“Professor!” Cara called.
He fit every possible stereotype of a college professor. He was plump, had a thick beard, and always dressed in herringbone or argyle. It was easy to imagine a pipe dangling from the side of his mouth as he talked.
“Do you have those notes on my story for me?” Cara asked.
“As a matter of fact, I do.” He shuffled through his distressed leather briefcase and handed Cara a stack of papers. “I’ve written them in the margins.”
Cara craved constructive criticism, but I never found the professor’s notes all that helpful, even when I was in the program. After I graduated, I stopped letting him read my work.
As she scanned his marginalia, Professor James looked me over. “What are you working on, Emiline?”
“Just doing scene exercises.” I looked away, avoiding his stare.
“I didn’t mean with your students. I meant with your personal projects.”
I thought idly that the only personal project I wanted to work on was plucking my eyebrows and shaving my legs. “Oh, just some short stories.”
“If you ever want some feedback, feel free to drop your work off in my office.”
I shifted uncomfortably. “Thanks, I’ll consider it.”
I glanced at Cara’s story and noticed, in bold red writing, at the top of the page, the note BRILLIANT!!
Professor James nodded good-bye and walked away. I turned to Cara. “Two exclamation points? He’s never said anything that nice about my work.”
Cara frowned. “You know what I think about that, Emi.”
“Oh man, here we go.”
“I know you don’t like to hear it, but it’s true. Maybe you’re writing about the wrong stuff.”
First Trevor, now Cara? “I’m really good at baking—does that mean I should be a baker?”
“You know that’s not what I mean,” she said.
“I know.” I looked down at my thrashed Nikes. “I’m just tired of missing the mark on these short stories. Trevor basically panned my last one.” I looked up and nodded toward the end of the hall. “Come on, let’s walk.”
We headed toward the staff room to check our mailboxes in silence.
“Maybe you could work on a memoir? Even if you don’t finish it, you might figure out what you want to explore in your short fiction. Something that’s more personal to you?”
“No, thanks,” I said, hoping that my tone conveyed how much I wanted her to drop it. She seemed to have gotten the hint and abruptly changed the subject.
“So, have you heard of this new writer that everyone’s talking about? J. Colby?”
I shuffled through papers from my staff mailbox, tossing the junk mail in the trash. “No, who’s that?”
“Columbia grad. He’s around our age. I can’t believe he’s already published. Everyone’s raving about his novel.”
“Good for him,” I said bitterly.
“Well, I’m going to read it, see what it’s all about,” she said as she jammed a sheaf of mail into her tote bag. “It’s called All the Roads Between. Don’t you love that title?”
“It’s all right, I guess. Kind of reminds me of The Bridges of Madison County or something.” I turned to her. “Okay, well, I’m done here. I’m gonna head home. You coming with?”
“I’ll see you back there—just have to run a few errands. But, hey, you know what we should do since it’s so rainy out? We should stay in, get takeout, watch trash TV, and drink until we pass out. That’ll cheer you up, right?”
“I guess. Yeah . . . that sounds good. Great, actually. Let’s do it.” Never mind that I’d told Trevor I’d watch football with him and talk. What I needed was a night in with my best friend. “I’ll pick up the wine, you get the Chinese?”
“Deal. See you at home.”
THE SUN WAS going down behind the storm clouds as I sat on the window ledge and watched the waves crash against the rocks of the cove. I thought about the story I could write. I knew I had more than pages’ worth of material. I had books’ worth. I just didn’t know if I could ever put the words to paper.
Cara came barreling through the door with a Barnes and Noble bag.
“They have Chinese food at Barnes and Noble now?” I joked.
“Our date is off! I went and got that book we were talking about, read twenty pages in the store, and could not put it down. I have to know what happens. Emiline, I’m in love with this author. I’m going to find him and make him marry me.”
“How will Henry feel about that?” I teased.
She threw the bag on the counter and poured herself a glass of wine as I watched her from the window ledge. “He’ll understand,” she said, giggling.
“So you’re bailing on me to read in your room?”
“You know how I am when I get into a book. I can’t be stopped.”
I understood exactly how she felt—I was the same way. “Fine, you’re off the hook. But you owe me.”
“Maybe Trevor can swing by with Chinese?”
I laughed. “You’re ditching me but you want my boyfriend to bring us food?”