38. “Who’s Afraid of Little Old Me?” - Taylor Swift
“Who’s Afraid of Little Old Me?” - Taylor Swift
Walker
They say revenge is a dish best served cold. I prefer to strike while the iron is hot. If there’s one thing I’ve learned since being back in Wesbourne, it’s that cheaters need to learn their lesson. Otherwise, they’ll continue flaunting their betrayal like a badge.
I’m not under the impression that consequences ensure a person stops their bad behavior. But they certainly shouldn’t be rewarded for it. If God has chosen to use me as his instrument for doling out punishments, who am I to refuse?
My plan has several steps. The first, and arguably most crucial, is one final chai latte from Cafe de Olla. I have yet to find a cafe in Oxfordshire that makes them the same, and I intend to savor this cup like it’s my last day on earth.
Who knows, by the time everything’s done, it might be.
That familiar scent of freshly baked muffins and rich espresso tickles my nose before I even open the door. As I head to the line forming behind the till, my eyes skim past a familiar form.
My feet receive the message before the rest of my body, so I lurch forward when they stall. I catch myself on the rubbish bin next to me.
The man turns then, and it’s not Dr. Riordan after all. He has the same shaggy black hair, the same brown skin, and is around the same height. He’s even wearing a beige tweed jacket similar to one I’ve seen Riordan wear to class. But it’s not him.
I sag in relief against the bin. For a few suspended seconds, I was back in that room, and he was putting his hands on me and threatening my degree if I didn’t have sex with him.
What the fuck kind of world is this anyway, where university professors hit on students half their age, while their wives keep dinner hot for them at home?
The man turns with his steaming coffee for the sugar station next to me. He gives me a quizzical glance, and I realize I’m still leaning against the bin. Brushing a few pastry crumbs from my sleeve, I approach the counter.
I place my order, but my heart races around my chest like a dog chasing a rabbit. How am I going to handle walking the halls of St. Anne’s knowing that Riordan could be waiting for me around the next corner?
Since learning about Heath’s betrayal and the way my supposed friends were planning to screw me over, my brain has been circling the same subject, concocting the perfect plan to get back at all of them.
But in the bedlam, I’ve forgotten an important character, one who also deserves my attention.
The barista calls out my order, and I retrieve my latte. An empty sofa beckons from the back wall. I wasn’t planning to stay, but now that I need to add a few more steps to my plan, I want to get started.
Fortunately, I can do everything from my phone. The first order of business is simple: call St. Anne’s.
The receptionist redirects me to the dean of students. After I tell him I’d like to drop my two courses with Dr. Riordan, the line goes quiet.
“I’m sorry. Did you hear what I said?” Maybe the connection between the two countries is unstable.
“I did, Ms. Halifax.” He clears his throat and riffles some papers. “May I ask why you’d like to drop those particular courses?”
“I—” I stop and consider. “I am shifting direction.” I squeeze my eyes shut. I’m such a coward.
“I see.” He waits several beats. Is he reading over my file, searching for answers to the blanks I’m giving him? “So you no longer wish to study English literature?”
I bite my lip. This is not going the way I anticipated. “I do. It’s just—” Why can’t I tell him what Riordan did? Just blurt the words out and maybe stop him from doing it to another student?
“Ms. Halifax?”
“He approached me. Dr. Riordan.” I say it in a rush, the words hardly audible in my mad dash to get them out of my mouth. “He suggested that we go somewhere alone, and when I resisted, he assaulted me. Not sexually, but I think that was his intention if someone hadn’t come along.”
The silence on the other end of the line grows. This— this —is why I didn’t want to say anything.
“I’m terribly sorry that happened to you,” the dean finally says. “We take these kinds of accusations very seriously.”
“Good.” My heart rate slows to a normal speed. “Are you going to fire him? I don’t know what the protocol is in situations like these.”
“I’m afraid we can’t go around firing professors after one accusation.”
“But I told you what he did.” A young couple at the table next to me looks my way. I lower my voice. “I told you he assaulted me. Who knows how many others he’s done the same thing to.”
“And while we will certainly conduct an investigation, you must understand. Dr. Riordan is a tenured professor. Lots of students come to St. Anne’s specifically to study under him.”
I clench my jaw. I knew it would do no good to say anything. “In that case, may I please have Mrs. Riordan’s phone number?”
The man’s soft chuckle comes over the line. “I’m sorry, Ms. Halifax. I can’t give out phone numbers, even if I had access to them, which I do not.”
“I appreciate your attempt at helping . Feel free to move me to whichever course would be a good substitute for Riordan’s. I won’t be returning to his classroom.”
“If there’s anything else I can—”
I hang up before he can finish his inane sentence. If St. Anne’s has no intention of punishing Riordan, I’ll have to do it myself.
I picture his office from the handful of times I’ve met with him there.
I shudder to think of how closely I brushed against danger.
The room is disheveled, decorated in the way favored by men who would rather read a book than clean.
There are photos on the wall behind his desk, and one in particular stands out in my memory.
In it, Riordan’s wife is wearing a nurse’s uniform. She’s average-looking, with nutmeg-colored hair and a slightly lopsided smile. Their two small boys are standing in front of her. The picture is older, so the boys are likely in secondary school by now.
What kind of sick monster hits on students only a few years older than his own children?
I try to remember the name of the hospital Mrs. Riordan works at, but I’m not sure the professor ever mentioned it. He probably pats himself on the back for separating work and home like that.
It doesn’t matter. I’ll start with the four main ones in Oxfordshire and work until I find her.
* * *
My latte has grown cold by the time someone gives me a glimmer of hope.
“Riordan? Yes, I believe we have a nurse here by that name,” the receptionist at John Radcliffe says.
“Great. Can you connect me to her?”
“Sure, love. Who should I say is calling?”
I scramble for an appropriate answer. “Her sister-in-law.” I do remember that Dr. Riordan has a sister who lives in London.
Soft music floats through the phone. I walk to the counter to order another drink. As I’m returning to my seat, fresh latte in hand, a click sounds on the other end of the line.
“Hello?” The voice is soft, like a bird alighting on a branch. “Renita?”
I want to scratch Riordan’s eyes out for hurting this poor woman, who probably never suspected her husband could ever do something as banal as cheat on her. “It’s not Renita,” I say. “You don’t know me, but I’m one of your husband’s students.”
“Oh.” Mrs. Riordan’s confusion is evident. “Is everything okay with Sunil?”
His name is Sunil. For some reason, this angers me. I don’t want him to have a first name, to be a person. I want him to burn in hell for what he tried to do. “He’s fine. That is, I’m calling to warn you that you may want to get tested for HIV.”
She lets out an audible gasp. I picture her clutching her throat in her scrubs, as if it will stop the words from moving past her ears and into her soul. “Why—why would you suggest that?”
She knows what I’m telling her, and we both know that she knows. But I understand her hesitation to accept the truth. Although I saw it with my own eyes, I still wrestled the entire way home with whether it had actually been my boyfriend in that bed.
I imagine what will happen next. Will she rage at him? Throw an iron at his head? Toss his clothes into the front yard? Pick up the boys from school and leave without telling him? The options are endless, none of them boding well for Sunil .
I only wish I could be there to witness the whole thing myself.
“I’m sorry to be the one to tell you, Mrs. Riordan,” I say, “but I have it on good authority that your husband has been sleeping with his students.”