Chapter 33
THIRTY-THREE
The building is quiet as I move through the hallway towards my office, and I’m relieved when I see Annika’s door shut with the lights off.
I unlock my own door and step inside, mentally running through the list of things I have to do today, since I haven’t been in all week.
Monday ended up dissolving into nothing but Alder and me fucking each other, and Tuesday I buried myself in research at home.
I should have at least shown my face here after bailing on office hours, but I have more scheduled on Friday, and the less time I spend here, the better.
Dropping into my chair, I start psyching myself up to finish writing this fucking exam and finally send it to the printer. But just as I open my laptop, there’s a knock at my open door.
I glance up, and the small amount of motivation I had managed to summon drains from my body.
Omar steps into my office with a solemn expression on his face. “Cade,” he says in greeting.
I nod in return, leaning back in my chair. “Omar.”
He lowers himself into the seat opposite my desk, giving me a look that says I’m not going to like what he has to say.
“You missed office hours on Monday,” he says.
I nod slowly. “Yeah. I was under the weather,” I lie, surprised at how easily it comes out.
Omar just observes me for a moment, like he’s trying to peel back the layers to reach the truth. “You had students here waiting for you.”
Fuck.
“I forgot to send an email cancelling,” I say.
But he clearly doesn’t buy it.
“One of your students, Damian MacLeod, was particularly upset,” Omar continues.
Fuck.
Damian is barely passing, and I warned him he needed to make use of tutors, review sessions, and office hours.
Even though I fucking hate office hours with every fibre of my being, and it takes everything in me to stay sober through them each week as I sit here while they ask the same question five different ways, hoping I’ll magically say something different than I did in lecture.
But I was hoping Damian would show. Because I know with a bit more help, he can do the work and get it right.
“This is the last week of the semester before exams, and you have one lecture left tomorrow,” Omar says firmly. “You’re scheduled for office hours Friday, and again next week before finals begin. I fully expect you to show up for all of them.”
My jaw tightens as I stare at him, heat rising within me. But he doesn’t give me time to respond.
“And you haven’t submitted your exam for printing yet.”
My eyes narrow. “You’re checking up on me?”
He huffs with a shake of his head. “Well, Cade… it would appear I have to.”
“Why, Omar?” I ask. “Because I’m human and missed a day of office hours?”
His glare cuts right through the tension between us.
“You and I both know it’s much more than that,” he says, his tone stripped of all patience now.
“I’ve tried to be kind and understanding, to meet you where you are, and offer help.
And you’ve done nothing but shut me, and everyone else, down.
And now, it’s impacting your students. I’m not going to walk on eggshells while they fall through the cracks.
This is where I stop tiptoeing and demand answers and action. ”
Pressure builds in my chest as I glare across the desk at him, and I grind my teeth to keep from saying something I shouldn’t. “And what answers are those?”
“Do you want to be a professor here, Cade?”
My heart thumps as I stare back at him. I have a tenure-track contract. He can’t just walk in here and fire me…
But Omar holds my gaze, waiting for my answer.
“Yes,” I say, even though I’m not sure how true that really is.
I do want to be a professor here. I want to stay buried in my research, to follow the threads no one else notices, and chase answers so narrow they lose everyone else.
I want to keep tracing the movement of particles that only exist when observed, flipping open the rules of quantum mechanics like pages in a book no one else gets to read.
I want to stand on the side of science where mystery still lives. Where nothing is ever fully known and every breakthrough leads to another impossible question.
That still stirs something inside me. That still feels like mine.
And… I used to like teaching.
I used to enjoy standing in front of a full lecture hall, watching students latch onto something I’d thrown to them. And I used to enjoy meeting with honours students and supervising grad research, and I used to feel the spark of possibility in their questions.
But over the past year or so… their faces just started to blur together. Eager questions piss me off, and the repetition of it all as I hold students’ hands through the same thing year after year builds until all I want is silence, and to drink until I can’t hear another voice.
And I’m not even sure why.
Omar nods slowly. “Then I need to see it.”
Easier said than done.
