Chapter 53
Callum
The corridor was so silent I could hear my pulse beating in my ears.
The parquet floor, an artifact of midcentury public architecture, radiated a sterility that crept through the soles of my shoes and into my bones.
On the wall across from me, a framed photograph of this very building from a hundred years ago stared back.
No students wandered these halls in July, save for the odd lost soul searching for an open admin office to sign away their future debt. Even most of the faculty and staff had cleared out on the eve of a holiday weekend.
The conference room door creaked open, just enough for the recording secretary to peek through. “You can come back in now, Dr. Hawthorne.”
I stood, straightened my jacket, and made a show of buttoning the cuff that I had undone.
The space was mercilessly bright—fluorescents throwing no shadow, glass windows framing the car park’s shimmering asphalt.
The arrangement was deliberate, almost adversarial—a three-member panel on one side, the secretary at the end, her hands poised above the keyboard.
And on my side, a single chair—empty, waiting.
Dr. Monroe sat at the center. Her eyes, soft but unsparing, gave away nothing. The other two—Dr. Huber from the maths department and the new Vice President of Student Affairs, an import from Emory—presented a closed front, their arms folded, pens poised, lips pressed into flat, bureaucratic lines.
I took my seat, carefully smoothing my tie and keeping my hands visible on the table. With the faintest nod from the chair, the secretary began typing.
Dr. Monroe folded her glasses and set them on the table. She cleared her throat and tucked a lock of dark brown hair behind her ear. “We have completed our review and deliberations of your case, Dr. Hawthorne. Before we share our findings, you are invited to make a final statement for the record.”
A ceremonial pause. The secretary’s keystrokes stuttered.
I considered the script I’d rehearsed, then let it go to rot.
“I won’t waste your time with a point-by-point rebuttal.
Everything I could say in my defense is already in the record.
I would only…” The words caught, unexpectedly raw.
“I understand the nature of the rule I’ve broken—the only rule I’ve broken—and I won’t insult your intelligence by hiding behind technicalities.
Regarding my relationship with Miss Gabrielle Clark, which I freely admit to… ”
I took a sip of water. The plastic bottle crinkled in the silence.
“Yes, the relationship began while she was my student. And yes, I knew the policy—knew what I was risking. I’ve spent most of my life honoring rules and expectations.
Family legacy. Academic rigor. Institutional decorum.
I have bent myself into a thousand shapes to make others more comfortable.
But I will not apologize for falling in love.
Gabrielle Clark is brilliant. Fierce. Steady.
Utterly extraordinary. She is not a mistake.
And I refuse to let her be treated like one.
You may say I violated the letter of the law—and perhaps I did.
But I upheld its spirit. There was no coercion.
No exploitation. No imbalance beyond the kind that exists when one person looks across a room and knows—that is the only soul that could undo me.
I didn’t seduce a student. I fell in love with a woman.
And beyond any stretch of my understanding, she’s agreed to marry me.
If that costs me my place here, then so be it.
I’d make the same choice again. Every time. ”
The panel exchanged glances—a quick, silent relay of consensus.
Dr. Monroe pressed her lips into a thin line and adjusted the documents before her, squaring the corners until they aligned. Finally, she looked up at me.
“Thank you, Dr. Hawthorne. Your candor is noted and appreciated, as is the depth of feeling you’ve shown throughout these proceedings.
” Her voice emerged measured—the practiced tone of one who has delivered judgment many times before, and never lightly.
She folded her hands atop the stack of documents before her and drew a long breath.
“I’ll begin with the findings of the board regarding the various complaints submitted by students, both past and present. ”
She paused for a moment, letting the words coalesce.
“We have reviewed the allegations against you in detail. The majority of the complaints were found to be duplicative, contradictory, or lacking in substantive evidence. Several were demonstrably false, propagated by parties with clear bias. It is the board’s conclusion that these accusations, in the aggregate, constitute a coordinated attempt to damage your reputation rather than a credible representation of your conduct as a faculty member. ”
The secretary’s keyboard clicked as her fingers flew across it, struggling to keep up with Dr. Monroe.
“Accordingly, the board recommends a deeper investigation into the slanderous nature of the allegations and will refer this matter to Student Affairs.”
She tapped her nails on the glass-top table.
“Regarding your relationship with the now-former Page College student, Gabrielle Clark, while enrolled in your Physics 112 course last spring…” She shuffled her papers, then consulted the top sheet.
“Both you and Miss Clark have freely admitted that the relationship did, in fact, take place and is ongoing. It is the finding of this board that, regardless of intent, outcome, or personal conviction, the relationship constitutes a clear violation of our professional conduct policy.”
She paused to let the weight of the words settle, as if their significance weren’t already obvious to everyone in the room.
