Chapter Text
Four weeks. Only four weeks to bury the body, settle the estate, and grieve the love of her life. Grief hit Carol like a freight train. She lost sleep, weight, and any reason to drag herself out of bed. The food in her fridge rotted, and her liquor cabinet ran dry. But the world didn’t wait for her, and neither did her employer. She had four weeks to pull herself together before classes started.
Escapism called to Carol in her troubled youth, and she had fostered it into a career. Writing was the one outlet where she felt like she had any control. While her novels always did well, there was more security in her salaried position at the University of New Mexico. She taught creative writing, classic literature, and hosted a handful of workshops about the publishing industry. It was enough work to keep her busy, and she prayed that a packed schedule would keep her mind off of Helen.
It was the weekend before classes started when she finally forced herself to shower, dress, and leave her quiet house. Aside from the funeral and a couple of grocery pick-ups, Carol hadn’t gone anywhere since Helen died. Not that she even would have been able to with the breathalyzer stopping her. But she was sober, clean, and collected when she arrived on campus.
Staff were buzzing around the halls. There were a few forlorn smiles sent her way, but no one stopped to chat. Carol wasn’t particularly chummy with any of them, and given her notorious temper, none of them dared to get too close on her first day back. They had to have heard about what happened. It was all over the news.
Carol tried to not think about her colleagues opinions, and instead went straight to her classroom. At least there she could be away from prying eyes. But as she hurried in and closed the heavy door behind her, she quickly realized she was anything but alone.
A tall woman, in a navy blazer and a matching pencil skirt, was hanging a banner of various country flags above the blackboard. Carol watched her for a moment, confused and short on patience.
“Can I help you?” Carol finally asked.
The woman caught her eyes, and smiled like she was an old friend. “I was hoping you’d be here.” She let a length of the banner fall, in favor of offering her hand for a shake. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Sturka. I’m a big fan of your work.”
The bitter part of Carol’s mind – the one she could never quite shut off – wanted to correct her. It wasn’t ‘Mrs.’ anymore, just ‘Ms.’. But this woman, with her big doe eyes and soft inflection, didn’t deserve her rage. She was the first person to even address Carol all day.
Carol couldn’t look her in the eyes. She cleared her throat and pointed to the blackboard. “What’s with the banner?”
The woman slowly retracted her hand, and accepted that a handshake wasn’t happening. “Oh, well, the classroom felt a little cold.”
“So, wear a sweater.”
The woman smiled politely. “Cold as in unwelcoming. I thought some decorations might make students from all walks of life feel more comfortable. But, if you don’t like it, I could take it down.”
Carol scoffed. “I’m sorry, but who the hell are you? Are you my TA? Or are you just here for an autograph?”
She chuckled softly. “No, my name is Zosia Rybak. I’m teaching the ESL courses this semester.”
“Right…” Carol reined in her temper. A miscommunication was no reason to blow up on this clueless woman. “…I think you’ve got the wrong room. You see, this is my classroom. Where I teach. By myself.”
Her expression faltered. “Oh. They haven’t told you?”
“Told me what?”
Zosia sucked on her bottom lip. “The language department is… having some changes. They’re consolidating.”
Carol took a deep breath. It was something she had been working on, but it had little effect in that moment. “You mean to tell me we’re sharing a classroom? As in… as in what? I’m not teaching all day anymore? I’m supposed to have a packed fucking schedule!”
Zosia grimaced, but her voice was soft and pacifying. “Perhaps you should give Dean Winters a call and have this all sorted out.”
“Oh, I’ll call him alright.” She scoffed, already marching off with her phone in her hand. She pointed as she ducked out of the doorway. “And take down that stupid fucking banner!”
Dean Winters picked up after a single ring, but Carol didn’t even give him the chance to speak first. “I am not sharing my classroom! I don’t care if she’s a supermodel, or a super anything, I’m not doing it!”
“Woah, Woah, easy Carol.” It wasn’t the dean’s first rodeo with her outbursts. “We tried calling you, but you didn’t answer. We even sent you letters with your amended class schedule. Did you get them?”
