39. I promise
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
i promise
No matter how much I try to put it out of my mind, I hate that the last day of this workshop is clouded by the call I had yesterday.
I’ve been trying for over a year. I just don’t have another thriller in me.
Not right now. And more importantly, I don’t want to write one. This is the story that came out of me.
I didn’t realize how disappointing it would feel to realize my team might not be as optimistic about its future. Of course, that’s not exactly what Lori said, but that’s what it feels like. I was finally feeling good about writing after struggling so long, and now I’m doubting myself again.
Maybe nobody will want a romance from Mia Lane.
As I listen to each student in the workshop present their blurbs, I feel a little envious of them, and naive as it is, I hope nobody ever pushes expectations on them. I hope they can write for the joy of it as long as they want to.
Today, I focus on them and briefly forget my own writing drama. It feels good to encourage them, and I’m thankful at least this workshop went well. I’d never forgive myself if I came here and let anybody down.
Even though it’s the last day, we all stay late, sharing cupcakes and exchanging contact information. It’s like none of us want to leave.
“My email is always open,” I promise, and before I know it, I’m packing up my things in an empty room.
When a light knock sounds from the doorway, I expect to find Forrest, but Professor Rupert—Jason—is standing there instead. My confusion must show on my face because he smiles as he walks toward me.
“I asked Forrest if I could borrow you for a bit before he whisks you away,” Jason explains. He pulls out a chair at one of the group tables and offers it to me before sitting in the one beside it.
He looks pleased, so I’m more curious than nervous. We hadn’t specifically planned another meeting, but a debrief post-workshop makes sense.
“How did things go?” he asks once we’re both settled.
“Hopefully the students think so too, but I’d say this was an amazing week. You have some incredible writers here,” I say truthfully.
He glows with pride. “I agree. The students will submit formal, anonymous course reviews, but some have already reached out during the week to express how much they enjoyed working with you.”
Now it’s my turn to be proud. I thought I did well, but the reassurance feels good, especially when writing feels like it currently has no assurances at all.
“Thank you. The feeling is mutual,” I say.
Professor Rupert has the same glint in his eye that he did when he asked me to transfer to DCU all those years ago, and I suddenly feel like he’s about to drop something just as big on me once more.
He rests his forearms on the table and laces his fingers together.
I don’t even have time to lean back before he strikes.
“I’d like to offer you a job,” he says.
I was not expecting that. I’m still processing this simple sentence when he continues.
“I’ve recently had a couple of professors in the department announce their retirements, and one was a surprise, so we weren’t prepared with a replacement for her classes.
I’ve already spoken with the powers that be about using this workshop as a trial period for you, and I must say, we’ve been very impressed,” Jason explains, like it’s the most normal thing in the world.
How did they know how things went?
Professor Rupert answers that as he continues, “I apologize for the subversive tactics, but I had a few of our senior students in the workshop reporting back to us daily regarding your management of the classroom and the material. It turns out I didn’t need to enlist their help.
When I said some students have reached out to sing your praises, I meant every single student in this workshop has approached me or reached out to one of their other professors in the department during the week to tell us how much they’ve been learning from you. ”
Suddenly, I’m a nineteen-year-old student again, left speechless by a declaration from this professor.
History really does repeat itself, doesn’t it?
“Thank you, sir, but I’m not a teacher. I’m a writer,” I blurt while a thousand scenarios fly through my mind.
“And an excellent one at that, but I can’t help but notice it’s been a while since you’ve released a book. And there haven’t been any announcements for your next book either.” He says it without judgment or cruelty, but the stab burns like acid, nonetheless.
I don’t know what to say. I want to tell him I’m working on another book, but am I? Or am I just driving my own future into the ground?
“There have been some recent hiccups,” I say.
“Maybe you just need a change of pace to get inspired again. We’re willing to be flexible with your teaching commitment because nobody wants you to write more books more than I do.
” Jason smiles. “But I won’t pretend I’m not selfish too.
I think you can help shape countless writers, and I want you in this department.
You’re personable, have real industry experience, and you have a way with words that is difficult to find.
I could hire somebody with every education degree on the planet, but I couldn’t teach them what you have.
However, I can teach you about curriculum requirements, grading techniques, and how to stay awake during department meetings. ”
“I’ve never thought about teaching,” I admitted.
Once I found writing, it’s all I ever wanted to do.
But I can’t help but feel like it’s let me down recently.
It’s very possible that I’ll be out of a job in a few weeks, and potentially finding it very difficult to get another publisher to take a chance on me.
And this week has been rewarding in ways I never expected. I went from dreading this workshop a few weeks ago to looking forward to it every day. I’d go to sleep thinking about my students and wake up eager to see them again. They breathed life into me, and their happiness is so damn satisfying.