He sighs, and for a brief moment, his hard exterior cracks, and some of his care seeps through as he studies me. But then he slides the mask back in place, like he’s rehearsed this moment and knows what he’s supposed to do.
“We’re going to meet again at the end of this semester, after exams. If you haven’t met all your responsibilities for the remainder of this term…
” he pushes to his feet, looking down at me, “I’ll have no choice but to recommend a formal review of your position, including probation and a committee evaluation. ”
What the fuck…
He doesn’t give me a chance to respond as he gives me a curt nod and gestures towards my computer. “I’ll let you get back to it. Send your exam to the printer today.”
Then he’s gone.
And I’m left staring at the empty doorway.
I don’t know how long I sit here as the conversation replays in my head.
And I’m not sure how to feel.
I dig deep to try to find some resemblance of panic, and to feel something close to urgency. I try to find the will to care about what he’s saying, and that the years I put into this, and my identity I built around it, are slipping through my fingers.
But I don’t even try to hang on to it.
Because the only thing that rises inside me… is anger.
Anger that he thinks he understands what he’s seeing, but doesn’t.
Anger that he cares, and that he doesn’t.
Anger that he tried to help, and that I pushed him away.
Anger that he didn’t try harder… and anger that I didn’t let him.
That I know something is locked away deep inside me, buried so deep I can’t reach it… and no one seems to be able to find the key.
Anger that I finally feel like myself again… and no one seems to like that version of me.
The version that’s reckless, and chases everything that makes me feel good, bad, and everything in between.
Because I feel.
And anger that it has to come at this cost.
My phone vibrates on the desk in front of me, and I look down to see the screen light up with a text.
Mom
Hi honey. Just wanted to say I’m looking forward to seeing you this weekend xo
And just like that, the anger collapses, giving way to guilt. It rips through everything as I stare at her words, until the screen fades to black.
I’ve been letting people down for as long as I can remember. And the ones who have been through it all continue to show up, even when I treat them like shit.
I close my eyes as an intense, familiar need settles deep in the pit of my stomach. That craving that lives just above everything else and always promises relief. Just enough to quiet the roar and soften the edges, and bring warmth where everything feels raw, open, and exposed.
I try to fight it, to tell myself I don’t need it.
Don’t reach for the drawer, and don’t pull out the rum. Don’t do it… I don’t need it…
But I do.
I move on autopilot as I reach down and open the drawer, my movements hurried and driven by desperation—until I find the bottle nearly empty.
Fuck.
I pull it out anyway and slowly turn it in my hand.
The liquid inside is barely more than a mouthful.
I slowly tilt the bottle back and forth, watching the rum slide against the glass and catch in the light, glinting like it holds fractured pieces of crystal that flicker and disappear before I can catch them.
Then I unscrew the cap and drink it all.
It’s not enough to do what I need it to do… but the taste of it on my tongue, and the warm burn spreading through my chest, brings a familiar sort of comfort.
I just wish there were more.
I keep the bottle in my hands as I slowly swivel in my chair to face the window, letting the sun cast its rays over my face.
But as I look out the window, it’s not the sun that sparks something in my chest.
My gaze locks on the trees as their fresh leaves twist and dance in the breeze. They look alive, and like they’re exactly where they’re meant to be, doing exactly what they’re meant to do.
Because they don’t lie…
Just a few weeks ago, those same trees were bare, and nothing but simple lines against a grey sky.
They were stripped, exposed, and forgotten through months of cold.
They stood unsheltered through storms, were coated in ice and snow, and offered nothing to anyone or anything as they withdrew to just survive.
And now… the conditions have shifted.
The sun came out, the soil thawed, and they were given the chance to breathe. Now they’re green, bright, open, and moving like they appreciate just being here, and being alive. Like they know they’ve survived, and this moment is theirs.
My eyes stay fixed on the movement of the leaves as they spin and twirl, and I inhale with them. I pull the breath deep into my lungs and hold it there, hoping it can reach the place inside me that feels dark, empty, and frozen.
And for a moment… I think it does.