and loop and wrap around them.
The next tells them to SHOUT, this stenciled word as large as the wall it’s written on. Henry can’t bring himself to go above a small, self-conscious holler, but Addie draws a breath and roars, the way you would beneath a bridge if a train was going by, and something in the fearless freedom of it gives him air, and suddenly he is emptying his lungs, the sound guttural and broken, as wild as a scream.
And Addie doesn’t shrink away. She simply raises her voice, and together they shout themselves breathless, they scream themselves hoarse, they leave the cubes feeling dizzy and light. His lungs will hurt tomorrow, and it will be worth it.
By the time they stumble out, sound rushing back into their ears, the sun is going down, and the clouds are on fire, one of those strange spring nights that casts an orange light on everything.
They walk over to the nearest rail and look out at the city, the light reflecting on the buildings, streaking sunset across steel, and Henry pulls her back against him, kisses the crook of her neck, smiling into her collar.
He is sugar-high and a little drunk, and happier than he has ever been.
Addie is better than any little pink umbrella.
She is better than strong whisky on a cold night.
Better than anything he’s felt in ages.
When Henry is with her, time speeds up, and it doesn’t scare him.
When he is with Addie, he feels alive, and it doesn’t hurt.
She leans back against him, as if he is the umbrella, and she the one in need of shelter. And Henry holds his breath, as if that will keep the sky aloft. As if that will keep the days from passing.
As if that will keep it all from falling down.
New York City
December 9, 2013
XVI
Bea always says returning to campus is like coming home.
But it doesn’t feel that way to Henry. Then again, he never felt at home at home, only a vague sense of dread, the eggshell-laden walk of someone constantly in danger of disappointing. And that’s pretty much what he feels now, so maybe she’s right, after all.
“Mr. Strauss,” says the dean, reaching across the desk. “I’m so glad you could make it.”
They shake hands, and Henry lowers himself into the office chair. The same chair he sat in three years ago when Dean Melrose threatened to fail him if he didn’t have the sense to leave. And now—
You want to be enough.
“Sorry it took me so long,” he says, but the dean waves away the apology.
“You’re a busy man, I’m sure.”
“Right,” says Henry, shifting in his seat. His suit chafes; too many months spent among mothballs in the back of the closet. He doesn’t know what to do with his hands.
“So,” he says awkwardly, “you said there was a position open, in the theology school, but you didn’t say if it was adjunct or an aide.”
“It’s tenure.”
Henry stares at the salt-and-pepper man across the table, and has to resist the urge to laugh in his face. A tenure track isn’t just coveted, it’s cutthroat. People spend years vying for those positions.
“And you thought of me.”
“The moment I saw you in that café,” says the dean with a fundraising smile.
You want to be whatever they want.
The dean sits forward in his chair. “The question, Mr. Strauss, is simple. What do you want for yourself?”
The words echo through his head, a terrible, reverberating symmetry.
It’s the same question Melrose asked that autumn day when he called Henry into his office, three years into his PhD, and told him it was over. On some level, Henry knew it was coming. He’d already transferred from the theological seminary into the broader religious studies program, focus sliding over and between themes that a hundred people had already explored, unable to find new ground, unable to believe.
“What do you want for yourself?” he’d asked, and Henry considered saying my parents’ pride, but that didn’t seem like a good answer, so he’d said the next truest thing—that he honestly wasn’t sure. That he’d blinked and somehow years had gone by, and everyone else had carved their trenches, paved their paths, and he was still standing in a field, uncertain where to dig.
The dean had listened, and leaned his elbows on the table and told him that he was good.
But good wasn’t enough.
Which meant, of course, he wasn’t enough.
“What do you want for yourself?” the dean asks now. And Henry still doesn’t have any other answer.
“I don’t