Down With The Ship

Chapter 1

“Stellaaa!” the lavender-haired barista shouts over Justin Bieber’s regrettable rendition of Little Drummer Boy. “One Butterfly Boba and an oat milk Mermaid Milkiatto for Stella!”

I grab Marianne’s sugar-bomb boba in one hand and frown as I reach for the neon blue drink beside it.

“Um, excuse me,” I try to get the barista’s attention as I examine the crayon-colored froth. “I don’t think this is right. I’m pretty sure I ordered a coffee?”

He makes a point of rolling his eyes before turning back to the register, clearly hedging the bet that I’m not the type to make a public scene about, well, anything. And unfortunately for my tastebuds, he’s right.

Instead, I sigh and cart the offending drinks over to our table, where my best friend is unwrapping herself from seventeen layers of coats.

“Did you milk a smurf?” Marianne asks as I plop into the glittery plastic chair.

“It was the only thing on the menu that had actual espresso in it,” I shrug. “I guess this is what we get for coming to a place called Unicorn Brew.”

“Right,” she says skeptically, surveying the café’s flashing Christmas lights and aggressively maximalist décor. “Why are we here again? Is there a reason we couldn’t just meet at the Mr. Beans on campus?”

I hesitate. As a PhD fellow at Carver University, I rarely have time to see Mer during the week anymore, so we try to squeeze in little coffee dates whenever our schedules align.

But she of all people knows that I’d never voluntarily walk into this Gen Z fever dream without just cause, even if I am a sucker for tacky Christmas pop songs.

“I’m… trying to support female-owned businesses?” I answer unconvincingly. In response, she raises a rust-colored eyebrow before lifting the straw out of her glass and spitting a boba ball right at my forehead.

“Hey!”

“Cut the crap, Stella.” She crosses her arms in front of her chest. “I know you’re still hiding from Patrick.”

I wince, wondering if the sound of my ex’s name will ever cease to make my stomach flip. It certainly doesn’t help that I have to spend hours each day looking at my replacement’s engagement ring.

If you think being dumped by someone you work with is humiliating, try sharing an office with his new fiancée.

“Who?” I ask as nonchalantly as possible.

But I’m not fooling anyone—least of all my best friend.

Avoiding He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named is the reason why I’ve been late to my own classes nine out of ten times this semester.

The reason why I’ve barely had the resolve to keep flossing my teeth, let alone wrangle disinterested co-eds.

And since he announced his engagement to my colleague two weeks ago, my motivation to dodge the inevitable run-in has only become stronger.

To be clear, I’m not a pick-me girl: I would never let myself fall apart over the redirected affections of a man, even one I dated for over a year. But facing the pitying glances of every professor in the Art department?

I’d rather pull a Van Gogh and cut off my own ear than be subjected to that.

“I knew it!” Marianne shouts triumphantly. “Be real with me—how many hours have you spent this month trying to avoid that chinless wonder?”

“Fine.” I take a panic sip of my questionably-colored beverage and immediately regret it.

“I am avoiding him. Honestly, I’m avoiding every professor in the department.

Do you know how embarrassing it is for him to propose to Beth after three months?

There’s yogurt in the office fridge older than their relationship! ”

Marianne sighs dramatically.

“Who cares what anyone else thinks?” she asks through a slurp of her drink. “People break up all the time. Honestly, Stell, most of the time it seemed like you barely even liked him.”

“That’s not—" I lower my voice, suddenly conscious that this extremely sophisticated establishment is probably chock full of gossipy undergrads. “That’s not the point. He humiliated me, Mer. Carver is my life. I’ve been eating, sleeping and breathing this program for the last four years.

Work is the only thing I’m good at—and now I can’t so much as fill up my water bottle without my colleagues looking at me like I’m some discarded, soggy piece of lettuce! ”

I slap my hands against the table for dramatic effect, sending my untouched beverage keening towards Marianne.

Fortunately, my less-than stellar reflexes manage to stop the drink before it tips all over Marianne’s lap.

Unfortunately, I catch it a little too hard, and a slosh of blue liquid slops out and splatters all over my white blouse.

