26. Kat
26
KAT
“ W ait, what?” Angela’s voice rises two octaves. “No. I didn’t hear you right.”
“We broke up. Close the door.”
Angela shuts my office door behind her and sits in one of my chairs. “Tell me everything. Wait. Should we wait for Naomi? She’s teaching a class right now.”
I bury my face in my hands. “I don’t care.”
“I thought you were going to a wedding together and then having a romantic weekend in the Bahamas? What the hell happened to change all of that?”
“It’s a long story.” My voice is muffled as I speak into my hands.
The story is one I don’t want to completely get into. No one at work knows about my family drama, and I’d like to keep it that way .
Well, no one but Blake. So much for trusting someone.
“I have time.”
Of course she does. I swear, Angela must have some kind of time machine or other magic because she seems to get about thirty-six hours’ worth of stuff done every twenty-four hours.
“Well, we went to his friend’s wedding. The Bahamas are beautiful, and the rehearsal dinner was a lot of fun.” I leave out the details of the night after that dinner, but a hot flush makes its way through my body as I remember how he commanded my body. “His friends are a lot of fun. But then…”
Angela leans in, waiting for the juicy details, but she’s about to be disappointed.
“I found out something about him that made me lose trust in him.” That sounds tactful. “And we decided to break up. So, that’s that.”
Her brows pull together. “Um, it doesn’t sound like that’s all. I don’t understand. You guys seemed like such a good match. And this is really sudden.”
If only she knew how sudden everything was. She knows that this whole thing started as an arrangement, but she was convinced that we’ve been sleeping together almost since it started. In reality, we went from fake relationship to real relationship to no relationship in twenty-four hours.
So it shouldn’t be that big of a deal, if you ask me. We were barely together, as far as the two of us are officially concerned. To everyone else, it may look like a breakup after a few months, but it’s not. So it shouldn’t hurt.
That’s what I keep telling myself anyway.
“Anyway, we’re over. It’s inconvenient, but it is what it is.” I set my palms on my desk. “I just have to figure out what to do about this class we’re supposed to design and teach. I can do it. I’m just not in the mood to work with him as extensively. Maybe I’ll send Adam an email.”
Angela frowns. “Are you sure?”
“Yes? I mean, it seems reasonable to let the dean know if we can’t follow through on a project he gave us, right?” I’m not sure Angela is making much sense right now.
She rolls her eyes, tapping a perfectly manicured finger against her dark lips. “No, not that. Obviously, if you’re sure you’re giving up, let him know. But maybe you’re being a little hasty. It’s not going to paint you in the best light if you back out of this, either.”
I narrow my gaze. Hasty is not a word people use to describe me. Nor is giving up .
Methodical.
Driven.
Perfectionist, sometimes.
But hasty? Never.
I think things through, weigh the pros and cons of everything before I decide.
For example, continuing to work on this course with Blake. Pros—get a new course on my CV, make Adam happy, points toward my promotion. Cons—have to see Blake. Have to work with Blake. Have to talk to Blake.
Obviously, the pro-con list here tilts heavily in favor of abandoning this course.
“I’ll think about it,” I concede.
I’ll ask Naomi. She’s always the logical one. Maybe she’ll be on my side.
“Good,” Angela says. She lifts her arm to peek at her watch. “I’m going to get some work done. Lunch at 11:30?”
“Sure.” I check the time, too, and do the math.
I have a class to teach in an hour, so that gives me plenty of time beforehand to figure out how to word this email to Adam, letting him know I’m out.
“See you then,” Angela says, tossing the words over her shoulder as she exits my office.
I stare at my computer and open up a blank email.
From: [email protected]
Subject: Economics of the American Healthcare System
Dean Kashman,
I really want to teach this class, but Blake is a dickhead.
Hmm. Maybe not the most professional. I backspace and try again.
Dean Kashman,
Thank you for thinking of me to teach this proposed class.
This is a good start.
However, I will be unable to take this on, as
I tap my fingers on my desk. As what? As Blake is a dumbass? As I slept with the esteemed Professor Grantham, but now I don’t like him, and I don’t want to see him? I try to come up with something less inflammatory.
However, I will be unable to take this on, as Blake and I have broken up.
Nope. That sounds like I’m a high schooler quitting the cheerleading team because she broke up with the quarterback. Remember, mature, professional woman here. A woman who deserves tenure and a promotion to associate professor. I erase everything I’ve written so far and try again.
Dean Kashman,
Thank you again for thinking of me to teach this proposed class with Professor Grantham. While I remain excited to develop and teach this class, creating and co-teaching with Professor Grantham will not be a possibility. I am open to exploring other co-teachers, as my background in Biology does not lend itself to teaching the Economics portion of this class.
Let me know your thoughts. Happy to come by your office to discuss.
Kathleen Milas
I re-read the email. Good. No emotion, no wiggle room. No apologies.
