Caitlyn stood alone at the sink, washing the dishes. She swirled a salad bowl in the murky dishwater, scrubbed it with the sponge, and ran the tap to rinse it. When she pushed the faucet, it didn’t quite reach the off position. She lifted her hand but found herself transfixed by the thin trickle of water. It reminded her of the fountain at Pulaski, when the water pressure was low.

  For a moment, she stared in silence. The only sounds were the faucet and the faint crackling of the soap suds. Then she gasped as her eyes filled with tears.

  My academic career is over.

  The tears overflowed and spilled down her cheeks. Caitlyn let out a sob, then bent over and covered her face with her wet hands. “Oh God,” she whispered. “Oh my God.”

  She shuddered as cascading emotions overwhelmed her. Shame, sadness, and a twisted sense of relief as years of worry gave way to grief. She had never wanted to be untethered from the academy, with nothing but time and squandered potential. But as academia closed the door for the second year in a row, this awful freedom was hers.

  * * *

  The next day, Caitlyn unsnapped her guitar case and pulled out the instrument for the first time in over a year. It was badly out of tune, but all the parts were intact. She carefully tuned each string, using an app on her phone for reference. At last, her strum produced a harmonious chord.

  She scooted back and reclined on a pillow, her slouching posture the opposite of what she’d been taught. Then she began to pick out “You Were Meant for Me” by Jewel. She missed a few notes, but after some practice, it came back to her. Once she’d run through the guitar part a few times, she began to sing the sad lyrics she still remembered from her childhood.

  Partway through the warbling chorus, Chloe burst through the door. “Jesus.”

  Caitlyn stopped playing. “What?”

  “Your middle-school breakup song?” Chloe crossed her arms. “This is sad. Really, really sad.” She narrowed her eyes. “Wait, are you singing about Ruth? Or the academic job market?”

  “I don’t know.” Caitlyn set the guitar down. “Just singing.”

  “Miguel’s having a bad day, and he wants to try a new pie place that opened near his apartment. We’re meeting there tonight. We didn’t invite you because you always say no, but you should come with us. Seriously. You need to get out of the house.”

  Did she? Caitlyn was indifferent to whether she stayed in her bedroom or left, but the thought of numbing her sadness with pie had undeniable appeal. “When are you going? I have virtual tutoring at six—some prep school kid flunking statistics.”

  “We’re not meeting until eight.”

  “Hmm.” Tutoring would only take an hour. “Okay, I’ll come.”

  “Really?” Chloe brightened. “Well, good. I’m glad. I guess I’ll leave you to your music until then.”

  Instead of resuming the song, Caitlyn rested her head on the pillow, thinking. When she told Miguel about the job market, he’d probably ask what she planned to do next. She had no answer. All she knew was that she couldn’t spend year after year trying to break into the profession, living with constant uncertainty as her odds diminished further with each new cycle.

  Caitlyn thought of the job Ruth had proposed before it had all fallen apart. Data strategist. Did jobs like that exist elsewhere? Surely all colleges needed, at minimum, someone like Maggie who could produce reports—but perhaps there were more interesting gigs too? She picked her phone up and held it above her face as she tapped out search words on Google. Jobs + college + data + strategy.

  The page filled with results. Data analytics, data strategy, data-driven initiatives. Her advisor would view taking any one of those jobs as a failure. But at this point, she had already failed. There was no harm in looking.

  * * *

  The pie shop was located in an old warehouse with towering ceilings, a cement floor, and an expansive dining area. Behind the counter, chalk-drawn menus advertised sweet and savory pie slices, and a glass case held an eclectic collection of whole pies. Some had crust, while others were topped with whipped cream, meringue, or a layer of fruit.

  “I like it here,” Caitlyn said as she scanned the room for Miguel.

  “There he is.” Chloe pointed to the back of the room.

  Miguel sat at a circular table with empty chairs on either side of him. When he spotted them, he jumped up. “My twins!” He held out his arms to embrace them both.

  “It’s so good to see you!” Chloe squealed as they accepted the hug.

