Total pages in book: 71
Estimated words: 69877 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 349(@200wpm)___ 280(@250wpm)___ 233(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 69877 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 349(@200wpm)___ 280(@250wpm)___ 233(@300wpm)
“So. What are you supposed to be thinking about?” he asks finally.
“Hmm?” I say, taking a sip of wine.
“Your brother. He wanted you to think something over.”
“Yup.”
Archer looks frustrated by my atypical snippiness, but that’s just too damn bad. He’s made the rules. I’m just following them.
I fully expect him to give up and retreat back to his place, but he surprises me by trying again. “Job offer?”
I point at the empty board. “That enough to fill you up? I can make you a sandwich to go if not.”
“I’m good.” His eyes narrow slightly at the pointed inclusion of to go.
“Great.” I pick up my wine and start toward the kitchen table, where some of my astrology books are laid out. I’ve been digging into the origins of Western astrology, and have been particularly engrossed with the Enlightenment era, when its legitimacy took its hardest hit.
Archer snags my elbow as I pass, drawing me around to face him. Startled by the contact, I look up into his eyes, finding a frustrated entreaty I’ve never seen from him before.
“Hey. Randy,” he says, his voice brusque. “I know New Year’s Eve was a mistake. My mistake. But… we can still be… friends. At least as long as you’re living here?”
I only stare at him and slowly he releases his grip on my arm, though the warmth from his fingertips seems to linger even through the thick sleeve of my sweater.
“Right?” he says after a moment, and the brief flash of pleading in his eyes does something dangerous to my heart.
And I realize for the first time that Archer truly is a friend. Not just a neighbor I’m friendly with, but a friend. Someone I care about. Someone I don’t care to hurt just because I’m hurt.
“Yeah. Yeah, of course,” I say, softening my tone. “Of course we’re friends.”
His eyes search mine for a second, and though he nods, he doesn’t look convinced. “Okay. Good. I’ll let you get back to…” He waves toward my books.
“Archer,” I say quickly before he can exit.
He turns back, and I hesitate only a second before sighing. I go to the fridge and pull out one of his favorite beers, which I somehow have found myself stocking over the past couple of months.
“My brother knows someone at Stanford,” I say. “They want to interview me about a potential job.”
He accepts the beer and takes a long drink before replying, seeming to think it over. “How do you feel about that?”
“I… have no idea,” I admit, realizing that it hasn’t even begun to really sink in. “Shocked, I guess. I never imagined that after getting denied tenure at Nova that another school of that caliber would even look at me again.”
Archer remains silent, as though sensing I need to sort out my thoughts and giving me the room to do so.
“And I’m excited,” I say after a moment, because it feels like what I’m supposed to be feeling. “I mean, it’s tenure track. At Stanford.”
“So you’ve decided that you miss it after all?” he asks. “The whole collegiate, academic scene.”
“No,” I say so quickly I surprise myself. Then I hold up a finger. “Let me rephrase. I still don’t miss the politics of academia, or, if I’m being honest, the general dryness of the scholarly landscape. But I miss the other stuff.”
“Other stuff,” he repeats. “Teaching?”
“Yeah, I miss sharing knowledge with eager minds, but I also miss…”
I tug at my earring, too embarrassed to continue.
Archer leans over, elbows braced on the counter as he gives me a small smile. “Friends, remember?”
“Right. Okay.” I take a breath and hold it for a second. “I miss the other stuff. The, um… The famous stuff. I miss being on TV. I miss guest hosting game shows. And the podcasts and the interviews and the documentaries. And it’s not even about the fame, it’s about sharing science. The scholarly community is tight knit, but sometimes it feels like there’s an ‘us and them’ division between academics and nonacademics, which seems to sort of defeat the whole point. That knowledge is meant to be shared.”
“Could you do all that stuff without also being a professor?”
I shake my head. “They go hand in hand. All the TV spots dried up the second word got out that I was denied tenure. I guess I’m persona non grata unless I have Nova behind me.”
I haven’t realized until now how much that’s bothered me. I’ve been making excuses for months as to why Good Morning America stopped calling. And all the other shows and interviews as well. I’ve been telling myself there haven’t been any meteor showers to discuss, no cool eclipses, and then there was the holidays…
But it’s time to face facts. Nobody’s calling me because I am nobody now.
“You think if you go to Stanford those offers will start coming in again?”