Chapter 28
TWENTY-EIGHT
Alis
That voice. That man. It should have at least crossed my mind that Jonathan Ryan would be worth wooing for a special, collaborative teaching opportunity at MPU.
That Dexter would know him, would aspire to work with him.
I’m suddenly all too aware of the extent to which my blinders have shielded me from dealing with my past.
But nothing happened.
Seriously. Nothing. It was a misunderstanding. A fluke. An insecure, neurotic woman spreading lies and gossip because hurting other people was preferable to dealing with her own issues.
But he didn’t protect me. Defend me. Support me. Nothing. I trusted him; he was my mentor, my professor. Five years I studied under him, two of which I worked as his teaching assistant.
He never even reached out to check on me after what happened. Never emailed. Never called. Nothing. My entire world came crashing down around me, punctuated by the fact that his wife — his infuriating bitch of a wife — accused me of trying to seduce him.
This is not happening.
Oh, but it is.
I tear my gaze from Dexter and plaster on the best smile I can muster at present. I know Dexter can feel the anxiety radiating off me, and I can sense his obvious confusion at my prior acquaintance with Dr. Ryan.
“Jonathan,” I offer — I’m not a twenty-one-year-old girl any longer, asshole — and extend my hand to him. He grasps it and pulls me in for a quick hug, stepping back with his hand still grasping my arm as he gives me a once over and says, “It has been way, way too long, my dear.”
My dear? I don’t know what to say, how to respond, so I nod in acknowledgment, fake smile still plastered to my face.
“You two know each other?” Dexter inquires, looking between the two of us, possessive arm still resting against my back.
“Of course! She didn’t tell you?” Dr. Ryan looks at me, baffled. As if he cannot fathom why I wouldn’t shout from the rooftops that I was one under his tutelage.
“Must have slipped my mind,” I offer. Wanting to run away but knowing I cannot. This is the partnership Dexter has been so excited about. This is the opportunity he’s been waiting for. I cannot ruin this moment for him because of something that didn’t happen nine years ago.
“So modest, this one,” Dr. Ryan jests. “Alis was my protege. My star student. I always knew you were destined for great things. It was too bad I had to lose you after your sister’s passing. How is your family? Are your parents still living in Moraine?”
Does he honestly not remember why I left? Was the incident that didn’t happen so minor to him that he brushed it off as nothing? Impossible.
“So happy to see you found your way back into the fold, and on the arm of a rising star. She’s always had a knack for making these types of important and strategic connections.”
Aaaaaaand I’ve had enough.
I tear my gaze away from the asshole spewing bullshit all over the place, looking instead toward a still very confused Dexter.
“If you’ll excuse me, I need to find the washroom.
” Detaching myself from Dexter, I use every last bit of my self-control to walk, not sprint, from the room.
From that man. From his distorted, revisionist history and backhanded compliments.
I find the bathroom, washing my hands — I can’t believe he had the audacity to touch me — and then press my clean, cold palms to my cheeks.
Calm down, Alis. Nothing happened. The rumors were just that — rumors.
You never touched the man. He never touched you.
You left. You didn’t even have to suffer through the gawking and staring around campus.
He probably didn’t mean it as it sounded.
It was a compliment. You are a strategic thinker.
You do make great connections. You’re a go-getter, a goal-chaser.
You are not a whore. I repeat, you are not a whore.
Self-control adequately, if shakily, reestablished, I smooth out my dress, check my hair and makeup, and return to the party.
At least, that was my plan, until the only other person who could possibly transform this party from a dumpster fire to a nuclear explosion turns the corner at the same moment I step foot into the living room.
We collide, and red wine spills down the front of my dress, my legs, and into my shoes.
Abigail’s silver and white — yes, white — abstract area rug now resembles a bloody Jackson Pollock, and just as I think I’ve hit rock bottom I hear it.
“You!”
Somebody, please. Just kill me. Kill me now.
Dexter
Considering this dinner party started no more than thirty minutes ago, the rollercoaster of emotions I have both felt and witnessed from Alis in that short amount of time is astounding.
“She’s still as beautiful as ever, I see,” Dr. Ryan comments as Alis walks away. His declaration seems inappropriate, especially considering she was his student, but he doesn’t watch her long enough for me to assess the intent behind his words. “How long have you two been together?” he asks.
“Not long. It’s new,” I say, still not certain whether Alis’s omission of anything pertaining to her acquaintance with Dr. Ryan was out of humility or something else.
“Is she yours?” he continues, lifting his drink toward the hall where Alis disappeared.
“My, what?” Alis isn’t property. She’s not an animal.
Is she my girlfriend, yes. Is she the most beautiful woman in this house, most definitely.
Is she mine? I want to lay claim to her, to make her mine in every sense of the word, but those desires are mine alone to share with Alis — not fodder for conversation at a faculty dinner party.
“Your student.” Of course. What is wrong with me?
Why am I suddenly so wary of this man? This man who is well respected, admired, even celebrated in academia?
Get it together, Dex. There’s nothing wrong.
Alis will explain her connection to Ryan later.
Focus on the conversation. Focus on the seminar.
I laugh, “Oh. Of course not. I believe dating your students is frowned upon, even in the most liberal and casual academic circles. And we both know Abigail Matthews would never condone such behavior.”
He lifts his glass in acknowledgment. “She certainly would not,” he laughs.
I’m beginning to wonder why Alis has yet to return from the washroom when a commotion stirs in the living room beside us.
“Oh, my goodness. I’m so sorry,” I hear Alis exclaim.
She’s covered in red wine, crouching down to retrieve the other woman’s now empty wine glass from the carpet.
She stands and looks around for somewhere to set the glass.
