No Second Chances [ON HOLD]

Chapter 2: Impostor Syndrome

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?