“Our guidelines exist to protect our students and preserve the integrity of the academic environment. While your long-standing contributions to the college are not in question, the nature and timing of this relationship—especially given the power imbalance and Miss Clark’s enrollment in your course—leave the board little room for discretion. ”
She slid her glasses back on, as though to formalize the findings.
“Therefore, it is the unanimous recommendation of this review board that your previously tendered resignation take immediate effect, rather than at the end of your contract term. We further recommend a one-year interval—a ‘cooling-off period,’ if you will—in which you refrain from any student-facing instructional or supervisory roles. This is not a lifetime disqualification, Dr. Hawthorne, nor is it meant to be punitive beyond the scope of the infraction. After one calendar year, you are welcome to reenter academia, should you choose.”
I nodded. The language was as bloodless as anticipated. But it still stung.
“We’re also recommending a mutual non-disparagement agreement to the provost,” she continued.
“If you’re willing to sign such an agreement and comply with the conditions of the one-year professional hiatus, it is our recommendation that all records of this review be kept strictly confidential.
The disciplinary file will be sealed and not disclosed to any future employer unless required by law.
” She let that hang. “Do you have any questions?”
The relief was so sharp it actually hurt—like a cramp at the base of my lungs. “No.”
She gathered her papers and tucked them into her folder. “In that case, Dr. Hawthorne, you are dismissed.”
The quiet was surgical. I left the room, walking past the secretary at her keyboard, her hands now slack above the home row, as she tracked my exit. The door clicked behind me—a sound that sliced more than closed.
I froze in the corridor. Heat pooled along my spine, my body finally registering the shock.
An image drifted up from memory. I was walking the line at Oxford on viva day—the oral defense of my dissertation.
The way the walls pulsed with the weight of history, the air thick with judgment.
My knees had nearly given out then too. But I’d kept walking. There was no other option.
I made it to the exit, to the baking pavement, before my hands began to shake. I stopped beneath the meager, stunted shade of a crepe myrtle—America’s answer to the English yew—and pulled my phone from my jacket. A message from Gabrielle waited, timestamped fifteen minutes ago.
I’m in the Honors Court
It wasn’t a far walk. I found her perched on the fountain’s edge, her fingers idly combing the water’s surface. In the brilliant light of high summer, she looked almost backlit—a projection from a better, less complicated future.
I didn’t speak. Just sat beside her—close but not touching—until she curled her hand over mine like we’d never been apart.
“I wasn’t sure you’d come find me,” she said softly.
“Where else would I go?”
She watched me, pupils pinpricks in the glare, irises flaring seafoam green. Her lavender sundress clung to her in ways I had no business noticing in that moment—yet I did. A faint sunburn bloomed across her exposed shoulders. “Well?”
My shoulders sagged. “It’s done.”
“And?”
“Gainfully unemployed. Effective immediately.” I tried for a smile. “But it’s not as bleak as it could have been. I’ll work again in my natural lifetime.”
She smiled, eyes glimmering with a pride that nearly undid me.
“And…” She hesitated, dropping her voice. “Sloane Cartwright’s digital crusade?”
“Thwarted.” I kissed her knuckles, one by one. She let me. “Thanks to you. The only crime I answered for was the one I actually committed.”
She curled against my side, head on my shoulder. I was baking from the inside out—why on earth had I insisted on wearing a full suit today?—but I didn’t care. I would have burned alive and never pulled back from her touch.
“I hope you’ll still have me,” I managed, though my voice came out more thread than steel. “How does it go—‘for better or worse’? I believe this qualifies as worse.” I meant it as a joke, but the words trembled in their casing.
She nudged me with her knee, all warmth, even in the brittle light. “Yeah, but you’re still rich, so it balances out.”
Her delivery was so dry I almost missed it. I snapped my head up—reflex, not reason.
She grinned, a bright, unrepentant flash. “Relax, Cal. Let me have my joke.” Then she softened, pressing the backs of my fingers to her cheek. “You know I’ve never cared about any of that.”
I exhaled, letting the tension drain from my jaw. The sun sliced like a knife, but the cool of her palm anchored me. “I know.”
She kissed me, right there in the open, careless of the optics. Her tongue tasted of mint and the last hint of morning coffee.
I threaded my fingers through her hair and kissed her back with everything I’d ever denied myself: heat, hunger, the absolute abdication of consequence. Sweat traced along my hairline. My heart was a brass band in my chest.
She drew back, breathless, laughing in a way that was all lungs and sunlight. “You’ve been holding out on me, Dr. Hawthorne.”
I nipped at her bottom lip. “What are they going to do? Fire me?”
She laughed again, then met my eyes. “Whatever happens, you’ve still got me.”
And that—God help me—was everything.