“But maybe you’re thinking about it now?” Professor Rupert suggests.
“I don’t know,” I say. And I really don’t. “I’m not not thinking about it, I guess?”
“There’s an email waiting in your inbox with a compensation package including benefits and an offer for a fast track to tenure, much faster than we’ve ever offered, assuming your performance for your first few years teaching mirrors what you’ve done this week,” he says.
“Read it over. Have other people who you trust read it over. Talk about it with them.”
He nods to the door behind me. I turn and find Forrest there.
“You would be very valued here,” Jason says. Then he stands, and walks out, shaking Forrest’s hand on the way.
“Wow,” Forrest breathes, eyebrows still high as he reads through the employment package Jason sent me. “Wow.”
I feel a sharp pinch when the nail I was nervously biting bends back, and I sit on my hand to avoid further damage. That’s the fourth wow Forrest has said in as many minutes.
Unlike the last time I got an offer to come to DCU, I told Forrest right away about my conversation with Professor Rupert.
I asked him not to say anything until I finished conveying what Jason told me and we both read the offer packet together.
As a fast reader, I finished several minutes ago, but Forrest continues to stare at the copy I forwarded him.
“Forrest, I really need you to say something more than wow,” I plead. “I’m freaking out over here.”
I haven’t by any means decided to accept the offer, but there’s no denying it’s tempting.
The compensation package is, as promised, very generous.
Yes, my writing career has historically been successful and sales numbers like those bring in good contracts—assuming I can fulfill my side of the deal—but the promise of a consistent salary like the one DCU is offering is something I never dreamed of.
It would give me opportunities I’ve never had before.
Me showing Forrest must at least indicate to him the answer isn’t an immediate no, and I can’t tell how he feels about that.
Is he thinking about the last time I left?
Is he thinking about us? I know I am. Our relationship might be new—even if it feels anything but—and I can’t deny it’s a factor for me. He’s a factor for me.
If another part of my life is about to implode, I really need to know.
“Cam,” Forrest says, finally dragging his eyes from my laptop and turning toward me. “This is incredible.” He places his hands briefly on my shoulders before pulling me forward and wrapping me in a hug.
Apparently, I need to stop underestimating this man, because I did not expect that response.
“But Forrest,” I say, still smushed against his shoulder. “DCU is in Arizona.”
We shake when he chuckles.
“Yes, I did realize.” He pulls back to look at my face. “What are you thinking right now?”
“I don’t know,” I say. “A lot? Nothing? Everything?”
His hands slide down my arms to the bends of my elbows, and his thumbs begin rubbing slow, purposeful circles against my skin. I focus on them and count the times they move around. Three in one direction. Then three in the opposite direction.
“Tell me one thing in your head,” Forrest requests.
“I’m really flattered by the offer,” I say. One thing is manageable.
“It’s a generous offer, but you’re an asset, and you deserve to be appreciated.” One hand releases me to pick up his new notebook, already sitting beside my laptop on the table. He flips it open to a blank page and makes a note.
“Ok. Tell me another thing,” he says, his other hand still holding my elbow, rubbing circles.
One, two, three. One, two, three.
“I loved teaching this week,” I say.
“I’ve seen how happy you’ve been, and it was obvious how much you care about those students.” Forrest makes another note. “Next thing?”
“I’m a writer. Not a professor.” It’s the same thing I told Jason. I’m not qualified for this. He’s making a mistake offering any teaching job to me, let alone one with such a favorable contract.
“You can be whatever you want to be. And I see no reason why you can’t be both. We all start somewhere, and I think you can learn. It’s clear your professor does too.”
I’m not so confident about that, but there’s no reason it couldn’t be true. Even if it is, starting over is scary.
We keep going. One thought at a time until they don’t feel so overwhelming. I love Arizona. I also love Massachusetts. I don’t know if I can keep writing. Financial stability from writing is nearly nonexistent. I love writing when it does happen. Relocating might upset Jigsaw.
“Be serious,” Forrest says with a blank look on his face. “Jigsaw is an old man indoor cat. He will be fine. I’m not even dignifying that one by writing it down. Next?”
I take a deep breath, finally left with a thought I’ve been avoiding for several rounds now.
“You live in Massachusetts. Your life is in Massachusetts. Our life is in Massachusetts,” I say, looking down at where his hand still holds my arm.
We are connected. We’ve always been connected.
“Cam,” Forrest says softly. “Our life is wherever we are. If this is what you want, you should have it. So, let’s put this last thought aside for now because I promise we will figure things out no matter what you decide.”
I don’t see how. Phoenix is a city, but it’s no Boston. He has the exam and hours he has to complete for the license. He’s had connections to his company for years. He has a home and friends and industry contacts.
But Forrest Dane has never broken a promise.