My trusty bag of frozen peas occupies most of the freezer compartment in my office mini-fridge. I shake off a few stray ice crystals, undo the top two buttons of my blouse, and press the bag directly to the flushed skin of my chest.
The vagus nerve runs close to the skin's surface here. A sudden shock of cold can short-circuit the nervous system's fight-or-flight response, and I can already feel it start to work its magic. I force my breathing to slow—in through the nose, out through the mouth—as I run my makeshift icepack up the side of my neck to my ear and back down into the cleft between my breasts.
You're fine, Cora. Everything's fine.
The bag of peas burns cold against my palm, and I switch hands. Only then do I realize I'm still clutching my crumpled meal tickets from the barbecue. I bailed before I could redeem them. The moment I made eye contact with... with whoever it was I saw back there, fight-or-flight kicked in. I ran.
I toss the damp wad of tickets in the trash and slump into my desk chair, grateful to have the office to myself for once. Not that I mind sharing this windowless beige cell with Tabitha, but sometimes a woman needs to lose her shit in private. That privilege is reserved only for the "real" professors here at Wallingford. I won't get an office of my own until I make tenure—if I make tenure—and that's a huge if...
My phone vibrates in my pocket, and I nearly jump out of my chair. I don't know why, but
some part of my mind expects to see his name on my lock screen.
But that's impossible, I chide myself. I might still have Jamie's contact info programmed in my phone, but I've long since blocked all incoming messages from his number.
This text is from Tabitha, and I can't say if I'm disappointed or relieved.
Tabitha: Hey! What happened? You OK?
Tabitha. Not Jamie. I need to get a grip. That guy at the barbecue probably wasn't Jamie either. It would make no sense for him to be here. And he's certainly no "professor."
No, the man in the green shirt couldn't have been him. I was thinking about him earlier, that's all. Then Tabitha brought him up as we were walking over. It must have been some stranger, and my overactive imagination got the better of me. It wouldn't be the first time I thought I spotted Jamie in a crowd in the years since he disappeared.
I tap back a text, fumbling for the letters on the keypad.
Me: Fine. Sorry, I totally spaced! I have office hours at 1!
This reply is borderline nonsensical, but I can't think of a better excuse.
Tabitha: Seriously?
She knows it's bullshit. Not like anyone will show up for my office hours this early in the school year. I'm teaching two courses this semester, but they don't start for a few more days. And besides, it's only half past 12.
I fall back on the trusty excuse that Tabitha and I have bonded over on more than one occasion.
Me: I'm just feeling a little underprepared...
This isn't a total fabrication. A year into my position, I'm finally getting comfortable teaching courses and holding office hours, having students and colleagues address me as professor. I'm principal investigator on a five-year study funded by the NIH, but I still go through bouts of "impostor syndrome." It's hard to escape feeling under-qualified when I'm constantly mistaken for a grad student.
Me: You don't need the office before 2, do you?
Tabitha: All yours. Should I bring you back any food?
Me: No, I'm good.
Tabitha: You should've hung around. British hottie was asking about you!
And just like that, my heart is hammering in my throat again. I can't quite summon the nerve to ask if "British hottie" had a name.
Me: Asking what?
Tabitha: If you were seeing anyone. He said he's with the English dept if you're interested.
I hunch forward and let my forehead rest against the polished faux-wood surface of my desk, with my phone cradled in my lap.
Me: What did you tell him?
Tabitha: That you're allergic to the humanities lol.
I squeeze my eyes shut. Tabitha may be my bestie here on campus, but she has no idea what I went through with Jamie. I did my best to leave my memories of him behind in NYC, along with my real best friends. Penny and Lauren both still live there, busy with their own careers, but maybe I'll catch one of them on a lunch break. I send Tabitha a suitable emoji, then fire up the long-running group chat.
Me: SOS!
Penny replies a moment later, to my monumental relief. She'll tell me if I'm losing it. She's a psychiatrist, after all.