“Mother f—”

Marianne claps a hand over my mouth before I can finish the expletive, her eyes darting to several tiny children seated at the table behind us. I guess her pregnancy hormones must already be kicking in, because the Mer I know wouldn’t think twice about scarring a group of first-graders.

I groan as my eyes settle on the wet, blue stain that’s spreading across my shirt.

“Is there any proven correlation between intelligence and clumsiness?” Mer asks as she drops her hand. “Because you seem to be gunning for a prize in both categories.”

Marianne reaches for a wad of napkins from the table next to us and leans over to dab at the stain.

“Of course this would happen today,” I whine. “This is my penance for ordering a drink meant for teenagers.”

Normally, this little hiccup wouldn’t phase me. After all, I’ve spent a good portion of this horrible semester with unbrushed hair. But today is my meeting with Dr. Cynthia Rivera—the chair of Carver University’s Art History department—and I’d rather not look like I murdered a telly-tubby.

“How bad is it?” I ask Marianne, but it’s pretty clear that the grapefruit-sized blotch seeping through my shirt isn’t coming out.

“Here,” she says, pulling off her chunky, turquoise scarf and wrapping it loosely around my neck. “Problem solved. As long as you don’t move, like, at all, nobody will even notice!”

I take a deep breath, the discussion points I’ve prepared for today’s meeting running through my head like ticker tape.

I’ve never been particularly passionate about teaching undergraduate Art History—passion is something reserved for teenagers and Italians–but ever since my breakup, my motivation has been at an all-time low.

So when one of our senior faculty members announced he’d be taking a semester off for paternity leave and needed a fill-in for his upper division courses, I knew I’d found my chance to get my mojo back.

And, perhaps most importantly, I can finally stick it to him.

“Stella,” Marianne grabs my hand, the look in her eyes equal parts compassionate and exasperated. “Do you wanna know what I think?”

She leans in conspiratorially, and I know that regardless of my answer, I’m about to hear it.

“I think the only person sabotaging you here is yourself. That pretentious, low-effort beta male never deserved you, and you know it. Honestly, you’re lucky his childbride took him off your hands, because if she hadn’t, you’d probably be too stubborn to ever dump that overpaid mollusk.”

Despite myself, I let out a laughing breath.

“Geez, Mer. Remind me not to ever get on your bad side.”

I jolt as my back pocket begins to buzz and my phone launches into my sister’s personalized “Super Troupers” ringtone.

“You gonna get that?” Marianne asks.

“It’s just Jules,” I tell her as I fumble to silence the call. “Probably something wedding related.”

I know exactly what the call is about—she’s only sent me about a hundred texts—but I’m too focused to deal with it right now. I’ll call her back when I have some actual good news to share—and when I’m in the right headspace to turn her down.

“Shoot,” I stand and collect my heavy messenger bag when I see the time on my phone. “I’ve gotta get going. How do I look?”

In preparation for today’s meeting, I’ve traded in my trademark jeans and t-shirt for a pair of silky palazzo slacks and a sleek navy blazer that may or may not still have the tags on it.

It’s a look that says, yes, I may have let my performance slip, just a little, over the last few months.

And no, I haven’t made any new progress on my dissertation other than several lines of question marks.

But if you’ll let me, I will rock this interim position harder than a dad band on dollar night.

“Like a woman who’s about to land her dream job,” Marianne says proudly, adjusting my scarf. “Now get out of here and show Dr. Rivera who’s the baddest bitch on campus.”

I burst into the brutal winter air, ignoring the gravelly slush that splatters around my ankles as I jog across the road to Carver’s Art building and up the stairs to my department floor.

Normally I’d be skirting the edge of the lounge in fear, but today I march confidently across the room despite my obvious wardrobe malfunction.

If all goes according to plan, this will be the last week I have to worry about an untimely run in with Dr. Dickhead.

No more eating lunch in the storage closet and timing my bathroom breaks to overlap his classes.

No more fielding pitying glances from the entire Art History department.

But more than that, with a semester of senior-level classes under my belt, I’ll be qualified to teach at any university in the country.

I’ll finally have a first-class ticket out of Chicago and back to the West Coast where I belong.

Mer is right—I’ve got this. I am unstoppable. In my lane. Thriving. There’s nothing in the world that could bring me down.

Except, maybe, the oversized muppet standing by the coffee bar.