to karaoke.” She pauses, scanning the room as if August could possibly walk into a first-year class. “But I went back to August’s place.”

Once you left, William left , is the only part of her story that sticks with me, the five words repeating in my brain like an incantation until the sudden quiet of the class brings me back. Professor Jen Stewart-Weiss, acclaimed journalist and essayist, has entered the classroom.

She’s a petite woman with frizzy blond hair, red lipstick, and truly excellent fashion sense. Her chunky black-heeled booties click-clack across the floor as she settles in her seat and looks at us, arms folded and ready to go, like we’re already off schedule even though class doesn’t start for another minute.

“In your other classes, you can feel free to hide behind whatever personas you create for yourself. In this class, it’s just you. Or whatever you decide to be when you write.” She makes direct eye contact with every person in the room. It feels too intimate, like you should look away but can’t.

“Over this semester, you’re going to write two works of creative nonfiction and spend the time in between workshopping one another’s work and reading and discussing excellent examples of essay, memoir, literary journalism, et cetera. But it’s not about what you write or who you are—it’s purely about the craft. How you hook us, how you keep us, how you release us back into the world after your piece.”

Her evergreen eyes pierce into me with such closeness, and I feel like I would tell her every secret I have, if only she would ask. She writes the first assignment across the whiteboard in sloppy, all-caps handwriting that feels like a scream.

BIRTH STORY. 10 PAGES.

“The first assignment,” she says, “is to explain your birth. The circumstances around it. The actual birth. The immediate aftermath. Whatever you want and feel is necessary.”

“Our conception, too?” asks Houston, the handsome fiction guy, smirking in his Chicago Bulls sweatshirt. A few of the other first-years groan and laugh in disgust.

“Could be, if you deem it important to the story.” Jen’s eyes glitter. “I’m interested in the factors that created you and what shaped that actual first moment before you were taught the tricks to disguise and change yourself. As we all learn to do.”

The factors that created you. I think of my parents and my stomach dips low.

Will— William , I suppose—writes down the details of the reading assignment Jen wrote on the whiteboard, even though she promised to email us with the details. Out of the corner of my eye, I study him. Strong nose, thick eyebrows. The lightest dust of stubble coating his jaw.

“Your birth story is due in two weeks to my email in a Word doc. One of our English department assistants will consolidate the work and put the printouts in your mailboxes in the department office. We’ll spend the first month reading and dissecting these alongside our regular reading material, looking at two or three pieces per week. I’ll send out whose work will be read which week in an email after class.”

One hour into grad school, and I’m already intimidated. Lovely.

After class, Kacey walks with me to the café in the building’s atrium, filled with silver laptops and students. The combination of high ceilings and a checkered-black-and-white marble floor create an echo effect when we walk in.

“Okay, tell me more about August.” I nudge Kacey as she receives her flat white.

Kacey scans the atrium quickly. “So everyone else was going to karaoke, and he asked if I wanted to come over. I don’t know, like I know hooking up with someone in the program is intellectually a bad idea, especially in the same genre. But he’s a second-year and we’ll only have that one workshop together…” Her voice dips low, and she looks me dead in the eyes with a grin. “It was good, let me tell you.”

I barely know Kacey, but I love this intimacy, how she talks to me as if we’ve been high-school-friends-forever, as if I drew a big heart in her yearbook. We sit down at one of the marble tables dotting the atrium floor, and I feel like I want to confide in her, too.

“So Will left after I left on Friday?”

Kacey narrows her eyes. “Yeah. You left around eleven, right? I think he went home pretty soon after that, and then it was just me, Hazel”—she closes her eyes, counting on her fingers—“Houston, Athena, and Christine with some second-years.”

“I know Will from high school, actually.” I sip on my latte, the picture of casual.

“Oh, right, classmate?”

“He was the grade above. I saw him once after high school, but not after that.”

“So, not close?”

“What?”

“Well, you didn’t know he was coming to Perrin. So I assume y’all haven’t stayed in touch.”

