There’s nothing and no one.
Church is gone.
But when? How?Why?
This should be the one constant—the one thing that holds the universe together.
Church teaches. Church teaches so Church can chase God through muddy fields and underneath crumbling tells. This is his life, his only passion. His calling.
And he’s fucking brilliant at it.
“Looking for someone?” a voice asks from behind me.
I’m frozen in the doorway, almost unwilling to turn around and leave this moment of shock behind because I know what comes after it will be worse. But I do turn around, and when I do, I see the director. Officious and reedy and pinch-lipped.
It’s the same director who told Church he couldn’t go through with our wedding.
I have no idea if he recognizes me or not, and in this moment, I couldn’t give a rat’s ass. “Where is he?” I demand. “Where are his things?”
“He left,” the director says. His words hold just the faintest whiff of smugness, but there is a tightness to his face that suggests he’s unhappy too. Which makes sense. Whatever his personal feelings towards Church, he just lost the brightest star in his institute, not to mention the best teacher. Church’s students went on to do great things—good-for-alumni-brochure things—and most importantly, people left his classes changed for the better. Smarter and more perceptive and more imaginative than they were before.
He’s an amazing teacher.
And he’s not here.
“Heleft?” I repeat, as if the director must be mistaken. “He wouldn’t leave. This is—this is everything to him. It’s everything he ever wanted.”
The director shrugs gracelessly. “Apparently not.”
“But...” I turn and look back into the office. Outside the windows, Gordon Square is wet and bright with autumn colors. Behind me are the faint noises of doors closing, people murmuring, someone rolling a cart down the hall. This was his world. His entire world was this place.
“He left,” the director repeats, “in the middle of term and with no notice. I told him he’d never find a position again quitting like this, but he said he didn’t care.” The director scoffs. “Probably with as much money as he’s got, he doesn’t have to care.”
I’d really like to tell this guy to eat a bag of dicks, because this job was theonlything Church cared about—even more than he cared about me. He was frequently impatient with the bureaucracy, with the labyrinthine politics, with how difficult it was to secure permission and funding to do the things hereallyloved, but never, ever in the time we were together did he raise the possibility of quitting.Never. So what could have changed?
Me?
No. Surely not. Church isn’t stupid; I told him he couldn’t atone. And he’s not a liar—he told me he wasn’t trying to.
So then whywould he do this idiotic, self-destructive, selfish, cowardly thing? How could he do this to the students who needed him? How could he do this tohimself? How could he rob himself of his future and his passion and the only part of him that resembled a soul?
I turn back to the director, and whatever is in my face has him taking a step back.
“Listen, madam,” he says, “there’s no need to be angry withme, it was entirely his decision—”
“Where is he now?” I snap, not interested in playing nice.
“I presume at home? He cleaned out the office yesterday—”
I’m already pushing past him to get to the stairs, and within a few minutes, I’m hopping down the stairs to Russell Square Station and catching a Piccadilly line train. I’m not sure what my plan is—I’m not sure I really had a plan in the first place, even before I knew he’d quit teaching—but I’m certain some yelling is going to be involved. Maybe some light murder is back on the table.
I mean, really. What the hell? After leaving me at the literal altar for this job, he’s not going to keep it? After making me the burnt offering for his career, he’s just going to walk away?
Screw. That.
He is going to get that job back and he is going to fulfill his promise as a professor and as an archaeologist. It makes no sense for him to waste his mind and his gifts like this. It makes about as much sense as me dropping out of school, except in my case, I literally had no other choice. Yet he’s awash in choices, he’s buried up to his neck in them.
So whythischoice?