Penny: Cora? What's up?
Me: The weirdest thing just happened.
Lauren's name pops up with three hovering dots. Perfect. It's a miracle to find them
both free at the same time.
Lauren: Just got out of a deposition. What I miss?
I hold my breath and text the name I dared not speak aloud for three long years.
Me: Jamie.
Penny: Oh no 🙈
Lauren: Wait, where are you? Are you in town?
Me: No, Wallingford. I think I saw him here.
Penny: Why would he be there?
Me: I have no idea!!!
Penny: You didn't talk to him?
Me: No, I ran away 😬
Lauren: GOOD!
Me: I'm not sure it was him. Maybe I was seeing things??
Lauren: Girl, it was him. It was definitely him.
When it comes to life advice, Lauren is honest to a fault. And this is the opposite of what I was hoping to hear from her.
Me: How do you know?
Lauren: Just like him to show up out of nowhere and fuck with your head right now. I bet he saw that Rising Star award you just won.
Penny: Well, that's a leap.
Lauren: Wait, Penny, didn't you tell me David saw him this summer?
My eyes pop open wide. David is Penny's husband, a big shot Wall Street investment banker. He and Jamie didn't exactly run in the same circles. They saw each other? In New York? Why is this the first I'm hearing of it?
Me: Wait what???
Penny: ummm
Lauren: YOU DIDNT SPILL THE TEA TO CORA? WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU?!
Penny: There was no tea. It was nothing. David was running in Central Park and bumped into him. He asked how Cora was doing.
Lauren: And did your idiotic man-child of a spouse tell Cora's idiotic fuckboy of an ex where she could be located?
Penny: Hey! David is a very intelligent man-child, tyvm!
Lauren: 🙄
"And Jamie is a very intelligent fuckboy," I murmur darkly to my phone.
Still, I can't believe Jamie would show up here. Wallingford University, in middle-of-nowhere Massachusetts? No way. The Jamie I knew wouldn't be caught dead here.
Me: No, it's impossible. It was a gated university event.
Lauren: Mark my words, it's him.
Penny: What was he doing when you saw him?
Me: I didn't tell you the worst part.
Lauren: Ugh what else?
Me: Assuming it was actually him, everyone here thinks he's some kind of professor.
Penny: WHAT?!?!
The irony isn't lost on me. Here I am, an actual professor, and I'm constantly having to remind people of that fact—like the research subject in my lab this morning. But of course Jamie Bowen wouldn't have that problem. If there was one thing he knew best, it was how to look the part.
He'd spent ten years of his life as a model before I met him, impersonating everything from cowboys in designer jeans to businessmen in slick Italian suits. And his habit of "posing" as other people didn't stop at photoshoots and billboards. I spent three weeks with him in Cozumel, utterly convinced that he had a doctoral degree from Oxford in comparative literature. He'd lied so smoothly, so convincingly. How had I not seen the red flag waving in my face?
I gently pound my head against the surface of my desk.
Jamie had his own version of "impostor syndrome," and I witnessed him pull the same stunt again and again on people he met in real life. "All in good fun," he used to tell me. "We beautiful people don't belabor the truth..."
Like that time I brought him to a cocktail party at my former lab director's house. Inevitably, someone asked Jamie what he did for a living. The real answer was that he made most of his income as a TikTok influencer, posting thirst traps and hosting live streams to attract a massive following. He raked in a surprisingly healthy income from brand sponsorships and appearance fees. But he said none of that to that patio full of scientists and their plus ones.
"What do you do for a living?"
"Me?" he answered carelessly "Freelance editor these days. I work for the Times, mostly."
A thousand follow up questions ensued. "Oh how interesting! What section?"
"Arts & Entertainment," Jamie answered, smooth as silk. "Film reviews, book reviews, that sort of thing."
"How did you land a gig like that?"
"How does anyone get anything in life?" he'd laughed. "I suppose I dazzled them with my sparkling sense of humor."
