The third floor of Stokes Hall was nothing remarkable. I could appreciate the Collegiate Gothic architecture, and the facilities boasted of Boston College's academic prestige, but the building itself wasn't unique. Or maybe I was aggressively biased, having spent far too many hours of my life sitting on a bench across from Dr. John Lancelot England's office, waiting for him to wrap up his duties as chairperson of the History Department.

As I drew in the hallway's faint aroma of vanilla and pencil shavings into my lungs, I wished I had better plans for a Friday afternoon. I regretted informing Dad that Coach Mayer had scheduled lacrosse for earlier this morning, leaving me with a rare spell of free time following the final bell. So while my roommates and Gianna were shopping on Newbury Street, I was emotionally decaying on a bench, failing to be bitter about Dad's decision to sell our house on Nantucket.

I wouldn't lie to myself and pretend to act as though the decision had emerged out of the blue. Selling the house made perfect sense. I'd figured it was only a matter of time, but that didn't mean I was happy about it. My parents had bought the house together as newlyweds, and I couldn't remember a summer when I didn't spend at least a month on Nantucket. The house anchored countless sunny childhood memories featuring boogie boarding, ice cream cones, and sandcastles. But it was also the place where my parents had first told me that they were getting a divorce, and the rest was all too recent history.

My phone vibrated face down in my lap, reprieving me from my cloudy internal monologue. I turned it over, already knowing it wouldn't be Trip since his team still had afternoon practice.

KELSEY JACKMAN, 4:55 PM: are you spending the night in Beacon Hill?

An excellent question. Unfortunately, I didn't have an answer courtesy of Dad's spontaneous plan to scoop me from Cannondale so he could, as he'd so eloquently informed me in the Jaguar, whip up a home-cooked meal and discuss the Nantucket situation. But that was before he'd received a call from the dean summoning him - and consequently me - back to Boston College. I expelled a soft sigh and typed up my response.

CHANDLER ENGLAND, 4:56 PM: it's safe to assume we won't be eating dinner until 7:30, so probably 

As I pressed send, a pair of thundering footsteps disrupted the stillness of the hallway. A dark-haired boy donned in an argyle sweater rounded the nearest corner, borderline jogging as he examined the silver watch visible on his left wrist. I smothered a sigh when he launched himself onto another bench situated a short way down the hall from the one I'd occupied for the better part of the last hour. He unceremoniously dropped his overflowing leather messenger bag on the floor with a thud and heaved out a sigh.

Before silence could settle in once again, the boy cleared his throat.

"Are you here for Dr. England?"

"Unfortunately," I said dryly.

I wasn't concerned with Dad overhearing my comment. I could hear the faint sound of his voice from the other side of the door, indicating he was still engrossed in the meeting that had derailed our afternoon with two other tenured professors from the department.  

The boy gawked at me, his emerald eyes widening in apparent shock before realization set into his features. A relieved smile accompanied the breath he exhaled.  

"You're Chandler." He gestured to Dad's office door. "There's a photo on Dr. England's desk."

Despite my dour mood, my lips twitched into a faint smile. The photo he was referring to had sat on Dad's various desks for years now. It was of the two of us standing in front of Great Point Lighthouse on Nantucket at sunset. Mom used to tell me it was her favorite photo in the world.

"He's in denial," I explained, tossing a lock of hair over my shoulder as I shifted in my seat. "He refuses to accept that I'm not 11-years-old anymore."

The boy laughed, the sound magnified by the emptiness of the hallway. "I'm Alec, by the way. Dr. England's my departmental advisor. He only takes on a few undergraduates from each graduating class, and everybody wants him."

"Well lucky you, Alec," I drawled, briefly eyeing the golden plaque on Dad's office door, displaying his official title. "History is the king of undergraduate majors."

Alec smiled again. "Dr. England said that on the first day of HSTEU 250."

"He said that to me the other day. For probably the hundredth time."

Alec gave another animated laugh, and his overbearing, positive energy started to grate on my nerves. I would prefer to sit in silence than engage in a conversation with someone who probably, on some level, thought getting into my good graces would result in me putting in a good word with Dad. This definitely wouldn't be the first time.

