Chapter 19
The meeting is, as expected, a huge fucking bummer.
Keeping boundaries with students and up for tenure and I might expect this kind of behavior from a more junior professor, but not from you, Nick. Certainly not from you.
Dean Eckhart goes on and on, and Nick can’t do much but agree with her. Because he knows, he knows this was a bad idea from the beginning.
She ends the meeting with a concern wrapped in her fear of technology: “And…you’re sure you’re keeping safe? A lot of scary people on the internet these days…”
He assures her that he is. His address isn’t listed anywhere publicly, and while his office is, either he feels safe in his ignorance of what other people are capable of, or none of Ramona’s superfans care enough to confront him in person—though it’s admittedly a frightening thought.
So he gets off with a warning. He probably deserves worse.
And yet there’s some fury there, too. The fact that Ramona can’t leave her house without it being newsworthy.
The fact that someone secretly took those photos without either of them realizing.
It feels so insidious, makes him a little sick, and he cannot believe she’s lived with this for most of her life.
He feels about two feet tall when he leaves Eckhart’s office.
Maybe he’s too paranoid now, but whispers seem to follow him around the building. Hushed conversations and averted glances. He hears Ramona’s name on his colleagues’ lips, and every time, something deep inside of him clenches.
He goes to grab a coffee before class, hoping the caffeine will clear his head.
We have to keep our distance for a while, he texts Ramona while waiting in line at the nearest on-campus café, confirming what they talked about at the open house, hating himself for doing it. I’m so sorry.
Next quarter shouldn’t feel that far away, now that it’s early November. Finals are in a month. If Ramona’s checking the student portal regularly, she should be able to see that her grade has significantly improved. He hopes she’s proud of herself.
I feel normal around you, she said that day in the library. He feels some of that too, the thing he’s been secretly craving for the past year. He’s liked whatever it is they’ve been doing, even before it turned physical again for those too-brief, perfect moments.
Now she’s officially capital F Forbidden.
Ramona: I get it.
I’m not sure if I could live with myself if I jeopardized your job.
The idea of her feeling like shit about this when it’s some other idiot’s fault she can’t go outside without it being a headline absolutely kills him.
He types, deletes. Types. Deletes. She sounds too rational about it. What, did he think she’d be crying over the fact that they need to stop spending time together? This wasn’t ever anything real.
The barista calls out his name and he goes to pick up his latte, making eye contact with a thirtyish woman grabbing her own coffee.
“Nick Navarro?” she asks, and unease works its way up his spine. “Believe it or not, you’re exactly the person I’m looking for.”
“Sounds…ominous.”
She flashes him a broad smile. In jeans and a zip-up vest, she could easily pass for someone on the UCLA staff. “Doesn’t have to be. Jenni Grant. I write for Us Weekly.” The smile doesn’t fade as she looks him over, and he gets the distinct feeling he’s being sized up. For what, he’s not sure.
A reporter. A reporter found him here, at his place of work.
The café isn’t nearly empty enough for this conversation. He gestures to the hall, and she follows him there, all while the coffee cup burns his hand because he forgot to get one of those sleeves.
“I’d love to know more about your relationship with Ramona Wilder,” Jenni says once they’re outside. “If there’s anything you’re comfortable sharing.”
He has no idea what to say. Never had any kind of training for this. No comment—is that what you’re supposed to say when you want them to leave you alone?
But something about no comment sounds guilty, like he has something to hide. Which he does.
Instead, he goes with a version of the truth. “She’s in one of my classes.”
“How’s she doing? Straight-A student?”
“I don’t discuss grades with non-faculty. That’s a matter of privacy for the university.”
“So there’s something private going on?”
Nick needs to get out of this. Obviously Jenni doesn’t know any of the real details, but on top of everything, it’s like she’s twisting the knife—because he and Ramona can’t have any kind of relationship anymore.
“I wouldn’t discuss performance for any of my students.