I stood there like a statue the whole time, with his arm looped around my waist. I kept waiting for him to say "just kidding," but he kept going, weaving lie within lie.
We had a terrible fight afterward. Just the memory makes me grit my teeth all over again. He didn't understand the predicament he'd put me in. Those were my colleagues. I had to work with them! They would ask me follow up questions about my boyfriend the newspaper editor, and I'd either have to confess that he was a pathological liar, or keep up the pretense myself.
"Why not just tell the truth?" I'd asked him desperately. "The truth is plenty interesting!"
"Not to that lot, it isn't."
"Do you have any idea how embarrassing this is going to be for me?"
He never raised his voice when we fought. Not Jamie. When he was angry, he grew preternaturally calm. His expression would go perfectly bland. His manners, very proper. Very correct. "Oh you're embarrassed of me? I'm so sorry. Welcome to the club."
"What the hell is that supposed to mean?"
There was no more laughter on his face, then. No more sparkling wit. This was the real Jamie, fighting with me after the party ended. The dark Jamie, prone to bouts of bitter sarcasm and maddening self-sabotage.
"Listen, you can't take me to a party where I'm the only one without a PhD and expect me to feel comfortable."
"But, you can't—"
"First they ask me what I do. Next they want to know where I went to school. And I have two options. Either tell the truth, and have them all view me as a pathetic circus sideshow, or lie."
"I can never take you to another work gathering now. Do you understand that?"
That was his goal, of course. He didn't like socializing with my close friends either. Penny a doctor, Lauren a lawyer. Nearly everyone in my social circle has at least one advanced degree. Even David, Penny's husband, has an MBA from Wharton.
Of course, Jamie couldn't pull off his impostor act with my real friends. Penny and Lauren knew the whole story, from its ill-advised beginning to its untimely end. Which is why I texted them to begin with.
I've lost track of our conversation, but I quickly skim the messages I missed.
Penny: I thought he never went to college.
Lauren: Never finished high school!
Penny; Maybe he went back to school after you broke up?
Lauren: It's only been 3 years, Pen.
Penny: Yeah, but Jamie was so...
There's no good word to describe it, but I know what Penny means. Jamie didn't need an education the way most people do. He'd read the entire Western canon and committed most of it to memory. He used to wallop me and all my friends at Trivial Pursuit—but he'd go dark and disappear on me for days at the mere suggestion that he do something with all that untapped potential.
Lauren: I don't care how smart he is. No way he finished a GED, BA, and grad school in 3 years. That's simply not possible.
No, of course not. I know the truth. It's staring in my face. He's a fraud. He's always been a fraud—as I knew from the moment I met him.
I reach for the bag of peas again, but it's thawed into a soggy mess on the corner of my desk. Dammit, I don't need this. Not now! I've finally moved on. I spent a whole year after he left refusing to accept that it was really over. Waiting for his knock at my door. Crying myself to sleep.
Now I've finally kicked those hopes to the curb and gotten on with my life. And he shows up now?
Lauren: Be careful, Cora.
Penny: Yeah seriously. It's giving Joe from YOU.
Lauren: I agree. Stalker vibes.
Penny: Why though? Why would he ghost her for 3 years and then do this?
Why? I have a feeling I know the answer. Because he couldn't get over the last thing I ever said to him...
I'm about to text this, but I'm interrupted by the sound of footsteps echoing in the hall. They halt outside my office door.
Oh no. I glance at the time and see it's 1:00 pm exactly. Did some overeager undergrad show up for my office hours? I stuff my phone into my desk, as a brisk knock sounds.
"Come in!" I call, swiveling my chair to face the door.
It opens with a creak, and there he stands. No doubt about it this time. My eyes do not deceive me. Was there really any doubt? I am an expert after all. I teach the course at this university on Visual Perception.
"Jamie," I say in a flat voice. "Speak of the devil."
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