Page 82 of My Unfinished Heart

“The doctoral committee? How’d it go? Have you heard anything?”

“How’d you know that was today?”

“My mom told me when I woke up. So?”

The broad smile that breaks on my face is enough to answer the question.

“You smart fucker. Congratulations.” He hugs me again, making a huge production, rubbing my head and calling me doctor. He reminisces about the good old days at Cardigan Mountain School where he supposedly encouraged me to “aim high” and “follow my dreams”.

It’s mostly performative bullshit, but I humor him, appreciating his enthusiasm, beyond relieved to see him looking this good. It’s said that prison changes a man, but I haven’t seen West like this since high school. So, whatever changed, it had to have been good. Or maybe he just understands better now all the things he has to lose.

I swipe at his hand, cringing away when he goes for my hair a second time. “Enough, all right? I need to set up for my lecture.”

“Can I come with you?”

“Sure. I’ve got ten minutes.”

“Perfect timing,” he notes optimistically as he follows me up an old spiral staircase to the projection room behind the auditorium-style classroom. “What’s next, brother? You gonna write a book?”

“I’m a little burned out on writing. I think I’ll stick with teaching for now. Work on some new curriculums… Oh shit.”

“What?”

“This computer’s different than the one they showed us.”

“Don’t look at me. All I’ve been doing the last three years is working out.”

“Yeah. I noticed.” Prison made the already big guy massive. His hug downstairs was bone crushing.

I scowl at the sleek laptop on the projection stand. It’s a Windows computer. Windows and I do not get along.

Last semester we were still using an old fashioned slide reel, which I loved. Now everything is on computer and therefore incredibly confusing to me, PhD or not, and like I said, this laptop is totally different than the big desktops they did the inservice with.

While I sit down and try to find the icon to pull up my slideshow, West stands at the viewing window, watching the students come in for my class from our elevated vantage point. He gives me a running commentary on how he thinks fashion has changed since he’s been locked up. It’s been three years and half years, so I don’t think it’s changed all that much, and I don’t pay much attention anyway. I wear the same things I always have.

“The girl in those tight white pants looks like that girl from school. The salutatorian? What was her name?”

“Meredith,” I mumble, clicking on the ART0301 icon.

“Doesn't she look like her?”

“Meredith Wares is our age now,” I say without glancing up.

“Just look, brother.”

I clench my jaw and rise slightly from where I sit, following his gaze and pointed finger toward the girl who bears a slight resemblance to our salutatorian in that they’re both redheads.

“Looks just like her right? The one over by the door next to that guy in the cardigan.”

“Oh fuck,” I say, standing straight up when I see him.

“It does. Right?”

“That's Tristan,” I tell him.

“I thought her name was Meredith.”

“Jesus Christ, West, not her. The guy.” I point. “That’s Tristan. My brother’s friend.”