  “Okay, don’t tell me who is who. I want to guess.” Miguel stood back and made a show of examining them.

  Caitlyn glanced at Chloe’s sparkly eye shadow and curly hair, an obvious contrast with her straight hair and light makeup. There was no way he could guess wrong.

  He pointed to Chloe. “You’re obviously Caitlyn.” Then he cracked up. “Kidding!”

  “Very funny.” Caitlyn took off her coat.

  Miguel gestured at the counter. “So can we get some pie? I waited for you, but I’ve been watching everyone else eat, and it’s torture.”

  “Sure. Our stuff can save our seats.” Caitlyn draped her coat over one of the chairs, and Chloe did the same.

  They joined the line and ordered one at a time. Caitlyn ordered the chocolate s’more pie, while Chloe ordered strawberry and Miguel opted for coconut cream. After paying the cashier, they moved to the side to wait for their slices.

  “So,” Chloe said to Miguel, “we talked about this on the way over. If anyone from Pulaski sees us all together, I’m going to be Chloe.”

  “If you say so.” Miguel shrugged. “But I have to say, Caitlyn looks more like Chloe at this point. Er—you know what I mean.”

  “That’s why Caitlyn will fake a British accent.” Chloe grinned. “She can be my long-lost sister who grew up overseas.”

  “Uh-huh. So how have you been?” Caitlyn asked. “Chloe said you had a rough day?”

  Miguel’s face fell. “Yeah. Preston’s lawyer told him we’re out of options, you know, to come to the United States.”

  “I’m sorry,” Caitlyn said.

  “Shit,” Chloe said. “That sucks.”

  “It’s not a surprise, since we haven’t gotten anywhere.” Miguel’s mouth twisted bitterly. “But hearing the words—it’s just hard.”

  “It’s awful,” Caitlyn said. “I wish there was something I could do.”

  “You’re doing it right now,” Miguel said. “Keeping me company while I stuff my face with pie. Really, I just need to think about something else for a while. Preston and I talked about it all afternoon, and I’m worn out.”

  “Miguel, Caitlyn, and Chloe!” A woman deposited three plates on the counter, each with a generous slice of pie.

  “Oh wow.” Caitlyn salivated at the sight of her chocolate pie with marshmallow fluff meringue and graham cracker crust. “I think this is exactly what I needed.”

  They settled at the table. The pie was so good, they spent several minutes eating in silence. When she’d finished half of the indulgent dessert, Caitlyn gulped her water and took a breath. “How is everything else going? Um, how is work?” Her pulse ticked up as she anticipated learning something—anything—about how Ruth was doing.

  “Actually, it’s going really well,” Miguel said. “Thanks to you. Yesterday, Ruth had the first enrollment work group meeting with everyone back on campus. So many faculty signed up, she had to move it to a bigger room.”

  Caitlyn’s gut twisted. The initiative they’d started together was working. She was happy for Ruth, but it killed her that she was missing it. “That’s good to hear.”

  “Maggie presented some data,” he said. “She did well, but not like you. I bet Ruth misses you.”

  Yeah, right. “Ruth hates me. She never wants to see me again.”

  “Well, she shouldn’t hate you. Your work group was a great idea. She’s more popular than ever. You may have saved her presidency.”

  Caitlyn hoped it was true. Of course, she wished Ruth success, but more than that, she wanted Ruth to look back on their time together with something besides regret. “Well, that’s good. Good for her.” She paused. “So, I didn’t get a job.”

  “Oh no,” Miguel said. “You’ve heard from everywhere?”

  “Not officially, but it’s almost Thanksgiving. Most schools contact candidates in September, maybe October if they’re running late. If I were a finalist, I would have heard by now.” She spoke in monotone, no longer able to get worked up about it.

  “I’m so sorry.” Miguel looked crushed. “I’ve been trying not to ask you for updates, but I’ve been thinking about you. I’d hoped you were just being secretive.”

  “No. There’s no secret job. I struck out again. I mean, technically there will be more postings in the spring for temporary contracts—but I don’t know how much more of this I can take. I’ve been doing online tutoring to make some money in the meantime, but now I think I’m going to apply for a real job.”