“Oh, yeah.” I’m not sure how to describe this thing I can hardly describe myself. “I wasn’t his biggest fan in high school. He said my writing was surface-level at best in a workshop once.” My stomach sours at the thought of that exchange, ten years ago.

Kacey’s whole face scrunches up. “Excuse me? What the actual fuck.”

“I guess it was the beginning of this holier-than-thou pretension he’s got going on now. He wasn’t always like that. But he seems to be really leaning into this Poet thing.” Poet comes out in a British accent for some reason.

“You got into the same program, so clearly you’re just as good.” Kacey shakes her head. “William can get out of here. There is nothing worse than a straight white male poet.”

I’m glad that so many others agree with my philosophy. But also:

I snort. “You hooked up with one three nights ago.”

Kacey nods in acceptance. “Isn’t that terrible? I hate them, and yet here I am.”

Both of our phones vibrate at the same time—it’s an email from Jen with the schedule. My nonfiction essay is being workshopped in the first batch of writers— Leigh Simon, Wiebke Fischer, William Langford .

Kacey scans the email. “Oh, fuck me, my story is being workshopped with two fiction writers. I’m sure mine will be the worst in the bunch.”

“You never know. I feel like poets are better with vulnerability than fiction writers. Yours could be the best.”

Kacey grimaces, and the focus of her eyes shifts to something behind me. “Oh hey, your workshop partner is here,” she whispers, and somehow I know it’s not Wiebke. My body stiffens and I pretend to put my phone away in my tote as an excuse to turn to look.

Will’s in line for the café, wearing navy chinos that he’s cuffed with loafers and no socks, a striped, blue linen button-down, a Cleveland Museum of Art tote bag. He looks like he’s about to go teach a history class and get hit on by freshmen.

“He’s coming over,” Kacey mumbles. I take a deep breath.

He stops in front of our table. “Hey.”

“Hey!” Kacey says. “We were just talking about Jen’s class. What did you think?”

Will puts a hand in the pocket of his chinos. “Think it’ll be good. She sounds like she’ll be a good workshop leader.”

I nod silently as he and Kacey volley small talk back and forth, but I can’t look him in the eyes. Instead, I stare at his chest, thinking about his smell, both familiar and somehow foreign; the corded veins of his wrist; the small hairs that lace his forearms.

“Well, I have to be off to my assistantship.” Kacey swipes through her phone, looking at her schedule. “I’m in the Digital Media Center in Murray Hall. Do you guys work today, too?”

“Yeah, I need to be in the Writing Center in ten minutes,” I say, careful to keep several feet away from Will as I stand up and grab my bag.

Will sounds like he’s choking on his cappuccino. “I’m also working in the Writing Center this year.” It comes out almost like an apology.

I wish it were an apology. A preemptive one—to all the undergrads he’s about to make cry with his snide comments.

If Will is uncomfortable that we’ve inconveniently been placed together for our assistantships, he doesn’t show it. He’s sitting across from me at a long rectangular table in the middle of the University Writing Center, the place where we’ll now spend twelve hours together a week. The room is stately and cold, with marble floors and stained-glass windows like a church.

We’re here with several other cohort members, as well as graduate students from other parts of the English department, including some linguistics master’s students and a few English PhDs. Thalia Loren is at the head of the table. The longtime director of the UWC, she’s taking us through a week of orientation before the center officially opens next week.

“You’re going to get a variety of students coming to you.” She tucks her gray hair behind her ears, scanning us carefully. “From freshmen who need help full-on revising their history essays to master’s students with English as a second language who just need a copy edit. And you need to be ready to provide all of them with empathetic listening and gentle guidance.”

I flash Will a dark look, but it’s wasted. He’s taking notes in his Moleskine.

Thalia explains what the next week will include—a crash course in Writing Center theory, aimed at helping us understand our own biases, being mindful of different learning styles and abilities, and the most common scenarios we’ll encounter from the student body. We’ll then be assigned twelve hours of work, spread across shifts during the week and weekend.