"So, I'm sure you hear this a lot, but your dad's wicked smart, and his publications put a big spotlight on this department." Alec paused, his ears flaring red. I did my very best not to surrender to an eye roll. "I'm actually here to ask if he can submit an academic reference for a summer internship. It's competitive, so that could go a long way."      

"I bet."

As a kid, I hated that Dad was a professor. I'd hated the idea of having to share him with his students, who I knew were much more clever and wiser than me. Paranoia had persuaded me that one day he'd come to love teaching more than me and would decide never to leave the lecture hall. Maybe I could blame my status as an only child, or Mom almost always being away, building worlds on screen that didn't include me. But regardless of the logic, I was determined to ensure that I could fit into Dad's academic world. I'd beg to go to museums and select historical sights I'd wanted to visit from the gigantic books he kept in his study. I didn't regret any of it. Not now when I knew I was in fact clever and wiser because of that mindset. I also knew that my hatred for Dad's job had faded over the years, but that determination to hold myself to the highest standard never had.

A door on the left end of the hallway opened, and the professor who exited sent Alec shooting upright. Her sleek white blouse with a bow-tie neckline immediately drew my fashion envy as I had no viable reason to purchase something so elegantly professional. Not yet, at least.

"Professor! Any chance I can get off the waitlist for your Political Psychology seminar next semester?" Alec called out, waving with too much enthusiasm. "International Law has been epic so far."

"Political Science majors receive priority, Alec." The professor shot him a thin yet genuine smile as she shrugged on a navy blazer that only enhanced my fashion envy. As she freed her shoulder-length golden blonde hair from beneath the collar, her gaze swept to where I sat further down the hallway and then directly to Dad's office door. She'd clearly made the connection.

Alec sighed, his shoulders sinking slightly. "I've still got one more 200 level course to take before I can declare that as my second major."

"Keep an eye on the course catalog. There's a fair chance that I'll hold the seminar again." The professor sent him another similar smile. "Enjoy your weekend."

"You too, Professor."

Once she vanished around the corner, Alec tossed me a sideways look as if we shared a secret.

"Everyone in the major is rooting for them, you know," he whispered, his voice tinged with mischief. "They're hands-down the coolest professors in Arts and Sciences."

"Rooting for them?" I echoed, horribly unprepared for the clarification I'd requested. There was only a very slim margin for misinterpretation.

"For ages," he confirmed. "They're like the modern, non-scandalous version of Mark Antony and Cleopatra."

Nausea rippled through me. As I inhaled a tight breath, I forced myself to disregard the tactless analogy. Alec had picked the wrong girl and the wrong moment to pathetically flex his knowledge of Ancient Rome.

My reaction didn't go unnoticed by Alec. He gaped at me for the second time since we'd met a handful of minutes ago. For a long, mortifying moment, nothing happened. I was intensely aware of the stillness billowing around us, the hallway dead quiet.

"Crap," Alec finally breathed out. "Crap, I'm sorry. You didn't hear this from me. I really need that academic reference, okay?"

"Who is she?" I asked, assuming an entirely casual tone. I could've been talking about the weather. 

He hesitated, tugging at the neckline of his sweater. "Dr. Téa Daly. She's got tenure, teaches for both History and Political Science."

I mentally shuffled through the names of Dad's colleagues that I'd heard over the years. It took me all of five seconds to rule that the name Dr. Téa Daly had never reached my ears. But maybe that was what Dad had intended. The thought shattered something unexpectedly fragile inside me.

"You should go now, Alec." I nodded towards the exit.

"What?" Alec croaked. His eyes resembled two massive emeralds.

"Come back on Monday. You're not going to ask for that academic reference today."

"Oh, sure." He jumped to his feet, sliding on the strap of his bag. "Yeah, that's fair. Nice meeting you, Chandler."

Alec was halfway down the hallway when the door to Dad's office finally swung open. I hardly processed the departure and parting words of the two professors who weren't Dr. John Lancelot England. 