  “Real?” Miguel couldn’t hide his surprise. “You mean a non-academic job?”

  “Yeah. I think… I think I want to do what I did for Ruth—analyze data and help with strategy. I searched online, and there are a lot of jobs like that—even some in the area.”

  “Wait, are you serious?” Chloe asked.

  “Why not? I’m qualified. It would be like what I did for Ruth—not that I can put that on my résumé.”

  “Wow.” Miguel blinked. “Last time we talked, you were committed to the academic path.”

  “I know, but it’s not working out. Why should I keep torturing myself year after year, just for the chance that one day it might happen? I turned thirty last month. When do I get to start my life?” The words came out as if she were begging Miguel for permission—but she wasn’t. It was her choice.

  “Hey, I agree with you,” Miguel said. “I mean, I studied poetry. Most of my classmates didn’t get academic jobs.”

  “Do you know what some of these jobs pay? Eighty, ninety thousand dollars.”

  “Damn!” Chloe rubbed her thumb and fingers together in the “money” gesture.

  “Whoa.” Miguel sat back. “That is considerably more than I make.”

  “Exactly. And why shouldn’t I have a job like that?” Caitlyn stabbed her pie with her fork. “In grad school, they taught us that anything less than an academic job meant failure. But this is my life. Do I really need to be a professor to be happy, or am I just desperate to prove that I’m good enough?”

  “You’ve always felt pressure to succeed,” Chloe said quietly. “I mean, you always tried so much harder than I did in school.”

  “You’re right.” Caitlyn picked up water glass but didn’t take a sip. “My whole life, I’ve chased trophies—grades, degrees, prestige—for bullshit emotional reasons. I mean, I’ve had therapy. It’s not some mystery. Dad left, and Mom fell apart, and I never got over it. And somehow, I thought that if I accomplished all these things, I would finally have the love and approval I always wanted. But you know what? It never worked. Dad is still gone, my advisor doesn’t care about me, and Ruth won’t talk to me. But now I have these credentials. I have a fucking PhD. And maybe it won’t make anyone proud, but I’m going to use it to do something that matters. And I’m going to make ninety-thousand dollars doing it.” She set her water down hard, causing the liquid to slosh against the sides.

  Chloe applauded, causing a few other patrons to turn their heads. “Oops.” She dropped her hands into her lap. “Sorry. I’m just really proud of you.”

  “Thanks.” A lump formed in her throat. Whatever happened, she had Chloe—and herself. And glorious, decadent pie. She would be okay.

  Chapter 21

  Ruth wove through the crowd like a fish swimming upstream. Most conference attendees were headed to the hotel ballroom for a panel on accreditation, but she needed a break.

  She considered leaving the hotel entirely, but Chicago was chilly in March, and she’d checked her coat. So, she joined the line at the café in the hotel lobby, which sold bottled drinks and prepackaged sandwiches—the kind where the condiments were already smushed all over the bread whether you wanted them or not. Uninspired by the options, Ruth bought a shrink-wrapped chocolate chip cookie and a Diet Coke.

  Of course, every seat was taken. But perhaps she could catch someone about to leave. Ruth scanned the tables…and locked gazes with Caitlyn.

  Ruth fumbled her drink and barely caught it. She had spent months with heightened awareness of everyone around her in public, wondering if the next face she saw in the grocery store would belong to Caitlyn. But this was the last place she had expected them to meet.

  Caitlyn sat alone at a two-person table with a bottle of water and one of those four-dollar fruit cups in front of her, along with her purse and phone. She wore a badge around her neck, indicating she was registered for the same conference. But why?

  Ruth should have turned and marched in the other direction, but she stayed frozen in place. Her heartbeat throbbed in her ears as she tried to decide what to do.

  Licking her lip, Caitlyn slid her belongings closer and made room on the other side of the table. The look she gave Ruth was sad yet hopeful, as if her eyes were saying please.

  I have to know what she’s doing here. Ruth moved forward until she stood next to the table. Her heart pounded as they stared at each other.