I cannot tell if she’s unaware of the wine literally dripping down her leg and into her shoe, or if she’s intentionally ignoring her own dilemma in lieu of making sure Abigail’s area rug isn’t ruined.
“You!” The woman who spilled her wine all over Alis and the floor shrieks.
For the second time in less than an hour, Alis’s entire body goes taught.
Before she can say another word, Abigail sweeps into the room, laden with paper towels and promises to Alis that everything is fine, she shouldn’t apologize, and the rug is not important.
The other woman is still standing there, glaring daggers at Alis.
Had her voice not revealed her displeasure with Alis, her eyes would leave no doubt to the fury within.
Dr. Ryan scurries into the room, approaching the offended woman and wrapping an arm around her waist. He pulls her closer to him and whispers something in her ear, and if I thought this woman hated Alis, it has nothing on the rage she directs at Jonathan Ryan.
Thankfully, whoever this woman is — his wife, I assume — has been instructed to stand down.
From what? I cannot be certain, but I’d bet my salary this has to do with much, much more than an accidental collision and spilled pinot.
I quietly follow after Alis as she returns to the washroom, where I find her sitting on the floor with her back against the tub. “Alis, are you okay?”
Her face is buried in her hands, her back shaking. She’s crying.
I sink to the floor beside her and envelope her in my arms. “Sh, baby, it’s alright. Who was that woman? Do you know her?” Alis doesn’t answer, but continues to cry, removing her hands from her face to clean the smeared makeup from under her eyes.
“I’m ok,” she sniffs. “Promise. I’m fine. Just… I’m just embarrassed.” Embarrassed?
“You heard Abigail — it’s just a rug. And it’s not like you did anything on purpose. All you did was exit the hallway.” I try to lighten the mood, to no avail.
“Yeah,” she huffs. “That’s all. No biggie.
Nothing to see here, folks. Just a woman, minding her own business, carrying on with her life, moving FORWARD and not BACKWARD.
” I know if I interject, even to ask for clarification, she’ll stop talking.
What has her so shaken by seeing Dr. Ryan?
She’s never alluded to anything besides her sister’s death and becoming Sunny’s guardian, drawing her away from school. Is there more to the story?
Surely, there has to be a logical explanation for why Alis never mentioned him.
Perhaps they weren’t as close as Ryan let on, and he was trying to make her feel seen, feel important.
He greeted me as if I was a long-lost friend, when in reality, I met him at a conference and had one conversation with him.
He probably didn’t even tie the face to the name until Abigail sent him my credentials and explained that I would be the one to co-teach the seminar with him.
Alis hasn’t offered any more information, and I’ve now convinced myself that I’m overthinking the entire situation and need to let it be. “I need to go home. I’m so sorry, but I cannot be here.”
“Of course, baby. Let’s go.” I stand and offer Alis my hand, helping her from the floor.
I’m sure she feels worse than she looks, but I’d never ask her to stay after the clear toll this night has already taken on her.
Alis checks her reflection, removing the last of her smudged mascara from underneath her eyes, and takes a steadying breath.
“You should stay,” she says, catching me off guard once again.
“What? No,” I retort. “We arrived together; we will leave together. Besides, I drove us here. I’ll make our apologies and then we can leave. We can go to my place, you can take a bath and decompress, and then I’ll hold you until you fall asleep.”
“No. I am going home. You are staying here.” Her tone is firm, her words sharp.
“Alis —” I start, but she cuts me off, shaking her head adamantly.
“No, Dexter. I’m covered in wine, the only change of clothing I have in your car is a pair of gym shorts and an oversized hoodie.
This dinner is important. Not just for you, but for Abigail.
For MPU. I know Jonathan Ryan. I know the influence he has in the academy.
I, probably better than anyone else you know, understand the magnitude of what this opportunity could mean for your career.
You are not leaving this party with me.”
So she really does know him? Were they close? Why hasn’t she, even once, mentioned him?
“Why…?” I start, “How—?” Once again, Alis refuses to let me finish speaking.
“I will explain everything to you later, but not right now. I’m overwhelmed, exhausted, sticky, and I need to leave. I already called for a cab.” She glances down at her phone, saying, “Actually, he’s here.”
“When the hell did you call a car? And why would you call an Uber when I fucking drove us here?” Now I’m getting angry, and while I don’t mean to yell at her my words come out in an undoubtedly accusatory way.
“I called the cab the second I got in here.” I scoff, no longer capable of controlling my frustration at the situation.
This night was supposed to be the start of everything I’ve ever wanted.
I was supposed to secure this partnership with Jonathan Ryan and end my night lost in the throws of passion with Alis moaning my name.
Instead, I’m arguing with my girlfriend in my boss’s washroom — my girlfriend who, might I add, already knows Jonathan Ryan and never mentioned him once in any of our conversations during the last four months — and now she’s bolting, without me, before the dinner has even begun, and acts as if this isn’t a big deal.
She just needs to go home. To her home. Her apartment. Without me.
Before I can say anything more, Alis steps toward me, presses a kiss to my cheek, and says, “I have to go. Good luck tonight. You’re going to be great.
He’s a fool if he says no to you.” Then she straightens my tie and brushes a hand through my hair — no doubt smoothing where I’ve pulled on it in frustration.
She offers me a soft smile, a reassuring smile that communicates everything will be alright and I’ll talk to her in the morning.
The moment she’s gone I know everything will not, in fact, be alright.
She didn’t say anything, but I’m certain Alis just lied to me for the first time.
She may have withheld information about her past and cut off conversation when it veered into uncomfortable topics, but she’s never straight-up lied to me until tonight.
Her kiss. Her smile. The affectionate way she adjusted my tie and smoothed down my hair. Those were the lies. And I fell for them.