“How did she get into the grad program, then?”
“Her father is a big donor to the university,” Dean says. “The chairperson of the history department, Jeffrey Butler, was also the medieval history professor at the time. He accepted Maggie’s admission, but only worked with her for a year before he retired.”
“That’s why you ended up with her?”
He nods. “She took a year off, then reentered this summer. She thinks she’s entitled to be in the program.”
“Did you approve her thesis topic?”
“Not yet. She doesn’t get that she needs to review the existing research before coming up with her own original question. She’s got a lot of work to do.”
This, too, is oddly reassuring, though I don’t want to examine the reasons why. We eat in silence for a while, sharing a bag of pretzels and watching the passersby.
“How did you know you wanted to study medieval history?” I ask. I know he had a childhood love for the King Arthur tales, but I’ve never known how he got on that career path later in life.
“Junior year abroad,” Dean replies. “I went to Italy and Spain. Worked on an archeological dig. One of the professors liked the work I was doing on material culture and suggested a research project combining that with architectural analyses. I thought it was fascinating.”
“Fascinating?”
“Yeah.” He shrugs. “Studying relics of times past, figuring out what people did, who they were. You’re reconstructing the memory of a society, changing and revising it when you discover something new. It’s important.”
“Aside from King Arthur, why medieval history?”
“It’s when a lot of modern institutions started. Important works of literature, printing press, religion. The bridge between the ancient and the modern worlds.”
I pick the crust off my sandwich and toss it to a nearby bird. “I was a library sciences and lit major because I like to read.”
He chuckles. “I didn’t apply to grad school thinking I’d change the face of medieval scholarship, Liv. Some things you learn as you’re doing them.”
Like parenting, I think, except people like my mother don’t learn anything.
I rub my chest, the knot still tight in the middle of my breastbone. Dean shifts to look at me.
“And?” he asks.
“Oh, hell. Maybe you’re right. Maybe I’m thinking about a baby because I have nothing else to do. And what if we did have children and I turn out to be like my mother?”
He puts his hand on my back. “You’re nothing like your mother.”
“God knows I did everything I could to prove that to myself,” I say.
“So why are you worried about being like her?”
“Because what if everything I’ve done in my life is to prove that I’m not? I finished high school, graduated from college, met and married you, tried to find a stable job, a career of some sort… all to convince myself I’m different from her.”
“Liv, you are different from her. You have nothing to prove to anyone, least of all yourself. You never have.”
“But I still haven’t done anything, Dean. I went to college thinking I’d start a career, do something important, but instead…”
“Instead you married me.” Tension threads his voice.
“I married you because I love you. I wouldn’t change that for the world. But what if I hadn’t? Would I have made something of myself or would I still be working at Jitter Beans? Or would I have headed off to some other city just like her?”
“What’s the point of wondering that, Liv? None of that happened. And you know I’ll support you in whatever you want to do.”
I toss the rest of my sandwich to the birds. Dean’s hand slips away from me. The ache in my chest expands.
He picks up our empty wrappers and throws them in a garbage can. He stands there for a minute, the afternoon sun glowing off his hair, his expression both pensive and remote.
I love him to my bones, but suddenly I’m wondering what I might have been without him.
CHAPTER SEVEN
ven in the early part of our relationship, Dean didn’t give up on me. He could have—and I don’t think I would have blamed him if he had—but he didn’t. He didn’t give up on the idea of us. And his persistence made me believe in us too.
A few days after the museum lecture and our first date, he came into Jitter Beans and asked me to his place for dinner. I agreed, trying to suppress my nervousness. I was finally seeing a handsome, kind man whose smile made my pulse race. It was exactly the kind of normal I had been craving for years.
“It’s me, Liv.”
Just the sound of Dean’s voice through the apartment intercom sent a tingle over my skin.
It’s me.
Is it really you?
“I’ll be right down,” I called into the speaker.
I grabbed my coat and did a quick check of my reflection in the mirror. I was pleased by the flush of expectation coloring my cheeks and the sparkle in my eyes. I looked happy.
I was happy. I’d never had this kind of anticipation for a man. Despite my earlier anxiety, it felt good, like champagne bubbles zinging through my veins.