Chapter 23
TWENTY-THREE
Alexia
By the time we hit question four on the problem set, I've lost count of how many times I've had to say, "Sorry, could you please repeat the question?"
After some fumbling and a pointed look from Craig, I manage to talk the group through question five. But halfway through question six, things go awry again.
"So if we're looking at the relationship between declining institutional trust and voter turnout," I say, gesturing at the graph I drew on the whiteboard, which is meant to illustrate a downward trend and but looks more like drunkard tried to design a ski slope, "we'd expect to see, um...
" I blink. The image of Zachary's face when he noticed I was wearing Marcus's clothes flashes in my mind. "Um, what we should see is... er..."
"...lower turnout in electorates where trust metrics have declined over the preceding decade," Craig says from where he's leaning against the desk, not even looking up from the readings he's flicking through.
"Right. Which is exactly what Norris found in his 2011 data," I say, brain finally cooperating. I shoot my co-TA a grateful look he pretends not to notice, and somehow we make it to the end of the hour without losing me again.
"Our office hours, as always, are posted on the forum. Please make use of them," I say as they rush for the door, off to their next class, or just to get off the damn campus. I don't blame them.
"You alright?" Craig asks, grabbing his laptop and coming to sit next to me as I try not to drop my head into my hands.
"Just tired." I start gathering my notes. "Didn't sleep much."
"Ah, in that case, I might hold off on my question.
I can screw up my research on my own." He laughs at the glare I throw him.
“Whoa. Do not poke the gremlin when it's sleepy.
Fine. So, I've hit a wall with the second dataset.
I feel like the correlation is there, I'm just having trouble coaxing it out. "
"Go on."
He explains his problem, and I listen, a possible solution appearing as he speaks.
He pulls a face once he's done. I think for a moment and then say, "I have some other ideas too, but I'm not certain.
" I hold up a hand before he can get too excited.
"I want to check the literature before I say anything.
I don't love giving my opinion without having verified it. "
"Of course you don't." He's smiling like that's the most Alexia thing I could possibly have said, which, fair. "Alright, you verify. I'll wait with bated breath."
We're heading out the door, still talking through ideas, when someone comes storming around the corner at a pace that makes a horde of students flatten themselves against the walls to get out of his way.
If I'd picked up sooner who it was, I probably would've as well.
Rhys.
I haven't seen him since this morning, when he drove me to work in complete silence and walked me to my office, ignoring me the whole way as I told him I didn't need an escort.
Once he saw me unlock my door and step inside, all he said was, "Text me when you're ready to go home and I'll meet you here. "
Then he handed me a container.
I didn’t open it until he was gone.
Cherries.
He’d bought me cherries.
And now he's here. Eyes dark as granite, his face a storm.
"Alexia." Just my name, clipped, and I feel my whole body stiffen in preparation.
I feel Craig turn to me.
"Yes...?" I say, bracing for what, I have no idea.
"What the fuck is this?" he says, waving a white envelope. For a moment it doesn't register. I'm too busy being surprised that he cursed. At work. Then I remember. Had I only left that in his office yesterday afternoon? It feels like a lifetime ago.
"Oh." I relax. "I was just paying you back for the groceries the other day," I explain. "Did I not leave the receipt in there?"
His eyes somehow get even darker. He takes a laboured breath and then says, “I told you at the store, I had it." Every word is enunciated to within an inch of its life. He's pissed. Way more than this warrants.
"Yes, for the stuff for the house. I grabbed a few things for personal use too. It didn't seem fair to make you pay for it. And I didn't want to owe you anything."
He rips open the envelope and grabs the money in a fist. "Fifteen dollars and thirty-five cents? You didn't want to owe me, me, of all people, fifteen dollars and thirty-five fucking cents?" He drops his voice for the last few words, but they're dripping with fury.
Okay, seriously, is there something in the water at our house or something, because why are all the men acting certifiably insane?
"Well, it was actually fifteen fifty, but I didn't have exact change." I lift my eyes and try for a tight smile. "You can keep the fifteen cents, consider it a tip for carrying the basket around the store," I joke. Lamely.
Apparently Rhys thinks it was lame too. He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath.
I take advantage of the pause to try to smooth things out. "Rhys. It's not a big deal, okay? I just don't want to owe people anything. It complicates things." It comes out sharper than I mean it to, defensive in a way that surprises even me.
"But I'm not people," he spits, jaw working. I watch him weigh walking away against continuing this in a corridor with an audience. He chooses staying. "Is that how you see me? As just people?"
What is going on? "Rhys...?"
"Because you've never been just...people...to me. Never! Despite what you might think.”
Craig, to his credit, is already stepping back, hands up, murmuring something about coffee, gone before either of us can protest.
"It's easier this way, okay?" I say. "Can we drop it?"
Rhys turns away like he's about to storm off, but when he turns back, he's rubbing a hand down his face. "Do you really hate me that much? That you'd rather slip fifteen fucking dollars under my office door and sneak away than let me do something as insignificant as buy some fucking flour for you?"
"It's not about hating you. Look,"—I reach for the envelope and he pulls it back, doesn't let me take it—"I just didn't want you covering costs that had nothing to do with you. It's not that serious."
“It is this fucking serious, Alexia!” He steps back again to take another breath.
Jesus, good thing we don’t have a swear jar because he’d be owing it half his monthly pay at this rate.
His squares his jaw as he says, slow and hard.
“And don't give me that bullshit about the groceries being for work.
I know this is for the banana bread. That you made for Zachary.
" He huffs out a breath. “Which, by your criteria, fell under the catergory of household expenses since both you and Zachary live at the house.”
I open my mouth to argue but the look on his face stops me. It's full of anger and hurt and confusion and so many unsaid things.
