RED WINE DOES not agree with me. I’m only halfway through a glass and already pressure is building behind my eyes, and congestion is settling into my sinuses. Theo’s bottle of Pinot Noir was the only alcohol in the apartment. I’d hoped a drink might blunt the memories of the day, soften the sharp edges of Abby’s dread and the students’ concerns that Monica passed on. But all it’s doing is giving me a headache.
With some distance from the day’s events, I’m beginning to realize Abby’s reaction to my presence was not so startling. To her, I represent the school, the institution that has turned against her and offered safe haven to her enemies. I know that Abby’s fear and outrage had nothing to do with my novel, no matter what Monica suspects.
Tipping the remains of the wine down the sink, I think about the anonymous messages the vice principal received about me. This isn’t the first time students have made accusations about staff members through the portal. They are usually about male teachers using inappropriate language, overly familiar touch, or lingering looks on body parts. The administration takes all allegations seriously, while also factoring in potential grudges or vendettas students may have. I’m not infallible—I’ve been charged with taking sides in disputes, of not being attentive enough, of failing to get students the classes they want—but the kids have always been up front about these complaints. I hold no power over them. I don’t dole out grades. They have no reason to hide their identities when accusing me.
A thought strikes me. Is it possible that my online trolls sent messages to my workplace? Posed as students to try to get me suspended, or even fired? The portal requires a student ID to log in, but I’m sure that could be faked. Or the site could be hacked. Has Ingrid Wandry convinced her online minions that I’m a serious threat to these kids, and now they’re coming after my job?
I turn on the kettle to make a cup of herbal tea. I need to be fresh and clear-eyed in the morning. My three-page outline for the next book is finally ready to send to Holly for her feedback. I’ll read it over once more before work, make any tweaks, and then, with crossed fingers, I’ll send it. I am moving forward. My career as a writer is not over. It can’t be.
The clock on the microwave reads 11:32 p.m. Theo should be home soon. He went to Felix’s jazz show on a reconnaissance mission. The plan was to watch Felix’s late set and then buy him a beer, pry some information out of him. Theo hates jazz, but he likes Felix and Martha. And he was happy to be a supportive friend to Felix… and a spy for Martha.
I’m brushing my teeth, spitting minty foam into the sink, when I hear Theo come in. Quickly, I scrub my tongue, rinse my mouth, and hurry out to greet him.
“Hey,” I say, then stop short. My boyfriend’s face is red and swollen, his left eye beginning to close. His shirt is torn, the knees of his jeans soiled. I rush to him, feel him vibrating with adrenaline. “What happened?”
“Felix attacked me.” He moves past me, toward the freezer.
“What do you mean, he attacked you?”
Theo grabs a handful of ice. I pass him a tea towel. “I went up to him after his set, offered to buy him a fucking beer.” He presses the ice pack to his face. “He said he wanted to talk to me outside. And then he fucking came at me.”
“Why? I don’t understand.”
He moves into the living room, and I follow. Theo collapses onto the sofa, and I curl up beside him, touching him gingerly, trying to provide comfort.
“Theo accused me of having an affair with Martha,” he blurts.
“What? Why would he say that?”
“I have no idea. He’s fucking delusional.”
“My god, Theo. I’m so sorry I sent you there. There must be something wrong with Felix. Was he drunk or on drugs? Did he have some kind of psychotic episode?”
“I have no idea.” He looks at me, his left eye so damaged. “It’s not true. You know that, right?”
I do know that, without a doubt in my mind. Not because I am overly trusting. I’m almost positive Adrian was sleeping with Tori when we were still together, though he denied it. And I know this relationship hasn’t always been satisfying for Theo, that he’s been frustrated by my lack of commitment, that he could undoubtedly find someone younger, with less baggage, who has more in common with him. But Martha would never do that to me.
She has been my most loyal friend since we were in high school. Back then, I’d had a huge unrequited crush on a guy named Tobin. He was a hockey player, with an unwavering belief that he was pro material. (He wasn’t. Last I heard, he sells restaurant equipment.) In hindsight, he was a pretentious idiot, but god, he was so attractive. One night, when I was home nursing a cold, he’d tried to hook up with Martha at a party. She could have done it. I had no claim to him. But she’d turned him down flat.
“I would never do anything to hurt you,” she’d said, her sincerity unwavering. I believed it then. And I believe it now.
“Of course I know that.” I touch Theo’s cheek gently. “Could you have a concussion? Do you need to go to the hospital?”
“I’m fine,” he grumbles. “I’m going back to my place. I’ll take some Tylenol and go to sleep.”
“You can stay here? Or I can come with you?”
“Go talk to Martha.” He gets up. “Find out what the hell is wrong with her husband.”