I look up at the clock on the wall. It’s five minutes until my class starts, so I need to get moving.
My mouse hovers over the Send icon. Something has me hesitating, though, and instead, I click Save. I’ll see what Naomi thinks about this situation before I decide whether to send it.
Human Anatomy and Physiology is a mixed bag. A good portion of the class are pre-med majors, taking the course to gain some background before applying to medical school.
But there are usually some non-science majors taking it just to fill their graduation requirements, or the occasional art major looking to get a better understanding of the human form and, usually for the first week only, the asshole jocks hoping to see pictures of naked people.
This far into the semester, the less interested parties have been weeded out, and this year’s class has been particularly enthusiastic and engaged.
I click forward to the next slide in my PowerPoint, a drawing of the human abdomen filling the screen. Lines point to different organs, and I’ve removed the identifiers.
I step out from behind the podium, using my laser pointer to hover over one area. “Who can identify this organ?”
Hands shoot up. Pre-med students are usually prepared, meaning they’ve often studied the course material before class.
I point to a girl in the third row. “Allison. What am I pointing to?”
“The liver,” she says confidently.
“Correct. And nestled just under the liver, what’s this?” I move the pointer down a hair to hover over a dark-green blob.
I’m pretty sure it’s not that color in real life, but then I’ve never seen inside a living human. I leave that to the real doctors.
I point to a boy with glasses who has his hand raised.
“The gallbladder.”
“Exactly.” I click to the next slide, zooming in on the area. “We’re going to focus on this area today, how the liver and gallbladder function, and how disease processes can disrupt the function and even the anatomy. First, tell me something the liver does.”
There’s silence for a minute, and I give them a smile. “Call it out. There are a bunch of right answers.”
“Process alcohol?” one calls out, to a giggle from the rest of the class .
He’s not wrong. My liver got a workout over the weekend, after I returned early from the Bahamas.
“Indeed, and I believe that function is important to a lot of students. Those over twenty-one,” I say, smiling. “What else?”
Now that they’ve gotten that one out, the answers come quickly.
“Drug metabolism.”
“Making bile.”
“Glycogen storage.”
I switch to a slide listing all of the liver’s functions, allowing the students time to copy down the information, even though I’ll be posting my slides to the class portal tonight.
We move through gallbladder function and then pictures of the liver when things go wrong. The bumpy scarring of cirrhosis, the blackened liver of biliary atresia, the yellow waxy appearance of fatty liver. I wonder briefly what my own liver looks like right now after the vodka I consumed trying to forget about Blake.
I manage to focus on teaching, doing my best to push thoughts of Blake and vodka and hangovers out of my mind.
“Now, what does the gallbladder do?” I point to the small green sac on the screen .
“Stores things,” one student says.
I nod. “What kind of things?”
A kid in the back who has a neck thick enough to suggest he plays either football or rugby raises his hand.
“Piss,” he says loudly, not waiting for me to call on him.
I frown. “Nope. Want to try again?”
He shakes his head. “No, it’s definitely piss. Pee. Urine. Whatever you want to call it.”
I raise an eyebrow. “The gallbladder stores bile. It comes from—”
“No, it’s piss,” he says, cutting me off.
Are you fucking kidding me? Who does this asshole think I am?
“Bladders hold piss,” he says again, doubling down. “How do you not know this?”
I grit my teeth, forcing myself to hold it together. This isn’t the first time a student has challenged me. But it’s the first time it’s been so brazen, so offensive.
The rest of the class is buzzing, their attention divided between me and the asshole jock, and I know I have about nine seconds to get things back under control before I lose the class entirely.
I clap my hands loudly, three times. “That is it for class today. I’ll send additional clarifying material out, and slides will be posted on the portal. Lab this week will focus on the biliary system.” I emphasize the word as I point at the jock. “Please come see me during office hours this week.”
After I’ve had time to cool down and won’t want to murder him. At least my TA will run the lab sessions, where the students are dissecting cats this month. I don’t think anyone wants me to be near this kid with a scalpel in my hand.
I was afraid to ask where the animals came from my first year of teaching, but I’ve since learned that they’re typically feral cats that are found already dead or those who were euthanized due to their health and donated by shelters or families.
It feels a little better knowing that none of the cats died just for the purposes of teaching college students about the biliary system, but I’m still glad my TA and lab instructor manage most of the animal labs.
Students file out of the room as I pack away my laptop and papers, ignoring the fact that we’re ending class about twenty minutes early.
Normally, I stay after class for students to ask questions or for those who want to chat about something. But today, I need to get out of here.
Between Blake and the jock challenging me in front of the class, I’m rapidly losing all control. I can feel myself spiraling. I don’t want to be anywhere on campus when I completely lose it.
So I shove my laptop and papers into my tote and rush out of the room along with the students, running away yet again.