Chapter 14 #PhD
FOURTEEN
#PhD
On the first day of the spring semester, after being questioned like a murder suspect and made to feel like I know the least about the history of art of anyone in the world, my name changes.
Dr. Archer Michael Brennan.
Archer M. Brennan, Ph.D.
You can call me either one. But no more Mister Brennan.
I’m in my office when I get the news in a one line email with congratulations and an exclamation point. No fireworks, no clap on the back, no round, yellow smiling face emoji, but I’ll take it.
I print the short message out and tack it to my wall with my other diplomas.
As relief begins to dilute the stress I’ve had coursing through me for months, something else takes its place—excitement.
Needing something that at least resembles a congratulatory handshake, I reach for my phone to share my big news.
I know who I’m supposed to call. Jayne. Helen.
And I’m sure they’re both waiting to hear from me.
But the truth is, and I hate to admit it, there’s only one person I want to tell—and I haven’t heard from him in over three years.
In my head, like I do more often than I’d like to admit, I imagine the conversation would be loud, excited, and physical.
I’d get to see that smile that feels like a fucking rainbow after a storm and those shining eyes that are prettier than rain.
It’s the opposite of the conversation I’ll have with Jayne where she’ll give me an ingratiating kiss on the cheek and start hinting about a future I’ve never given her any reason to hope for.
I send Helen and Jayne a group text before opening my computer to pull up the ultimate meaningless contact list. Instagram.
I update my story and bio.
#PhD
West Miles walks through the sliding doors of the Art building as I hurry down the main stairwell for my first class of the semester.
Seeing him breaks my stride. It’s so completely out of context.
The last time I saw him we were separated by a pane of glass, and I was asking myself if it was possible to get gonorrhea on my face from the nasty phone I had to use to speak to him.
“What the fuck are you doing here?” I ask, sounding as utterly shocked as I feel.
He looks cautious when he asks, “How'd it go? Have you done it yet?”
I hold up my hand as he gets closer. “Wait. When did you get back?”
“I got home last night. Sorry, brother. I was beat, or I would have called. Man, it’s good to see you!” Close enough now to invade my personal space, he overwhelms me with a big bear hug. I accept it without flinching. I’m bulletproof today.
“Welcome home,” I say as I pull away, studying him close-up.
Orange was not his color, and today in his thick brown flannel shirt, he looks like himself.
And that smile—it’s ear to ear—glistening and bright, crinkling his eyes and so much more like the guy I used to laugh with no matter how shitty the rest of my life was. It’s so fucking good to see him.
“Well?” he asks, an expectant look on his face.
“Well, what?”
“The doctoral committee? How’d it go? Have you heard anything?”
“How’d you know that was today?”
“My mom told me when I woke up. So?”
The broad smile that breaks on my face is enough to answer the question.
“You smart fucker. Congratulations.” He hugs me again, making a huge production, rubbing my head and calling me doctor. He reminisces about the good old days at Cardigan Mountain School where he supposedly encouraged me to “aim high” and “follow my dreams”.
It’s mostly performative bullshit, but I humor him, appreciating his enthusiasm, beyond relieved to see him looking this good.
It’s said that prison changes a man, but I haven’t seen West like this since high school.
So, whatever changed, it had to have been good.
Or maybe he just understands better now all the things he has to lose.
I swipe at his hand, cringing away when he goes for my hair a second time. “Enough, all right? I need to set up for my lecture.”
“Can I come with you?”
“Sure. I’ve got ten minutes.”
“Perfect timing,” he notes optimistically as he follows me up an old spiral staircase to the projection room behind the auditorium-style classroom. “What’s next, brother? You gonna write a book?”
“I’m a little burned out on writing. I think I’ll stick with teaching for now. Work on some new curriculums… Oh shit.”
“What?”
“This computer’s different than the one they showed us.”
“Don’t look at me. All I’ve been doing the last three years is working out.”
“Yeah. I noticed.” Prison made the already big guy massive. His hug downstairs was bone crushing.
I scowl at the sleek laptop on the projection stand. It’s a Windows computer. Windows and I do not get along.
Last semester we were still using an old fashioned slide reel, which I loved. Now everything is on computer and therefore incredibly confusing to me, PhD or not, and like I said, this laptop is totally different than the big desktops they did the inservice with.
