There’s that knowing humor again. The one that makes her sound older than she is.
“You’re a senior. You’re in psychology. Plus, you’re great with him.”
I vowed my kid would never suffer for having one parent if I could avoid it. I want to be the best dad he could have, and while I wish that meant spending every second with him, I also need to do my job so I can provide for him.
“I have class. Ten to three every day, plus Wednesday nights.”
“Andy’s in school until three-thirty. You’d get him from there, take him to dance or soccer if he has it, hang out with him. I’d try to be home for dinner and to see him before bed. I can definitely cover Wednesday nights.”
“What about weekends?”
“You’d be free to do what you like.”
She starts to argue, but stops when I cut her off.
“It’s only until exams. Tenure review is in January.”
Unlike most jobs, the career ladder for academics is more like a leap of faith. You put in the work for four or five years, then jump from one ladder to the other, hoping to catch the right rung.
If you don’t, you’re out.
It’s not enough to do a good job, you have to do a great job. Moreover, senior faculty have to agree you’ve done a great job.
“You’d have your own guest bedroom, rent free,” I try, because she’s already hinted her living situation isn’t ideal. “Plus bathroom. And the pay is whatever you want.”
Kat adjusts her bag on her shoulder. “You’re a terrible negotiator.”
“When it comes to my kid, I’ll do anything.”
Her expression softens as she tips her face back to stare at the ceiling. “Dammit, Daniel.”
I straighten. “Is that a yes?”
“When would you need me to start?”
Anticipation surges through me, along with relief that Andy will get the attention and care he deserves. Not because this woman will be around my home at all hours of the day and night.
“Tonight.” I sound so eager, and it’s her turn to laugh.
“Tomorrow,” she corrects, reaching for the door.
This time, I hold it open for her. “Fine. Tomorrow.”
“I guess I’ll see you after class.” She bites her lip, like she’s still trying to decide if this was a terrible idea.
I’m suddenly determined to prove to her it’s not.
5
KAT
“Katrina. You look well rested after the summer.”
I look up from my texting Liv outside of my psych lecture hall to find Dr. Emily Trainor in a tailored pantsuit. Her hair is smoothed back, her face unlined thanks to Botox, genetics or both.
“Hi, Professor.” I follow her toward the front doors.
“Have you considered what you’ll do with your psychology degree next year?”
“I make a mean mojito, so bartending is in my top five. Maybe personal shopper.”
Her sigh is long-suffering.
Most of my professors this semester are new, but she’s taught me twice. There’s no tricking her with reading glasses or button-downs.
“Or I might be a therapist. I’ve had my eye on this Restoration Hardware sofa,” I deadpan. “And this way it could be a business expense.”
“Then you need to go to graduate school.”
“Wait, one second. Graduate school.” I pretend to write that down. “I’ll look into it.”
She shakes her head. “You’re capable, Kat. There’s more to you than you let on. I want to see you apply yourself instead of hiding behind an attitude.”
I flash a smile. “But my teachers have always said I have a can-do disposition.”
She shoots me a look.
“Let me give you a piece of advice. If you expect people to open up to you someday, you need to learn to be vulnerable too.”
I groan before dropping into a seat midway back.
Vulnerable’s not my color.
My fourth-year psych topics class has forty students. I catch up with a few I recognize before Professor Trainor begins her lecture from the front, her lifted face impassive as she walks through the syllabus and expectations.
“These are your teaching assistants.” Two grad students sitting in the front row turn and wave. “Don’t forget this Friday is the deadline for confirming your fourth-year projects. They might impact your future.”
Her gaze lands pointedly on me, a reminder of our conversation before she launches into a lecture on decision-making.
When the lecture wraps and I pack up my bag, I overhear the graduate students talking.
“You ready for group to start?”
“It’s the best part of the year. But the community center is short staffed, so we need to go early to set up.”
“What’s group?” I ask, leaning in.
“Group therapy,” one says. “We help the professor with it once a week.”
I turn that over as they leave.
I need to choose a project for this class, and I’m running out of time.
So I head up to the front. “Professor, I want to help with group.”
Her brows lift fractionally. “It’s a graduate student assignment.”
“Except you’re short staffed. I could make sure everything is setup. Chairs, coffee, cookies.”
“Cookies are hardly a fourth-year project.”
“Obviously.” My mind races. “I would also take notes. Summarize the comments and write a page—a paper,” I go on at her look, “on the group process and why it works.”
She cocks her head. “Group is a serious undertaking. Participants are experiencing periods of significant difficulty. We treat them with sensitivity. Compassion.”
“Compassion is my middle name,” I promise.
She hesitates.
“You said we have to confirm by Friday. In your lecture today, you pointed out that decision fatigue is a real thing. If you decide now, you don’t have to think about it later.”
“Don’t make me regret this.”
“I won’t,” I promise.
The breeze plays in my hair as I make my way across campus.
I was thrilled when I got into Russell—it was a fresh start after a dark year.
But the first semester at Fall Ball, I met Liv and Jules. We were instant friends and vowed to move in together at the first opportunity.
All good things come to an end.
Jules gave notice to the school, but I still have time to finalize my plans with the student housing office.
When I get back to my apartment, I pack a suitcase with clothes, textbooks, makeup, hair products and other toiletries.
That one fills up impossibly fast.
I look between my craft supplies and textbooks.
In the end, the textbooks get discarded on the bed.
“Sorry, guys. I’ll come back for you later.”
I zip the thing closed just as my phone buzzes.
I have fifteen minutes to get Andy from school.
Because apparently, I’m a nanny now.
How hard could looking after a cute eight-year-old be?
I arrive at the school pickup zone with my suitcase in tow at three twenty-eight.