My pulse stutters. Seventy students. Third years? Serious kids.
Darragh grabs that lifeline immediately. “That’sperfect. We’ll take it.”
We.
I swallow the bitterness. My brother means well. He always fucking does.
Ford locks eyes with me. “Can you handle that, Cormac?”
“Absolutely,” I force out, holding Ford’s stare until he nods in a volley.
“Good. Now there’s no doubt you have a brilliant mind and a lot to offer. There is, however, one final matter to settle,” he says, leaning back.
He knows. He knows everything.
I feel the walls close in like the white cinderblock confines of Dunbar.
I’ve been clean since California, but that was a medical detox program. When I broke out of there, I went into withdrawal all over again. The worst symptoms hit when I was in Ireland. No meds to ease the pain there. I spent many nights screaming into a flat, hard pillow. Calling out for my son, who I said I didn’t want. He was all I thought about.
But I’m not that man anymore, and I can’t let Ford see even a trace of the hollow shell I once was.
“And what would that matter be?” I ask.
“The specific rules for faculty.” Ford raps his fingers on the leather desk blotter. “If you’re to work here, teach here, be a part of who we are, represent us in the field, then our reputation must be protected.”
My stomach tightens. Here comes the punch dressed as protocol.
“Students model themselves after those who lead them.” He clears his throat. “There is a code of conduct that demands a stable personal life. Professors are expected to be married.”
I blink, sure that I misheard.
“Married?” I repeat, flat and hoarse. Fucking dumbfounded.
He nods as if it’s self-explanatory.
I glance at my brother, who doesn’t meet my gaze. This is what he meant. I should have heeded the warning better. Apparently, there is something worse than being sent to a prison camp for a year. Being forced to spendthe rest of my lifewith someone.
“It was buried in the bylaws,” Bradley responds. “No one had taken it seriously in years. Deans from other older, elite medical schools and I had a summit last spring and agreed unanimously that we return to severalfoundational standards. This one included.”
“What other schools?” I ask with a stuttering pulse and outrage twisting through my chest.
Bradley twitches. “I’m sure you can guess.”
“Surely, as a new dean, wouldn’t you advocate for a more modern approach?” Darragh argues.
“I have fully embraced this new direction for my faculty. These are times to come together and believe in a common value.” He fiddles with a pen and says low, “Marriage sets a solid example for future physicians. A life of purpose includes a meaningful relationship with a spouse.”
Brad didn’t invent this doctrine. But he’s certainly weaponizing it to create a culture of doctors who breathe stability, at least in appearance.
“It also reduces the risk of inappropriate relationships. Prevents boundary breach.”
Like temptation. Me? I’m no fucking prize despite the wrapping.
And what does that mean for him? He recently lost his wife. I’m not in a position to ask that. Perhaps widowers get a pass.
“You’re dictating my relationship status as a conditionof teaching.” It isn’t a question. “My performance is what should matter.”
“You’re brilliant. But brilliance without grounding…” He sighs, “I want to make sure you stay on the right path.”