” He makes the mistake of sipping his too-hot coffee.
Winces. “Look, I don’t appreciate being accosted like this at work, and—”
“You must know her a little bit, if you’re going to basketball games together,” Jenni presses. “Do you know if she has plans to return to music? Or to acting, even?”
Now he’s certain his blood is the temperature of his coffee. “I’m sorry, I have a class to teach,” he says, turning to leave. “Jenni Grant, you said? I’ll make sure campus security has your name.”
He’s not sure where the sudden protectiveness came from. Maybe Ramona ignited it in him—not just for himself, but for her. For his family.
Maybe he needs to be taking more precautions. He’ll install a heightened security system for his sister tonight after work. Even if Ramona can only be his student, it can’t hurt to be overly careful.
He’s still shaky with adrenaline when he gets to his office, fighting the urge to tell her about it. Before he can make a decision, his phone buzzes.
Ramona: see you in class.
—
But he doesn’t see her in class. When she’s not there on Wednesday either, a tiny part of his ego wonders if maybe their friendship breakup—he can’t think of another term—is the reason, but he dismisses that when she sends an email with all her professors in the recipient line, a curt message about being out sick.
When she’s not there on Friday, he starts to worry.
“Did you go to a basketball game with Ramona Wilder?” Lola Adebayo asks at pub trivia.
He bristles, wondering how far this has spread across campus. “She, uh—had an extra ticket.”
“Huh. You’d think someone like her could afford better seats.”
After they lose to the Know-It-Ales by an agonizing two points, he falls in step with Jozef Brodziński on the way to their cars.
“You doing all right?” Jozef asks, and for a moment Nick’s terrified he’s going to try to needle information out of him like the others. “You were a bit quiet tonight. I thought you were going to get that question on neurons, but Sam beat you to it.”
Nick pauses on the sidewalk, lets out a deep exhale, and Jozef waits there with him.
The linguistics professor is a late-thirties, proudly bald man with a slight reddish beard and a conviction that none of their American beers hold a candle to Poland’s.
“I suppose things…are a little complicated right now.”
“I’ve noticed everyone else talks about their personal lives quite a bit. But you…” Jozef trails off, as though uncertain about bringing it up. “I think I know more about Fumiko’s kids than I know about you.”
“Why does this feel like you’re the one psychoanalyzing me,” Nick jokes, but Jozef has a point there.
In the aftermath of the divorce, he’s retreated into himself more than he would have liked.
He knows he’s been withholding at trivia, as though slotting his teammates into a column marked Work just because they all happen to teach at the same place.
Maybe that’s why he clung to Ramona so easily, so quickly.
“You know I got divorced last year,” he continues, and Jozef nods. His team really only knows the basics, and for the first time Nick wonders why he’s kept the details locked so tight. “It was a rough way to realize most of our friends were other couples. I’ve been…sort of out of practice.”
“Ah, that’s difficult. When I left Warsaw, I left the woman I thought I was going to marry.
She wasn’t ready to make that kind of move yet, and I didn’t want to push her.
But we couldn’t make the long-distance relationship work.
” He sighs, lost in thought. “I didn’t engage as much with everything around me at first, because such a huge piece of my life was back in Poland.
So when I had to start over…I didn’t really know where to begin. ”
“I’m so sorry,” Nick says, but Jozef shrugs this off.
“It was a few years ago. I’m happy here, but it took some time. The pub trivia has certainly helped.” He gives Nick a pat on the shoulder. “All I wanted to say is that if you ever want to grab coffee or an inferior American beer sometime, let me know, all right?”
Nick laughs, but he’s inordinately touched by this. “I will,” he says, meaning it. “Thank you.”
The warmth of that conversation is enough to keep his mind off Ramona for most of the drive home.
By Saturday morning when he heads into the main house for breakfast, he’s startled to see her on the TV screen in the living room, as though the technology was somehow reading his thoughts—or maybe he’s been too influenced by Dean Eckhart.
