“I don’t know. But Edward Hamilton knows about it too, and he’s accusing me of having a history of getting involved with students. If he finds a way to use that against me, he will.”
My stomach tightens. No one knows about our early relationship, the secrets we told, the games we played, the talks we had, the desire we explored. No one except us. That’s the very reason it was both beautiful and dangerous, like a secret island where we were uncertain of rescue… until we saved each other.
Our island. Our love. Our marriage.
I hate the thought of strangers dissecting it all, probing for something immoral and wrong, with Dean and I forced to defend the very foundation of our relationship.
“Oh, Dean.”
“I know. I’m sorry.”
Twenty-four hours ago, I was so happy I would have whistled a merry tune, if I knew how to whistle. Now I’m all knotted up and blistering again.
We look at each other. We both feel it, the sharp invasion of the rest of the world into our space. He shoves his hands into his pockets. His shirt is still unbuttoned, his hair sticking damply to his forehead. Silence stretches taut between us. I search for and find a measure of courage.
“What if I went to Ben Stafford and told him the truth?” I push off the sofa and pace to the windows. “Before either Maggie or Edward Hamilton can spread more lies?”
“No.” His refusal is fast and hard, tension stiffening his shoulders. “No way. You’re not getting anywhere near this.”
“But I could—”
“No, Liv. You stay out of it.”
I struggle with conflicting emotions of relief and irritation. No, I don’t want to talk to Ben Stafford about my relationship with Dean, but at the same time I would do anything to end this slander.
“Maybe it would help,” I persist. “I could tell Stafford how careful you were about ensuring you didn’t break any regulations, that you’ve always been completely professional with students and colleagues. Everything I’d say would vouch for your character, right? And no one knows you better than I do.”
“You know me as your husband. You don’t know me as a professor.”
I blink in surprise. “What does that mean?”
“You don’t know how I interact with my students.” Dean turns away, dragging a hand through his messy hair. “You don’t know if I could’ve said or done something wrong.”
“Of course you haven’t done anything wrong!”
“What was the subject of my last research paper?”
“What?”
“The last paper I submitted to the Journal of Medieval Architecture. What was the subject?”
“I—”
“You don’t know,” he says. “And you don’t know because it’s not important to you.”
Shame and irritation twist inside me. “You think your work isn’t important to me?”
“What was the subject of my last paper?” Dean repeats.
My heart does a strange descent into my stomach. He turns to face me, his expression unreadable.
“Look, I don’t care, all right?” he says. “It doesn’t matter to me that you don’t know I wrote about the chapels of the Notre-Dame Cathedral. There’s no reason it should be important to you. But that also means you don’t know what goes on in my lecture hall, in my office, during meetings…”
“I know how good you are at what you do. Isn’t that enough?”
“Liv, I don’t even know if I did something wrong! Maggie Hamilton is right, goddammit. I did suggest books on sexuality and female anatomy. That was her thesis topic. God knows I could’ve said a dozen things that anyone could interpret as harassment. I said things to her about views of sexuality, prostitution, and contraception in the Middle Ages. She probably still has emails from me. And if Stafford asks me that in a deposition, I have no defense.”
“You do have a defense. Your career and reputation are your defense. Everything I’d tell Stafford would just reiterate the fact that you’re honorable to the core.” I pause, aware of the rising shame again. “Even if I don’t know your theories on the Notre-Dame cathedral.”
“Liv, I don’t care about the damn cathedral.” Dean rubs his hands over his face. “I’m warning you it could all get so much worse. And you’re not going anywhere near Stafford because he could ask you questions you don’t have an answer for.”
“Dean, love of my life, he’s investigating us now, right? I’ll always have an answer about us.”
Dean gazes at me for a minute before approaching and settling his hands on my shoulders. I lean my forehead against his chest, feeling his tension.
“Please let me do this for you,” I tell him. “For us. I want to prove that I can.”
“You don’t have to prove anything to me, Liv. You never have.”
“But I want to prove it to myself.”
I ease back to look at him and hold up my left hand. He places his palm against mine, and our wedding bands click together before we entwine our fingers. We both hold on tight.
“Pie love you, professor,” I whisper. “Have faith in me, okay?”
“Ah, Liv.” He presses his lips to my forehead. “I don’t have faith in anyone but you.”