Page 12 of How Freaking Romantic

I take a cab back to school. The box of dishes helps me rationalize it: the weight is cumbersome, and its delicate contents need to be protected. But deep down I know I could have walked and it would have been fine.

No, I take a cab because I feel brittle, like someone ripped off my protective coating and exposed my insides to sunlight. Even now, Josh is one of the few people that knows me well enough to do it. And his words hit their mark.

When I get back to my office, I slide the box under my desk and stare at the pile of work waiting for me, hoping it still offers the distraction it promised this morning.

But as I press send on yet another email to a panicked student explaining that Tuesday’s Alternative Conflict Resolution class is still happening and that an adjunct professor will be announced shortly, I can feel the morning like an abscess in my gut.

When you finally decide to stop being a bitch, what’s left?

The words rattle around in my brain, hitting the edges with a sharp ding.

It isn’t the first time Josh has called me a bitch.

In fact, I think he’s probably called me that more than he’s ever used my first name.

Still, the word wasn’t tinged with its usual good-natured ribbing.

There was venom in it now, a truth that hit the most sensitive part of me.

I grab my bag from the floor and dig out my phone.

I want to talk to someone, have them distract me from this feeling.

I consider calling Jillian, but she already has enough to worry about, so instead I just text to say I have the dishes.

She replies a moment later with a thumbs-up.

Then I go to my contacts and begin to scroll through the numbers.

I pause at Maggie’s name, but I know she’ll tell me not to listen to anything Josh says.

She might even tell me I’m not a bitch, which would be a verifiable lie, so she can’t be trusted to be objective right now.

And if I call Travis, he will no doubt tell me I shouldn’t have gone there to begin with.

After a minute I let my phone fall back into my bag and stare at the blank wall ahead.

I hate this feeling, like Josh opened me up and shoveled out all the bits I try to keep hidden, then tossed me aside, alone and hollowed out.

I take a shaky breath. My office suddenly feels too small, too stifling. I need to get out.

I grab my coat and some coffee in a to-go cup from the student lounge, then head downstairs.

The sun has finally broken through the clouds by the time I reach the lobby of Vanderbilt Hall, bright enough to give the illusion that winter isn’t waiting just outside.

That dissolves the moment I open the main doors into the courtyard.

It’s the coldest it’s been in months, and, after the stagnant heat of my office, it feels almost refreshing.

I take a deep breath, filling my lungs with cool air that somehow feels like it’s bringing me back to life rather than trying to freeze me from the inside out.

The coffee’s paper cup warms my fingers as I walk into Washington Square Park. It’s fairly empty, but I still meander for a few minutes before finding a bench. I sit down and close my eyes, working hard to ignore the familiar pit of anxiety growing in my chest.

I want to get angry, use rage to ward off this ache, but every reason I come up with to prop up my anger feels flimsy.

Am I mad at Josh for pointing out the truth?

Or am I mad that it is the truth? That I’ve spent so long leaning into anger that maybe all my other emotions have been left to atrophy.

I finally settle on being angry about the fact that I can’t figure out why I’m angry, which seems to work until I hear my phone ringing somewhere in my bag.

I open my eyes and reach for it. Frank’s name is waiting on the screen. “Hi.”

“Where are you?” Frank’s voice rumbles through the other line.

“In the park, contemplating my life choices.”

“Well, wrap it up and get to my office. I have a doctor’s appointment this afternoon and I need to get out of here soon.”

A bit of anxiety stirs in my chest. Frank is out on medical leave starting next week and, as much as he’s looking forward to his surgery, I also know we haven’t discussed the broader issue of his absence yet, namely who I’ll be left working with.

“Is everything okay?” I ask, standing up and starting the walk back to Vanderbilt Hall.

He offers me a noncommittal grunt.

I frown. “What does that mean?”

“It means I just talked to Nathan Asher. He’s headed up to my office right now, so hurry up.”

I stop in the middle of the sidewalk as my heart falls through some new hole in my stomach . Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck.

“Excuse me?” Frank says.

Oh God, I said that out loud.

“Sorry,” I say, squeezing my eyes shut. “It’s just… Frank, listen. Before you say anything, I need to tell you what happened. I mean, before you tell me what he told you, I want you to know that my actions were completely warranted. And it wasn’t assault. Not the first time.”

Silence.

“What the hell are you talking about?” he finally asks.

I blink. “Did he tell you how we met?”

“I thought you met at the party.”

I push my curls away from my face and brace myself. “Right. Okay. So, we might have met before that? I mean, he didn’t know my name at the time, so technically you could argue that yes, we formally met for the first time at the party, but—”

“Spit it out, Bea.”

I groan. “A couple of weeks ago I kind of… went to his office and confronted him about how he’s handling my friend’s divorce.”

“Confronted?”

“I called him an asshole.”

Silence envelops the other end of the line again and all I can hear is my pulse hammering. I know he’s going to berate me, and I just want to get it over with. But then I hear a rough peal of laughter.

My brow furrows. “Frank?”

He doesn’t hear me. He can’t. His laughter is too loud, and then it’s muffled like he’s dropped the phone.

“Frank.” I say it louder.

He comes back, wheezing. “Jesus Christ, that’s the best thing I’ve heard in years.”

“But isn’t this bad? Don’t I have to include it on my character disclosure on the bar application or something?”

“Bea, if every lawyer had to list how many times they’ve called another lawyer an asshole on the bar application, there wouldn’t be any lawyers.”

The knot around my stomach loosens a bit and I release a long breath. “Okay, thank God.”

“But did you honestly think you’d never see him again? Jesus. This is New York. Everybody knows everybody, especially lawyers.”

