“Yes,” says Oliver.
“What are his options?” she goes on. “Is this the sort of thing where he could swear that it’s over and will never happen again, and he’s very sorry? Or have institutions of higher learning moved on in the past thirty years?”
“It isn’t over,” I point out.
Even though I haven’t spoken to Thalia in forty-eight hours and she hasn’t called since I hung up on her, and not talking to her feels like slowly pulling my veins through my skin.
“Not the point,” my mom says.
“That’s very unlikely to work,” Oliver says. “The University takes this sort of thing pretty seriously these days.”
“I’m done,” I say.
The proclamation is greeted by a long, weighted silence.
Then, finally, Oliver speaks.
“Yes,” he says. “It does seem that way.”
I have the sudden sensation that the ground I was standing on has crumbled, and now I’m on a precipice, staring into a black hole with no earthly idea what’s down there.
“Okay,” I say, and sit up straight, try to pretend like the world isn’t tilting around me. “All right.”
“I wish I had better advice,” Oliver says, gently, but I just shake my head.
“I did it,” I tell them, something I’ve said to all of them individually already. “I knew it was wrong and I did it.”
There’s another silence.
“Well then,” says Seth.
“What about Thalia?” I ask, turning to Oliver.
“What about her?”
“She’s a Madison Scholar,” I explain, quietly, and his face changes.
Seth and my mom just look at each other.
“You really stepped in it, didn’t you?” Oliver asks.
“She could lose her scholarship and maybe get expelled,” I explain.
“An academic suspension at least,” Oliver adds. “And this is her last semester?”
I nod, and he just lets out a low whistle.
“This was my fuck up,” I say, my voice low. “It was on me. I was the teacher, I was the one who should have known better, I was the one with the responsibility…”
“You know, I’ve only talked to her on the phone, but I’ve got a strong feeling that Thalia’s also capable of making decisions and exercising judgement,” Seth says.
“Not my point,” I tell him, and he just shrugs.
I turn to Oliver.
“Is there anything?” I ask, dreading the answer.
He doesn’t say anything right away. Instead he leans forward slowly. He grabs a cookie. He sits back. He considers it for several long, long seconds, and then he takes a bite and swallows.
“There might be something you can do to help her,” he finally says. “But it’ll be ugly.”* * *The three of them stick around to help me with the first draft, everyone crowding around me on my couch.
I hate writing, and I hate writing this more than I’ve hated writing anything in my whole life. I hate twisting the truth, making something beautiful sound so ugly and salacious.
We take a break. I’m sweating, even though it’s a cold night. Seth goes into the kitchen, finds a beer, opens it, and hands it to me.
“I don’t want it,” I tell him, trying to hand it back.
“It’ll help you feel better about lying,” he says.
It’s cold and smooth in my hand, the Loveless Brewing logo on the label, and for one wild second I consider telling him what I know about that dark January night all those years ago, that one bad judgement call can last forever, that alcohol has proven fatal to at least one Loveless man.
But I’m not driving. I’m not even getting drunk. I’m here, and I’m safe, with friends and family. A letter isn’t a twisting mountain road.
And, for better or for worse, I forgave my father long ago, so I take a long drink from the beer that Seth offers me.
“Thanks,” I say.* * *Oliver leaves after the second draft. After the third, Seth reveals that he’s brought his work laptop and a few days’ worth of clothing, so my mom goes back to Sprucevale and it’s just the two of us and an awful, no good, very bad letter.
Finally, around three in the morning, we decide it’s finished.
“We could ask June to proofread it,” Seth says, his eyes on the screen as he reads it for the thirty thousandth time.
“I’m not showing her this,” I say, also reading. “She’d stab me in the throat.”
“Because it’s poorly written, or…”
“Because of what it says,” I say, and take another gulp of tea. One beer was more than enough, and I’ve switched back.
“Maybe,” he admits.
Finally, he hits save, and we close the window, then close the laptop.
“You’re sure?” he asks, just that one simple phrase.
I think of the first night I met Thalia, watching her face as she watched the light-up flowers. I think of her telling me she believed in magical, not magic.
And I think of the two of us alone on the boardwalk in Virginia Beach, two weeks ago, of how the lights of faraway ships looked like sea monsters coming up for air. Something I never would have thought before I met her, but something about Thalia bends reality in a way that only I can feel.