“So not what I signed up for,” Houston huffs beside me under his breath, and I do feel his pain. But it’s a necessary evil to get full funding and not have to pay out-of-pocket for a program that the internet warns will do almost nothing for our résumés.

Thalia passes out a five-page essay titled “Class Consciousness in Rap Music of the 2010s,” and we’re given five minutes to skim it and, as a group, come up with three concrete ways to improve the piece.

Fiction writer Christine from Chapel Hill, in a hand-knit tank top from what she called “the best Goodwill in the state,” starts us off. “I think structure is the main issue here. The writer’s body paragraphs don’t logically flow from the thesis statement. I think we could help the writer take the thesis and then break it up into manageable sections.”

“That’s great, Christine,” Thalia says. “Anyone else?”

Will drags his pen down the edge of the page while he reads paragraph-to-paragraph. My shoulders tense as he looks up and makes eye contact with me, raising his hand.

“Yes, William.”

“The main issue for me is coherence.” He runs his long fingers over the text. “The introductory paragraph touches upon maybe eight different ideas, only some of which are tackled in the paper. There’s no throughline—it’s almost like the writer has no idea where she wants to go with the paper, and by the time she decides, the paper is over and no real conclusion has been offered.”

I let out a small scoff. “Why are you assuming they’re a she?”

“The top of the paper says By Maria Thompson .” The corners of his mouth turn up like he’s suppressing a smile.

I frown. “Okay, yeah, but maybe the writer is nonbinary. That’s quite the assumption you’re making.” I’m emboldened by Christine next to me, nodding with her eyebrows raised.

“Of course, fair enough, but I think the main focus of this conversation is the paper’s contents, not the gender of the writer. Or?” He places his hands flat on the table and looks to Thalia for validation.

Thalia closes her eyes in a slow blink. “Let’s focus on the topic at hand. But don’t worry, Leigh. We aim to make the UWC an inclusive place for all students, and we encourage everyone to wear name tags with their pronouns if they’re comfortable with that. Carry on, William.”

I’m not sure who won this particular argument, but it hardly feels like me.

Finally, Thalia releases us, and we bust out of Gilman Hall. We have to return for workshop in a few hours, so I take the opportunity to explore the campus—its red-brick buildings and archways, paved sidewalks lined with oak trees, the scurry of freshmen wearing lanyards. It feels nice to be back at school again, far away from sales directors and marketing managers and berating clients.

I pull out my phone and see two texts from my parents. My dad’s is first:

Hope first day is fun honey. FaceTime today? Can do tomorrow too, but would love to hear how it’s going ASAP! Let me know

Then I read my mom’s:

Are you free now? Have time to chat between patients—otherwise can’t until Sunday

Before the separation, I’d video-chat with my parents every week to give updates on my work and life in Boston. My mom would tell me horror stories about patients and my dad would complain about clients at the marketing agency where he worked in sales, both sitting shoulder-to-shoulder on the living room couch, holding the phone too close to their faces.

Once they separated and my mom moved out of my childhood home, those calls stopped. I’ve only texted or called them separately. And now I realize that if their separation becomes permanent, for every major life moment I have—moving to a new city, starting school, getting married, new jobs—I’ll be telling them separately. There will no longer be an us .

I’m about to call my mom when I get another text from my dad: What about FaceTime in an hour actually? Or 6pm? You tell me what’s convenient.

I sigh and make the call to Mom, who picks up on the last ring.

“Dr. Anna Simon,” she answers, an authoritative edge to her voice.

There’s a shot of serotonin from how she says our last name. I like knowing there’s something connecting me, her, my dad. Even if they’re fighting. Even if they’re talking about divorce.

“Mom, it’s me.”

“Oh, sorry, baby. I’m so distracted I didn’t even see the caller ID. How’s school? Dad help you settle in?”

“Yeah, it’s good.” I almost stumble into some poor girl on the sidewalk. “Very different from Boston. Humidity is awful.”

“Did he bring you the box with the vases? I bubble-wrapped them and brought them to the house, but I’m skeptical he remembered.”