“Useful information, thanks.” Then I pause. “Wait, if he’s not stopping by about this, why did you call me?”

“Because starting Monday, Nathan Asher is taking over Alternative Conflict Resolution for me.”

My mouth falls open and I stare out across the park while my brain short-circuits. “No.”

“No?”

“I mean, he can’t. He’s not faculty,” I blurt out. “He’s not even adjunct.”

“What the hell are you talking about? Anybody is adjunct if we hire them.”

“Then give him Blake’s seminar. Isn’t that why you have two TAs?”

“Professor Geoffreys already grabbed that one,” Frank replies, then he releases an impatient sigh. “It’s just for the semester, Bea.”

“You want me to work with him for the entire semester?” My voice has gone up an octave, but I don’t have the capacity to care.

“Is that going to be a problem?”

God, is it? I don’t want to step down. Not only do I need the meager paycheck, but I worked hard for this position. Dozens of people applied, and Frank chose me. Why the hell should Nathan Asher get to influence whether I keep it?

“No. It’s fine,” I reply.

“Good. Then get up here. He’s stopping by right now and I need to talk to you both before I leave today.” He hangs up before I can argue.

I practice the conversation in my head on the walk up to Frank’s office.

You are calm and collected , I think as I march through the lobby.

You are the picture of professionalism , I tell myself as I ride the elevator upstairs and step off on the fourth floor.

But then I get to the end of the hall and all my affirmations disappear.

They’re like scraps of paper reduced to ash under my incandescent rage when I see Frank’s office door open and Nathan Asher standing in front of his desk.

His back is to me, so he doesn’t see me approach.

He’s too busy listening to whatever Frank is saying.

Then he laughs. The sound makes my back teeth grind together, pulverizing the last of my affirmations.

“Ah, there you are,” Frank calls out when he sees me, waving me inside.

Nathan turns to look at me over his shoulder just as I reach the door.

“Hello.” His voice has that familiar patronizing edge.

“Hi,” I say. I don’t make a move to sit down. Neither does he.

“I’m assuming I can forgo another round of introductions,” Frank mumbles, shooting me a derisive look.

I shoot him one right back.

“All right, then, let’s make this quick,” Frank continues. “Nate and I have a lot to go over, and I need to get out of here by noon.”

“Right,” I say, nodding to him. All I need to do is focus for the next few minutes and then I can leave. Easy.

“I filled Nate in on our schedule and how you take notes for me during class. Aside from the seminar, there’s also the weekly meeting.” He turns to Nathan. “Bea and I usually do that an hour before class, but it’s not written in stone if you need to change it.”

Nathan leans a hip against the bookcase.

The casual pose is at odds with the rest of his polished facade, and the fluorescent light above highlights the imperfections I missed before.

The faint scar running the length of his chin below his bottom lip.

A deep crease above his left eyebrow, as if he’s raised it enough to permanently indent his face. “That works for me.”

“Good,” Frank says, returning his attention back to the paper in front of him. “Now, regarding assignments—”

“Hold on,” I say. “What if I want to change it?”

They both stare at me for a moment.

“Do you want to change it?” Frank asks.

“I want to be part of the discussion.”

Frank pinches the bridge of his nose like he’s already done with me.

“All right,” Nathan says, crossing his arms over his chest. “What works for you, Beatrice?”

It suddenly feels like a negotiation: two lawyers facing off and carving out their demands. I let out a relieved breath and cross my arms, mirroring his pose. This I can handle.

“Frank and I meet every week for an hour, but that’s usually because we’re also discussing the rest of my workload and the job search.”

“Meaning?”

I have to work hard not to roll my eyes. “It’s an L1 seminar, Nathan. Do we really need to meet for an hour every week if we’re just reviewing materials and assignments?”

“Do you have other plans?”

It’s such an innocuous question, but his tone drips with condescension as if he knows, he just knows , that I have absolutely nothing going on in my life outside school to schedule around.

“You meet every week,” Frank interjects, glaring at me. “You know the material, Bea. And Nate has a day job. You need to be coordinating.”

Damn it . If I’m honest with myself, it makes sense: I’m far more familiar with the material and how each class is run than he is. But I don’t want to be honest with myself. I want to argue, if just to combat the smug look on his face. So I say, “Fine. But only for a half hour.”

“All right,” Nathan replies. “We can meet at twelve thirty in your office.”

I bark out a laugh. “No way.”

His brow knits together. “Why not?”

“It’s too…”

He waits.

“Small,” I finally say. My pulse is hammering in my ears and the room suddenly feels very warm.

A small smirk tugs at Nathan’s lips, and there’s a hint of the dimple.

Frank mutters to himself, then motions to the room around us. “Just meet in here. It’ll be empty, and Bea has a key.”

Nathan nods. “That works.”

They both look to me for approval.

“Just to be clear, this is still Frank’s office,” I say to Nathan. “And Frank is my boss, not you. You’re just my colleague.”

Another smirk. “Agreed.”

Frank’s office phone begins to ring, and he waves a hand at me before reaching to answer. “All right, get out of here. Nate and I still have a lot to get through, and you have office hours.”

“Right.”

Frank’s already talking to whoever is on the other line as I turn to leave. Then Nathan reaches into his jacket and pulls out a business card. “Here’s my contact information. I already have the syllabus, but send me any assignments you’ve graded, so I can review them before next week.”

“Great.” I pluck the card from his outstretched hand and I look up at him with my best lawyer smile. “See you next Tuesday!”

I don’t look back as I leave, measuring my steps as I walk to the stairwell, then down one flight to my office. Only there do I finally exhale, collapsing into my desk chair as the tension in my limbs releases and my body goes limp. My head lolls to the side and my gaze falls on my mug.

I Hate It Here .