While I sit down and try to find the icon to pull up my slideshow, West stands at the viewing window, watching the students come in for my class from our elevated vantage point.
He gives me a running commentary on how he thinks fashion has changed since he’s been locked up.
It’s been three years and half years, so I don’t think it’s changed all that much, and I don’t pay much attention anyway. I wear the same things I always have.
“The girl in those tight white pants looks like that girl from school. The salutatorian? What was her name?”
“Meredith,” I mumble, clicking on the ART0301 icon.
“Doesn't she look like her?”
“Meredith Wares is our age now,” I say without glancing up.
“Just look, brother.”
I clench my jaw and rise slightly from where I sit, following his gaze and pointed finger toward the girl who bears a slight resemblance to our salutatorian in that they’re both redheads.
“Looks just like her right? The one over by the door next to that guy in the cardigan.”
“Oh fuck,” I say, standing straight up when I see him.
“It does. Right?”
“That's Tristan,” I tell him.
“I thought her name was Meredith.”
“Jesus Christ, West, not her. The guy.” I point. “That’s Tristan. My brother’s friend.”
West turns to me, then back to the window overlooking the class. “Really? Him?”
We haven’t talked at all about my sexuality since I first told him.
It hasn’t come up. Not once. So we certainly never discussed what Tristan looked like.
The way West is looking at me now, though, makes me think Tristan isn’t what he expected.
If I had to guess what West thinks my type is, it’s probably someone more like Liam, and he wouldn’t be entirely wrong.
Tristan occupies his own category. Made for me.
I shake my head at the stupid thought. It was invented out of a painful infatuation that lasted a few months at a time in my life when everything was confusing and frankly awful. Tristan wasn’t, though, something in my brain whispers at me. Tristan always made perfect sense.
Tristan looks as changed in the past three years as West does, but not in the good, healthy way.
“He’s cute,” he says.
I can’t put words together enough to disagree with him, but Tristan is much more than cute.
His dark golden curls are cut into a short style that accentuates everything unusual and outstanding about his face.
It’s almost like he was hiding behind his hair before, and somewhere along the line realized he should be showing off that immaculate bone structure and those turquoise eyes.
The brown cardigan West referred to is falling off one shoulder revealing the white tank beneath it.
His jeans are baggy, and he’s in white sneakers.
He looks thinner. Breakable in the same way I used to think Connor looked breakable.
So fucking beautiful it’s hard to tolerate.
My best friend’s presence next to me is the only thing keeping me from running down the stairs and making a complete ass of myself.
Seeing him again is like a barely mended wound in my chest just ripped open, and everything that was damaged by his existence in my life begins to throb and ache again.
I can’t breathe because it hurts so much—this evisceration.
He takes a seat five rows from the front and close to the aisle. He tugs the sweater up to cover his exposed shoulder and tightens it around his torso, like it’s cold in the lecture hall.
“You okay, brother? You look pale.”
I don’t feel so good either. I turn and look intently into West’s eyes. His brow furrows with real concern as he holds me up with his strong stare. He puts a solid hand on my upper arm and takes a deep breath, indicating that I should too.
I try. I’m not sure what’s happening inside me. It isn’t good, whatever it is. It’s some process that should probably be medicated.
“So…when you said nothing happened between you two…that was all bullshit, right?”
I can’t answer that except with a minute shake of my head that means nothing. West interprets the response in his West way and says, “But you’re with Jayne now. World kept spinning. We all moved on, right?”
“Yes.”
Yes. He’s right. I live with Jayne. I also have a guy on the side West knows nothing about and doesn’t need to.
I was angry. I ghosted Tristan. I let go, and I moved on.
I wish I could say I forgot all about him, but let’s be real.
I think about him all the fucking time. Not so much when I’m with Jayne, but when I’m with Liam for sure.
“I’m just surprised to see him. Wasn’t expecting it. Caught me off guard.”
West nods slowly, a look of careful appraisal on his face. “So, teach your class, tell him it’s nice to see him again, and keep living your life. He’s just a guy you knew a long time ago.”
Nice to see him again.
It’s more polite to say that. Jesus, I’m fucking spiraling.