Oh. He clearly didn’t remember, because I don’t have them. “Hmm, yes, right. I haven’t unpacked everything yet, but I think I know which box you’re talking about. It was heavy.”

“I knew you’d want them to make your apartment look pretty, but your father seemed to think there wasn’t much room in the SUV. He wanted to mail them, but I don’t trust USPS. They’re fragile.”

“Yeah, don’t worry, Mom, he brought them to me.” I stare into the pale sun until my eyes tighten.

“Wow, I must say I’m surprised. But good. How’s everything else? Nice classmates?”

“Yeah, everyone seems nice. How’s everything there?”

“Well, today was supposed to be the day I started at Mayo.”

My tongue presses firmly to the roof of my mouth. “Oh. Right.”

Last year, my mom got a call from the Mayo Clinic, offering her the directorship of their Surgical Innovation Center. I was ecstatic for her—and relieved for myself, knowing I likely would have shouldered the burden of comforting her if she hadn’t gotten it. It was the end of a long road; at last, she’d achieved the kind of leadership position she’d dreamed of since she was a med student.

Instead, it was the beginning of what might be the end of her marriage.

My mom said yes to the position, of course, and gave notice at work. The goodbye party was planned. Desperate to make her happy, Dad crafted a facade of excitement, of pride—until the boxes for the move were delivered and he revealed that he’d never given notice, never planned his goodbye party. Caught between wanting to please my mother and preserving his own life and comfort, he stood still and made no decision at all.

I just… can’t leave , he’d said, dejected, in a video call to me in Boston.

Another person might have said, To hell with it. I’m going to Minnesota, you stay. But Mom comes from a place of duty; she thought it made more sense to stay with her husband. So she bottled up her disappointment, swallowed her pride, and brushed off the intrusive questions at work when she asked for her job back. For a few months, it was okay—a barbed remark here, a jab there. Then Mom’s disappointment came to a boiling point. Six months later, she moved out of the house, renting a condo in what she and Dad call a temporary solution.

“I hope your father’s happy staying put in Ohio. Why uproot your life for an amazing opportunity when you could waste away in Cleveland doing the same thing you’ve done for twenty years?”

“Mom, I mean, there’s such a thing as compromise.”

She snorts, loud and inelegant in my ear. “You sound exactly like your father.”

My body stiffens, bringing me to a halt in the middle of the sidewalk. “Sorry, no. I mean Dad also should compromise.”

And he never did. Not really. Before Mom even considered applying to positions in other states, she sought out leadership roles in Cleveland—to no avail. But even without the prestigious title I know she craves, no one could say she wasn’t thriving as an attending surgeon at the Cleveland Clinic. My dad, in contrast, flitted between sales jobs, dealing silently with bad bosses and measly base salaries. Until his most recent company. He finally had a good thing going. He deserved it. And Mom was asking him to pack up and leave? Head to a new state where he wouldn’t have any network of friends or family?

I wonder what would have happened if he’d had these discussions with my mom at the beginning instead of letting his need to people-please cloud his judgment. Maybe this would be a three-person call, instead of just two.

“Yes, he should compromise,” she sighs. “But he didn’t.”

She goes on, asking about my classes. Then her voice dips.

“You sure you’re liking it, sweetie? I mean, I love that you’re pursuing something fun and creative, but as someone with years of experience, I’m telling you, money does matter. Titles matter, too. Your father’s prioritized comfort over those things, and…” She trails off, then says, “Do you think you can get your job in Boston back when you graduate? If you want it, I mean. I’m just worried—”

“Mom, I’m heading into my first workshop soon, I have to go.”

“Yes, yes, of course, baby. I’m getting pulled into a consult anyway, but keep me updated, okay?”

I nod into the phone before realizing she can’t hear my body language. “Mhmm. Bye, Mom.”

When I hang up, I see three more texts from my dad. Now he’s worried about me and is proposing yet more inconvenient times for our video chat.

Writing this birth story is going to be a nightmare.