Audrey’s on the couch with her homework and a plate of homemade pastries.
“Hey, Aud,” he says, trying to sound nonchalant. “What are you watching?”
“My emotional-support concert.” Audrey brushes crumbs onto a plate. “Croissant?”
He takes one, sits down next to her. “This wasn’t the one we went to, was it?”
His niece lets out a groan. “That was the Anywhere but Here Tour. This is the Silhouettes Tour.”
“Right, right.” Onscreen, a slightly younger, far more made-up version of Ramona is stomping around the stage with a guitar slung over a glittery minidress. She’s halfway into a song that’s vaguely familiar, maybe from Audrey’s breakup playlist.
A quick google informs him this was Ramona’s second-to-last tour, for her third album, which was apparently both a commercial and critical disappointment. He grits his teeth at the harshness of that, all sympathy for the pixelated girl pouring her heart out to thousands of people.
“How are things going with Chloe?” he asks his niece.
“Fine.” She doesn’t take her eyes from the screen, and Nick gets the sense that she’s trying to deflect. “Wait, I love this song.”
He doesn’t point out that she loves every song, or that it’s a recording and she can start and stop as she pleases.
“Mom says you’re looking at apartments?” Audrey asks after the song ends.
“I started to,” he says. “Haven’t found anything good yet. Mostly because none of them come with a thirteen-year-old personal chef.”
“The child labor laws in this country are way too strict.”
Eventually his sister comes downstairs and asks if Audrey wants to go grocery shopping, and she brightens and scampers out the door with her mother.
Nick stares at the blank TV screen, eventually giving in to the urge to text Ramona.
He shouldn’t, he knows he shouldn’t—but he justifies it with the fact that it’s purely topical.
Nick: My niece was just watching one of your concerts. Silhouettes. I caught a little of it.
I know it was filmed years ago, but it felt weird watching you without telling you.
So…this is me telling you.
He runs a hand down his unshaven face with a groan, certain he could not be less cool even if he tried.
A few minutes later, his phone blinks with a response.
Ramona: how was I?
Nick: I believe People gave you a 10/10.
Even after the bit of research he did online, this concert looked different from the one he went to with Audrey. Sometimes the camera caught a bit of sadness on her face, a split second in between songs when the mask would slip.
Ramona: that tour was rough
I wasn’t hitting my choreo most nights, and my mom had me on this horrible diet with her that completely fucked up my stomach. after the show, I’d spend the rest of the night on the toilet
sorry, maybe that’s tmi. you probably don’t want to hear about all that drama
It’s not drama, he wants to say. It’s her life. The way he aches, imagining her in those positions where she didn’t feel like she had control.
Nick: You don’t have to censor your life for me. That sounds miserable. I’m so sorry you went through it.
Ramona: thanks. at least it’s over.
He stares down at his phone. Types, I miss you.
Then he shakes his head and deletes it. He saw her at the apartment viewing less than a week ago. It can’t be possible, can it, to miss someone after that little time?
How is he supposed to process the fact that the more he gets to know her, the more he likes? The more he feels drawn to her, despite every cell in his body urging him to move on?
Nick: Think you’ll be back in class Monday?
Ramona: well…I have a temperature of 102 and it only seems to be climbing so
Nick: Something is definitely going around. I had absences in all my classes this week.
Are you taking anything for it?
Ramona: the only meds I had were expired. but I can probably doordash some
He’s not sure why seeing this makes his chest hurt. He drums fingertips on his chin, picturing her in the snapshots of her house she’s shown him. Alone and completely hollowed out, loopy with fever. He shouldn’t be this heartsick over the idea of Ramona with the flu—and yet.
There has to be a boundary between them now, but this is different. He’d be soulless if he didn’t do something.
Or maybe he’s never been capable of rational thought when Ramona is involved.
Nick: What’s your address?
She gives it to him, then follows up with,…why?
Nick: I’m coming over.