Page 336 of The Winslow Brothers

“I don’t know what to say.”

He just chuckles. “A simpleThank youis all that’s needed.”

“Wow.” I nod. “Thank you, Nate.”

He slaps my shoulder with a hearty grin and steps around me to head down the stairs on his original trajectory. “You bet.”

I stand there for several long seconds, poring over the details of the paper—the markings, the weight of it, the words I’ve read thousands and thousands of times. I cannot believe I’m holding an actual single sheet of paper from a first edition ofLeaves of Grass.

Engrossed, I stare at it as I move down the rest of the hallway to my office and step inside. Lesson plans forgotten, I drop my notebook on the surface of my desk and round it to the standing shelves behind. I have several newer versions of Whitman’s collection of works on the fifth shelf up. The placement is intentional. I wanted my most prized treasures to sit at exactly eye level.

Carefully, I move one of my book stands to the front of that shelf and unfurl the folds in the paper—I can’t believe this extremely valuable paper is folded and Professor Rose was just carrying it around in his briefcase like a pack of fucking gum—and set it out as gently as possible. It’s not exactly stable, but I do manage to get it to stay enough to be able to see what it is. Long-term, I’ll probably frame it and hang it on the wall just to ensure nothing happens to it, but for now, this will have to work.

When things are finally settled, I glance at the clock on the wall to see I’ve wasted just about all the time leading up to class. I have a little bit of a game plan, but at some point, I’ll have to wing it.

Luckily for me and my class, I’m something of an improvisational specialist.

Time to give them hell.

Oh, and you know, keep shit between Rachel and me completely PG.

No, actually,G. Starting from this day forward, if our relationship is made into a movie, Disney would own the rights and we’d be two fucking cartoon characters.

Strictly professional. I got this…Ihope.

I jump up on top of my desk and croon to the rafters, and the class bursts into a cacophony of laughter and chatter. I knew they would, given my antics, but I also know this is the kind of shit that keeps them remembering a lesson forever.

Not many undergrad students get excited about reading a book likeLove in the Time of Choleraon their own. But throw in a little drama? Add a little bit of spice, as this generation of TikTokers is saying?

And they go wild for it.

“What I’m doing now, howling at the wind and making a big show of myself? That’s the volume of the symbolism that Marquez manages in this book, but it’s done elegantly.”

I climb down off the desk and find Rachel’s eyes in the front row. She’s watching me avidly enough that I swiftly move my gaze to something else. This lesson doesn’t need any more distractions than it’s already had today.

“Florentino is a man of big talk, but his follow-through could stand some work. I think we can all relate to having the best of intentions sometimes without exactly having the best of execution.”

I glance to Rachel once more. “I sure as hell know I can.”

The big red clock in the back of the room ticks over to dismissal time, and I jump down off the platform on which my desk sits and approach the class.

“I want you to write a five-hundred-word personal experience essay about a time you had good intentions but less than optimal follow-through.” The class gets restless, and I laugh. “Relax. They’re not for grades other than participation. On Thursday, I’ll read through them anonymously. Now, get out of here.”

They all jump up and pack their belongings, and I head straight to the front row—to Rachel. If the past couple of hours are any indication, she’s going to blow this popsicle stand as quickly as possible without looking back, and to be honest, I don’t blame her.

But that’s not how I want it to be between us. That’s not the kind of environment I want to foster for months on end. And it’s certainly not the kind of working relationship that’s sustainable.

The right thing to do is to talk it out. Come to a truce. Figure out a way to work together without so much mental anguish for either of us.

“Rachel,” I call, grabbing her attention as she packs her laptop into her bag. Her head jerks up, and her pretty sage eyes round. “Can I talk to you in my office for a couple minutes after this?”

She glances around the room hesitantly, students still milling about as they make their way down the stadium steps and out the door, and then, finally, nods.

“Okay.”

“Just talk,” I assure her, reaching out to squeeze her elbow. It’s a rookie mistake, touching her when I have this tight a tether on my control, but I suck in a gulp of air to keep it together and step away.

She glances down to the spot I’ve just touched as though I’ve branded her, and I back away another couple of steps.Distance. Distance is good.

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