He continues, “But even if it weren’t for the house, paying me back for it is frankly, fucking insulting. As if…” he sighs, “as if you’re keeping tabs of every transaction between us. Like we’re…strangers.”
He looks around, as if finally noticing the faces pretending not to listen, and pulls me into the empty tute room Craig and I just vacated, kicking the door closed behind us. One more step has him backing me against the door, looming almost a foot above me.
He breathes, slow, pained, and it’s warm and sweet, the essence of mint gum on my face.
"If you're trying to hurt me," he starts, jaw working like the rest of the sentence is stuck in his throat, "then consider it done.
" He reaches for my hand and, before I understand what he's doing, presses it flat against his chest, over his heart, holding it there with his own hand so I can't pull back.
"Hurt me," he says, quietly now, like the last exhale drained all the fury from him, leaving only grief.
"As much as you need to. For what happened six years ago. I know I earned it."
I try to turn away, but he catches my chin and stops me.
"I mean it. Nothing you do is ever going to come close to how much it wrecked me to hurt you in the first place.
" His hand tightens over mine until our skin turns white, like he's holding on to something he already knows he's about to lose.
"And I need you to know how much I wish, every single day, that I'd done it all differently.
" His face scrunches with pain for a moment before he straightens.
"So, hurt me. Please. But don't treat me like I'm just 'people' to you. "
For a moment I'm back there, back to that night, back to the girl who would've wished to hear these words from him.
But I'm not her. Not anymore.
I pull out of his sphere and wrap my arms around myself.
"But isn't that what we are to each other?
Two people who happen to be living in the same house connected by my brother?
We don't know each other, really, do we?
It's been six years, Rhys. Can you honestly say you haven't changed? Because I have."
He straightens, pivoting to face me straight on. "Is that what you want? Is that all you want us to be?"
No. No! I want to scream. There was a time I wanted us to be everything to each other. But you walked away. And ruined it all.
And now? Now I don't know what I want. Don't know what I should allow myself to even wish for.
So I nod, staring to the side so he doesn't see that it's a lie.
He watches me like he thinks I might break and change my answer. I don't.
Finally he nods back.
"Then fine, we're just housemates," he says. "Who occasionally work together. But just so you know, if you're trying to injure me, consider me battered and bleeding."
He's gone before I can get another word out, leaving me alone in the empty room.
The next morning, I bring up Craig's data problem in my tutorial, because a real-time problem is a far more exciting teaching moment than something from a textbook.
"So this is a live one," I tell the group, sketching the regression on the board. "One of the post-docs is actually wrestling with this right now. What variable do you think might be missing?"
It works better than I expect. Almost the whole class become engaged and in doing so, I’m awarded ample chances to relate some teachings to the tute topic. I leave the tutorial feeling something close to competent for the first time in days.
Craig's waiting when I come out, leaning against the wall with two coffees.
“I see you used my crisis as a teaching moment." He doesn't sound offended. If anything, delighted. "I'm flattered. Truly. My professional humiliation, now a pedagogical tool."
"Any time. I appreciate your sacrifice."
He holds out one of the cups. "And to think, I came bearing gifts.
And all I get is colleague betrayal. Our very own reality show.
" He considers it. "Love Island, but instead of a villa it's a shared office, and instead of a coupling ceremony it's a co-authorship. We could call it Fellowship Office.”
"Contestants get dumped the second their grant submissions don’t meet the requirements.”
He nods, excited. "Exactly. Very dramatic. Someone's crying in the archives every episode."
"Sounds more like Survivor. Outlast, Outpublish, Outfund. Last one with tenure wins."
"Brilliant. We'll make tens of dollars in advertising." I chuckle, and he falls into step with me toward the staff meeting. "You doing alright, by the way? After yesterday."
I pretend like I don't know what he's talking about. He adds, "With Rhys."
"Oh, yeah. It was nothing. Housemate stuff." I keep my voice light. "Dirty dishes, no one took the trash out, someone missing their turn to make dinner, you know how it is."
"Ha. Yeah. I had a roommate once who kept a box of toenails in his nightstand.
He said he never knew when he might need them.
" He shudders. "Whatever situation might require his discarded toenails is one I hope never came to pass.
But, speaking of dinner, would you want to grab some tomorrow? It'll be Friday. Not a school night."
I nearly miss a step. "Dinner?" How did we go from a coffee between colleagues on a weekday, to a drink on a Friday, to dinner?
He takes advantage of my hesitation to keep making his case.
“Yeah, dinner. Food, a table, possibly a bottle of some sort of beverage to wash the dried chicken breast down.
" He shrugs, nonchalant. "Think of it however you like.
As a friend thing. Or a not-friend thing.
I'm genuinely fine either way, I just think you're good company and I'd like more of it outside a tutorial room. "
I actually think about it, about how I'd promised myself opportunities to meet people, to discover who I am without the baggage.
Craig could be a person to try it with, right?
Smart, funny, entirely uncomplicated, exactly what I need right now.
“Er...” I stall. Then take a deep breath.
"Okay. Yes. But no pressure, okay? I'm just looking to get out and have a relaxing night discussing the political economy of multilateral sanctions regimes. "
He holds the door to the staff room. "Yes? Great!" He grins, pleased. "I'll find us somewhere that isn't a pub schnitzel night. I'll pick you up at 6:30. Text me your address."
And as we walk in, we see Rhys, already sitting in the front row, back straight, arms crossed, eyes locked ahead.
Between Zachary texting the group chat at 2 a.m. that he wasn’t coming home until noon, with some excuse about finishing paperwork (not going to think about that too much), Marcus not even coming home last night after his demo house showing (definitely not thinking about why at all) and now Rhys playing the Ice-Man, I could definitely use a night out.