Knowing Me, Knowing You | (S/P)

Chapter 25

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Nathaniel

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The constant and  rhythmically peaceful clinking of the teaspoon against the porcelain mug as my mother stirs the very hot beverage that I placed in her hands about two minutes ago, is the only noise that can be heard in the confines of the apartment. I'd have expected all kind of reactions from her as soon as I reveled the news, from raging madness to utter disappointment, except the one I'm getting; acute silence.

"You what?" She's finally able to muster the words, not before taking a big, long gulp of her black coffee.

"I didn't do it, of course." I raise my hands in a defensive gesture, because I can't discern the expression of her face, hence I'm not sure if her silence was due to plain, harsh shock or if she thought even for a moment that I was guilty of such charges, where her silence would then be due to sheer confusion. 

"You didn't do what, exactly, Nathaniel?" Her persistence is now marked with a more composed tone, favorably similar to the one she used to employ when interrogating a client.

"Any of it, mother. I swear." I take a tentative step towards her, as I have limited myself to pace across the living room from a safe distance, reminiscing of that time I tried to explain to her how it was the dog who broke her favorite ceramic vessel and not me. "I wasn't sued per se." I try to continue, but forcing the words out my mouth after all this time still crushes me. "A female student failed false accusations of sexual harassment against me." 

"Which student?" You see, mother, that's the point. That's the biggest of betrayals and backstabbing in the history of heroes and villains and tales that became horror stories. "Which student, Nathaniel?"

"Emily." It comes as a strained sound, like that of an animal that has been hunt across the forest and now lies injured in the grass, instead of a five letters words. Instead of a name that for a long time meant everything to me. "Emily Davis."

"Emi...what do you mean, Emily?" I can see she's as flabbergasted as I was that day at the Dean's office when I received the very same news.

It was during the fall of the second year of my PhD, that Emily and I met. I had then moved to live in Cambridge as I attended Harvard, right after getting my master's degree from The University of Pennsylvania. 

A couple of friends and I decided to crash a Halloween party hosted in the main quads of campus, not giving a fuck if we were already too old for that kind of things; we were doctoral students and a night off was what we craved the most. 

And there she was... I remember the exact moment I saw her for the first time; dressed up as Daisy Buchanan from The Great Gatsby. The red and opals from the trees surrounding her and her long blond hair, along with the fact that she was standing on her own, looking completely out of place, made her look as taken from a fantasy novel.

Without giving it a second thought, I walked to her. She turned out to be a first-year graduate student, pursuing a master's degree in International Relations. We didn't stop talking for a minute that night, not until I walked her back to her apartment at 4 AM. 

Since these moments and everything related to Emily —or Daisy Buchanan for that matter— are the primary instigators of feelings and thoughts that I have strived to erase, I won't dig into the particulars of our relationship. 

I won't say how fast I fell for her or how much I loved her, neither how I once jumped into the chilly waters of Charles river just to prove her a point. I won't bore you with the anecdotes of how I let her choose the apartment we moved into after a year of officially dating, no matter how far away it was from Harvard and how I'd have to drive for almost an hour every day to get to Campus.