Checking the mail was just as hard as any task nowadays. Fans of Carol’s had sent heaps of sympathy cards, but each one just served to sour her mood. None of those people knew Helen. The majority of the senders just had to ask if Helen’s death would impact the release date of the latest Wycaro novel. Needless to say, Carol had stopped checking the mail.
“I just don’t see how it’s fair that you cut my course load just so this woman can teach in my classroom,” Carol said. “Find somewhere else for her.”
There was a long pause before the dean replied. “It’s not a matter of space, Carol. The language department is just making some changes.”
“Changes like what?” She barked.
Dean Winters sighed. “I really didn’t want to have this conversation over the phone.”
Carol’s heart dropped.
“You’re firing me?”
“No, no, not at all.” He quickly assured, but it did little to ease Carol’s anxieties. “We just think, in light of recent events, perhaps it would be for the best if your course load was reduced. For your sake.”
She swallowed hard, and spoke through tight lips. “You’re cutting my hours because my wife died?”
“This has nothing to do with that, although, I am sorry for your loss.” The dean took a deep breath. “We had several students come forward last spring and express concerns about your wellbeing, then there was that verbal altercation with that student last fall… we thought lessening your courseload would put things in perspective for you.”
Carol wasn’t stupid. She caught on to what the dean was insinuating immediately. “So, I’m on probation?”
“That would be the technical term, yes. Let’s see how this semester goes, then we can discuss your rooming situation with Miss Rybak, as well as your future here.”
Carol gripped her phone, her knuckles whitening as a cold wave washed over her. The rational part of her mind knew pushing back now would do little good, but indignation simmered beneath her grief. She ended the call, feeling worse than she started. Probation. The semester hadn’t even started, and she was already on thin ice. Carol hesitated with the doorknob in her hand. It took a few moments to push past her embarrassment, and face this rival professor.
Zosia clearly knew the room sharing was disciplinary. It was obvious in the way she bowed her head and bit back a frown as she slowly gathered up her banner of flags. She was awkward and robotic in her movements, as she pretended to act natural.
Carol walked up to her, sizing her up. Zosia was a good few inches taller than her, never mind the heels. She was well put together, with her curled brown tresses and ironed business attire. Carol’s hair was still wet from her shower, and her sweats were wrinkled. Zosia was professional, and Carol, anything but.
“So, what terrible thing did you do to get stuck with me?” Carol asked.
Zosia finally looked up, and her eyes softened. “Nothing. I wanted to be with you.”
There must have been an abundance of confusion on Carol’s face, as Zosia opted to explain.
“I was in the Glasgow Airport with some of the worst food poisoning of my entire life. Some bad fish in Copenhagen.” She shook her head at the memory and continued. “Anyway, I picked up Bitter Chrysalis at the giftshop to distract myself between trips to the toilet. I ended up in the hospital for a few days, but I had your book to get me through it. Ever since then, I was hooked.”
Carol blinked a few times, her scowl never ceasing. “Glad my writing is better than vomiting.”
“Much better.” Zosia assured, oblivious to the sarcasm. “You have such a way with words. When I read your prose, it’s like I can taste the exact food you’re describing. Airy pancakes, and the sweetest of syrups dripping on my tongue. You can teleport me anywhere in the world with only your words. Hard packed clay beneath my boots, thick blankets of humid air, smothering me in a wet heat…”
She trailed off, gazing on a fixed point in the distance. Zosia blinked a few times, returning to the present conversation with the faintest blush across her cheeks. “Apologies. I get a little carried away sometimes.”
Carol felt her cheeks grow warm at her honeyed words as well. Most compliments she received were about the Wycaro series, the mindless romance for lonely housewives. Bitter Chrysalis, intended for an audience with brains, rarely received its flowers. Helen was the only other person who held it in such regard.
Carol glanced at the banner, then back at the strange woman. “You can hang it up in the back. I take my lunch in here from noon to one. Alone. Don’t touch my things.” She plucked the roll of tape from Zosia’s hands. “And don’t use my tape.”
Zosia nodded, not seeming fazed by Carol’s curtness. She moved toward the back of the room, banner in hand. There was a quiet determination to her movements, and an unwavering peace about her. Carol watched her work, arms folded, and curiosity piqued. This woman, who claimed to have sought her out, didn’t seem to want anything except a moment in her presence. It was oddly disarming.