"Your patience astounds me, Chan," Dad marveled, the thin gold rims of his glasses glinting in the drab light. His gaze shifted to his student. "Alec, were you waiting-"

Alec shook his head, throwing himself against the door to the stairwell. "Nope, it's all good. I'll see you Monday, Dr. England!"

He was gone before Dad could say another word, just another footnote in the saga of the England family's internal drama. My heart was performing an erratic rhythm, and the reduced blood flow slowed my thought processes. Now really wasn't the time for me to misplace my confidence.

"Good kid, though he's a bit of a chatter-box," Dad was saying, oblivious to the small cyclone whirling around inside my head. "Are you ready for some penne alla vodka? I need to swing through Whole Foods first."

"You should invite Dr. Téa Daly over for dinner," I said, my voice perfectly neutral. I studied Dad's expression for any sign of what he was thinking, but I didn't have to speculate for longer than a few heartbeats.

"Chandler, I'm sorry." The words arrived too evenly, too intentionally for me to believe that he hadn't wanted to say them out loud for god knew how long. He hadn't lied, but he'd still betrayed me.

"Me too," I stated.

All that I felt now was the composure I was faking.

The door to Dad's office was still open, and I didn't hesitate before heading inside. I knew better than to make a scene. To know what words were better off said behind a closed door. The instant I stepped inside, my gaze went to the photo from Great Point Light. It sat in a handsome wooden frame, visible to anyone who ventured into the office.

Dad didn't speak until he shut the door gently behind him, the hardware clicking. "Did Alec say something?"

"I don't blame him," I admitted, indirectly answering his question. "How can I when apparently everyone in the major is rooting for the two of you?"

"Chandler, we can talk in the Jag and at dinner," he said softly, lifting his bag off of his high-backed office chair. I'd used to enjoy spinning around in it, the wheels gliding across the smooth hardwood. "We can talk as much as you'd like."

"I don't want to talk." I shook my head. "Not in the Jag or at dinner."

"Chandler-"

"Please quit Chandler-ing me!" My eyes snapped with anger. I was suddenly all dressed up in adrenaline with nowhere to go. "I don't want to do this tonight, and you wouldn't want me to say something that I probably don't mean."

"I know what you're thinking."

"Oh, so you're a mentalist now?"

Dad's face held no trace of irritation or deception. "Your Mom didn't tell you about her relationship-"

"Her affair," I corrected, very matter-of-fact.

I almost wanted Dad to scold me for interrupting him for a second time. I wanted him to discard his apologetic and calm demeanor, giving me a reason to storm out of his office. I didn't want him to try to understand or take a reductionist approach that would serve to put my feelings into a pretty box. I was the only one allowed to do that.

Seeming to sense that his current strategy was failing him, Dad pivoted. "Is there anything you want to ask me?"

Of course, there was. My curiosity had unlimited endurance, and I could spend the remainder of the day asking Dad questions that went beyond Dr. Téa Daly's fashionable existence. But I wasn't ready to hear any of it. I wasn't ready to face it.

I folded my arms in front of me as my gaze drifted out the window, the late afternoon sun warming the stone exterior of Stokes Hall's opposite wing. Mom was off in Scotland co-directing some period drama that I hadn't bothered to read up on, giving me the space we both thought I needed. I didn't dare to believe that I'd taken things one little step too far by shutting her out of my life almost completely, but I knew I would never do that to Dad.

"Can you drive me back to Cannondale?" I asked, my eyes tracing the jagged pattern of the stones.

"You know what I meant, Chandler."

"I don't want to do this tonight," I reiterated cooly, turning the icy eyes I'd inherited from Dad back on him. "Please, just drive me back."

I wasn't asking anymore. I wasn't inviting a negotiation. I wasn't going to pretend I was fine when I wasn't.

The soft tick-tocking of the old clock behind the desk kept the silence at bay as Dad appeared to pay great consideration to his next move. "Okay," he finally surrendered, his shoulders dropping in resignation. "I'll drive you back."

Without looking at him, I nodded and saw myself out of the office. At least he still knew which battles to choose.

✘ ✘ ✘

téa leoni is obviously my vision for téa daley. I'm also still coping with the fact that madam secretary isn't on uk Netflix