Page 59 of The Boy Who Loved Wicked
I shoved aside the repetitive voice that said what Phoenix felt for me was an infatuation or some misguided attempt at having his father back. It whispered that he would come to his senses during our separation. That he would get over me, outgrow me, that he was young and wouldn’t want the responsibilities that came with raising a child—if and when our time came. Because not much would be different with our circumstances once the fall came around. We would require more waiting.
At best we’d hang on to our love while living our separate lives in the process, and at worst what we shared was a mistake that won’t be repeated, and I’m granted the small privilege of at least seeing him grow and flourish within these school walls.
I slammed the door completely on that negative voice in my head that insisted on arguing away my optimism. Funny how much easier it was becoming to do that. Not easy, yet. Just easier.
Thanking the young lady that held the door open for me, I approached the secretary’s desk. She was gray-haired, wore glasses that hung from a chain of pearls, and sat on a cushion that propped her up. She peered at me questioningly over the rims of her frames. We’d already met twice, but she greeted me as if she’d never laid eyes on me before.
“Dr. Sebastian Wicked?” I prompted for her to remember, but she continued to stare without blinking, waiting for more. “I’m taking over as head of the department in the fall…” Still nothing. I opened my satchel to retrieve my credentials, but she removed her glasses and slid on another pair that sat on her desk. These were thicker than the previous ones.
“Oh! Dr. Wicked. Yes, yes, I remember you now. How are you, dear?”
“I’m fine, Mrs. Duncan,” I said chuckling. “I’m here to see Mr. Talbot. I have some paperwork to complete, and he said I could look through your academic archive for materials to assist in creating my syllabus.”
“Of course. Let me take a look at his calendar.” She swapped spectacles again. “He’s in a meeting right now; you’re a bit early. I can show you to the records room if you’d like. That’ll give you something to do while you wait.”
File cabinets lined the walls, and the air smelled of aged paper and dust. “What are in these boxes?” I moved to a corner of the room where five boxes were stacked.
“Oh, those would be the remaining work of our belated Dr. Michaelson,” she said with pride and regret.
“Really?” I lifted the lid of one before asking, “May I?”
“Be my guest. More than a few professors have built their curriculums off the backs of his teachings. I’ll leave you to it.”
A bit later, I returned to Mrs. Duncan’s desk with a box in my hands. “Can I ask a favor?”
“Sure.”
“There are items in here that I believe would do more good in the hands of his son rather than staff. Can you have this delivered to him?”
“Right away, Dr. Wicked.”
My phone rang as I exited through the university doors after my meeting. It was my attorney; he’d tracked down my grandfather.
I idled in the parking lot with the number on the screen and my finger on the call button. I was scared. I was a child again. Would he dismiss me? Take my measure in the span of a second and find me lacking—too soft, too needy.
And therein lay the problem. I was going into this with the need to be exonerated, forgiven. And since my father couldn’t grant me that, I had expected my grandfather to play his proxy. The only forgiveness I needed was my own. What he thought of me shouldn’t—and didn’t—matter.
I needed my grandfather for one thing. To help me trace back to that first poisonous seed planted in our line. To know where I was going, I first needed to understand where I came from.
I connected the call and made a promise to myself. What he said would not make or break me.
Dear Phoenix,
I made contact with my grandfather, and we’ve scheduled a time to meet. I’m nervous. I don’t know what to expect, but I know what I hope to accomplish.
He’s a cantankerous old man. Nearly wrung my neck through the phone line for having disturbed him during his crossword-hour. Apparently, I’d caused him to forget his winning word. He softened, barely, after I helped him come up with it again. I admit that at first I was looking for the apology my father never received from him. Or maybe the one I never got from my father. But now, I simply want to understand. We’ll see, I suppose.
Did you get the box from the university? Were you happy or upset to receive it? Has it helped you in any way?
I realize my error here. I hadn’t wanted you to know it was from me, but writing without filtering first can lead to these types of mistakes.
I also ran into your friend Danny taking a campus tour. He was disappointed with what the Film BFA program had to offer. I pleaded for a second of his time, and he begrudgingly agreed.
I’d asked that he be there for you. Especially during this time. He was affronted by my request, letting me know he’d been doing exactly that since you two were boys. You’re lucky to have such great friends.
I also asked that he encourage any inclination that you may show to try something new. I believed his words were “fat-chance.” But I had to believe that something good would come out of this for you too. I had to.
You are so much more than you even know. I love you.