  “Hi,” Caitlyn whispered. Aside from her nervous expression, she looked pretty and poised in her baby pink blazer over a white blouse that flattered her curves. Her hair was longer, with subtle highlights, and her makeup was a work of art: taupe eye shadow in a subtle gradient with curled lashes. The look reminded Ruth of the day Caitlyn had presented at the first retention work group meeting, speaking as though she’d explained data countless times. Which, of course, she had.

  A man started down the narrow path that Ruth was blocking. “Excuse me.”

  Ruth pulled out the other chair and sat at the table. “I see you’re here as yourself.” She gestured to the badge that said CAITLYN TAYLOR in bold letters. Then she read the smaller print beneath the name: Linvale Community College. “LCC? You’re a professor there?”

  “No.” Caitlyn fiddled with her plastic spoon. “A researcher. I analyze data and work with the president on strategy.”

  The words were like a jackknife to her gut. “The same work you were doing for me.” It came out as an accusation, as though Caitlyn had no right to provide her skills to some other president.

  “I couldn’t tell them I had experience, of course. But I managed to do okay in the interview.” Caitlyn’s lips curved into a hesitant smile.

  “Well.” Ruth strained to keep her composure. Sitting two feet away from Caitlyn, Ruth found it hard to breathe.

  “How’s Pulaski?” Caitlyn asked.

  “Not bad. Enrollment is stable for the first time in four years. We’ve had fewer withdrawals and fewer students in debt.” Part of Ruth hated to admit that Caitlyn’s strategies had been working, but another part wanted Caitlyn to be proud of herself—and proud of Ruth.

  “That’s wonderful!” Caitlyn broke into a wide smile. “Oh, Ruth. I’m so happy for you.”

  The heartfelt joy touched Ruth. She couldn’t help it. But Caitlyn lied to me. Ruth struggled to tame her turbulent emotions. “I should get back to the conference.”

  Caitlyn’s face fell. “But it’s past the hour. All of the sessions have started already.”

  “I’m going to take a walk.” Ruth stuffed the cookie and soda into her purse.

  “Couldn’t we talk for a bit?” Caitlyn’s voice faltered. “I feel awful about the way things ended, and I—I miss you.”

  The words pierced Ruth’s heart. She missed their connection—the one they’d had before she knew the truth. But she couldn’t drop her guard again, not with someone who had told her so many lies. “No. I have to go.” She slid out of the chair and stood.

  “Wait.” Caitlyn reached into her purse and frantically dug through the contents. “Please, wait one minute.” She retrieved a business card and a pen. “Let me give you my cell phone number. If you never want to see me again, I’ll accept it. But I want you to have it in case you ever want to talk.” She scribbled on the card and held it out.

  Against all reason, Ruth accepted the card and dropped it into her purse. I’ll throw it away later. “Goodbye, Caitlyn.”

  Ruth hurried toward the exit. The glass doors whisked open, and she stepped outside into the chilly air. Wind whipped through her hair, and she shivered in her thin blazer. Still, she kept going.

  She followed the sidewalk until she reached the Chicago River. Catching her breath, she stood on the bridge and stared down at the murky water.

  Caitlyn misses me. How absurd that it meant anything to her, that her insides melted when she heard those words in her head. They’d only spent two months together, and Caitlyn had lied the entire time. Any residual attachment was muscle memory. Her heart hadn’t caught up to her brain.

  Ruth pulled out the card and read it for the first time. The front of the card said Caitlyn Taylor, PhD. Data analyst and listed Caitlyn’s work email and phone number. She flipped it over and read the personal number Caitlyn had scrawled on the back. The area code wasn’t local, but it looked familiar. Perhaps it was from St. Louis, where Caitlyn had gone to school.

  Pinching the card between her fingers, she imagined tossing it into the river. She’d watch it float on the surface until the card stock soaked through. The ink would blur as it sank and disintegrated into nothing. Then Ruth could go back to her life that did not include either one of the Taylor sisters.

  She held it over the water, closed her eyes…and didn’t let go.

  It’s wrong to litter. That was why she held on. Never mind the trash can three yards to her left.