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But we’re hardly doing couple-typethings.
Let’s look at thefacts.
She met my mom, but that was purely circumstantial. We needed food, and what kind of person hatessushi?
She stayed over Sunday night, but I still got up at six on Monday to work. (Even though waking up to her sleepy, naked form wrapped around me made doing it a special kind oftorture.)
Finally, when we meet in public, there’s zero PDA. We don’t kiss. Or grope. Tugging on her ponytail doesn’t count, because no one watching would guess it’s my twisted fetish and that doing it gets me half-hard—
“Listen, this job’s down to you and one other candidate.” The dean checks his watch. “You ready forthis?”
I shoulder my bag and take abreath.
I follow him down the hall, remembering Rena’s message. I feel around in my phone case, and my fingers come up with a piece ofpaper.
I tug on it. Not paper. It’s aphoto.
The Polaroid of us kissing at theparty.
My chest loosens, the tension replaced with something infinitelywarmer.
I tuck the photo carefully into mypocket.
Presentations never came easily to me, but it helped when I realized the people don’t care about me. They care about what I’msaying.
Still, it’s never easy. Especially when three dozen faculty and students are in attendance and it’s like running the gauntlet. If I thought doing this a second time would be less stressful? I waswrong.
As I set up my laptop and attach it to the projector, the small theater-style room still humming with conversation, I remind myself this is what I’ve alwayswanted.
All through school, I dreamed of being a researcher. Running a lab of my own. Every ounce of sweat, every failure, every frustration, was forthis.
I stand off to the side while the associate dean introduces me. I scan the room, a few people meeting my stare, as he reads off my list of accomplishments. Each of those is familiar but like it happened in a far away place. Anothertime.
In the years when the only thing I had to deal with was working on my dissertation, each hurdle felt like a mountain to climb. Looking back, I realize how simple thingswere.
“Wes?” the associate dean prompts after he introducesme.
I nod, telling myself to get my shit together. “Many of you I’ve met. For those who are new”—a few faces meet that criterion—“let me start by saying this is my favorite place in the world. If you haven’t spent a spring here, the cherry blossoms will change yourlife.”
A few smiles come out as I transition into my job talk, walking through the complexities of my cancer research. Normally I’d have sweaty palms, but once I hit my stride, they’recool.
I start high-level, then dive into the details. I talk about the work I’ve done that builds on the best minds in the world, and what makes mineunique.
The faculty put me through my paces, asking questions about my methods, my approaches, my sampling. I take each one instride.
“Your publication record is impressive,” one of the hiring committeecomments.
I nod. The right answer isn’t, “Thank you,” because the reality is, I wouldn’t be here withoutit.
The associate dean adds, “And one under review with theJournal ofMicrobiology.”
“It’s just a matter of time,” Iconfirm.
Another hand goes up. This guy’s young. Younger thanme.
I nod tohim.
“What advice would you give new graduate students?” heasks.
