“So what do you think? Ready to give domestic thrillers a go?”
“I’m going to give it a little thought and get back to you,” I said. “Talk to you soon.”
I ended the call over his protests and took a nice, long drag of my iced tea, hoping the cold liquid would help me swallow my rising concerns. I had a sudden longing to see Seb, so I shot him a text.
Meet me at the hidden bench behind the library.
He responded immediately.
Okay…? Be there soon.
I hurried over to the spot, the beautiful day losing its luster under the weight of my doubts. Thankfully, no lovers had already staked out the secluded spot today, preferring instead to be out on the grassy fields in the sunlight rather than the shadows where the bench was all but buried beneath a canopy of ivy and leaves of a towering oak tree.
Seb rounded the corner not long after me, and a slow smile formed on his face when he took in the space. “So this looks cozy,” he said.
I winced. Damn. I should have realized after this weekend that he might think I’d been inviting him here for a tryst. On another day, perhaps I would have done just that. Today, though? I didn’t have the heart to tell him that I’d picked this spot so that no new rumors would get stoked about us.
“I’m having a bit of a rough day.” Guilt prickled my neck when Seb’s expression immediately switched to concern. He settled beside me and stroked my cheek.
“Oh, no, are you feeling sick?”
I shook my head. “No. But I talked to my publisher, and I’m sad to say that I’m not sure leaving the university to turn to full-time writing is such a smart idea right now.”
Seb frowned. “What happened?”
I braced myself to repeat the horrific words. “They told me they want me to switch gears and write…domestic thrillers, because that’s where the money is now.”
Seb continued to stare at me with his hand cupping my shoulder, like he was patiently awaiting the rest. When I didn’t add anything else, he did a double take. “Wait…is that all?”
His startled tone burned a little, so I shook off his hand and scooted back to put a little more space between us. “Is that all?” I echoed. “Do you know what domestic thrillers are? They’re full of…straight heroines and feelings and wives who think their husband might have secret mistresses, which, surprise! They usually do. The end.”
Seb kept a straight face for most of my spiel, but at the very end, his lip started to twitch.
“Don’t you dare laugh,” I warned. He rolled his lips inside and I could tell he was biting his cheek. The bastard.
He touched my arm again, fleetingly. “I’m sorry. It’s just…don’t you have to have a net worth of over a million to be a patron at the club?”
I saw where he was going with that and grumbled. “And your point is?”
“My point is, even if you were fired tomorrow, you wouldn’t exactly be out on the streets, panhandling for survival. Either with or without writing or teaching, you’ll be fine. Right?”
“Perhaps,” even though yes, Seb was correct in his assessment, “but again, you’re missing the point. I’ve always earned my own living. I made a vow, long before I came into my family money, that I wouldn’t be one of those idle trust fund kids who sat around twiddling their thumbs while Daddy’s money slipped away like water down a drain. I take great satisfaction out of working, and I always liked the idea that I was influencing young minds at the university.”
“No one is saying you can’t work! There’s always self-publishing—then you can write whichever types of emotionless thrillers you want.”
Okay, now he was being ludicrous. The skin on the back of my neck burned. “I never said I wanted to write emotionless thrillers! Just that domestic thrillers aren’t my cup of tea. But now I’m starting to think that publishing might not be my cup of tea either, and maybe I’d be better off sticking with my teaching job.”
Emotions played out like a movie across Seb’s expressive face. It was devastatingly obvious that he wanted to argue, but at the same time, show sympathy for my predicament. He bit his lip before he spoke. “I’m sorry that you’re upset by this—and I get why it would be unsettling to have this thrown at you on top of everything else.”
Now this was more like it. “Thank you, I appreciate that,” I started to say, but he wasn’t finished.
“But I also think we should stick to our guns and leave the university like we planned.”
I jerked upright. “We never definitively planned to leave. We discussed it as an option.”
Seb scowled. “It’s the option. Why should we stay at a place where they don’t approve of who we are? Why would we want to? Where,” he glanced around again and my heart sank when recognition lit in his eyes and caused his shoulders to deflate, “we have to hide in the bushes to even talk to each other, like we’re sneaking out to smoke a joint in high school or something.”
“Because,” I said slowly as the idea came to me, “maybe we owe it to ourselves to stay and fight the bigotry. What kind of signal does it send everyone if we flee? That bigotry wins the day? Until someone tackles this battle head on, they’ll keep pulling these same stunts over and over again.”
Once I started talking, the idea grew on me, gaining steam with each word. Why, indeed? Bowing out meant the university would keep discriminating as they saw fit. Someone had to be the first to fight this battle. And like Seb said, I at least had the means to survive financially with barely a scrape if we lost. The next man might not be living in such auspicious circumstances.
“Why are you looking at me like that? The other day, you were all about fighting, and now I can see that you’re not taken with the idea,” I said.
Seb’s mouth curled down at the corners. “I’m not opposed to fighting.” He shrugged; this lopsided, droopy shrug that looked so despondent it was all I could do not to lean over and hug him. “It’s just, I guess I thought we’d moved past that, to do the thing that would give our relationship the best chance.”
I didn’t know what to say to reassure him. I wished I could utter a few magic words and soothe away his fears, but I had my own to contend with. Did I want to stay and fight? Or did I want to leave, despite the less-than-promising news from my publisher?
I wasn’t sure about anything anymore, which wasn’t a sensation I was particularly familiar with, nor did I enjoy.
Finally, he leaned his head on my shoulder as a truce offering. “I really am sorry about your publisher,” he said softly.
“I know.”
I stroked his head and we stayed like that for several minutes. Both of us silent with our thoughts, and both uncertain as to what the future might hold.
“You know, if our relationship is meant to be, then it should be able to stand a little heat,” I said.
I’d meant my words to sound reassuring, but I could tell from the way Seb stiffened against me that I’d fallen short of that mark. I sighed, continued to stroke his head, and resolved to keep my mouth shut for the remainder of our time in our little hideout.
15