I just cost him everything.
She picks up a piece of paper and stands, walking toward me. I meet her in the middle of the room, and she hands it to me. It’s a copy, the fold lines clearly visible, and it’s on Caleb’s letterhead.
I can hear the blood rushing through my veins, the sound of my own heart so loud it could drown anything else out, and my eyes skip down the letter, taking in phrases piecemeal because I need to get to the end, I need to understand what he did and why he did it, but I can’t process anything.
To President Levenbaum
Resignation, effective immediately
With Miss Lopez, an undergraduate in my Honors Calculus section
Pursued relentlessly
Insinuated that she might receive a poor grade
“No, he didn’t,” I say out loud, jerking my head up, looking at Dr. Castellano. “That’s not true, he never insinuated anything —”
“Are you sure?” she asks, and I look back at the letter.
I feel like I’m going to throw up.
Well aware of our relative positions
Improper abuse of authority
“That’s not what happened,” I tell her, and now my voice is shaking too. “This isn’t true. None of this is true, he never threatened to fail me, or give me a worse grade, or give me a better grade if I slept with him, or…”
I am, somehow, sitting in one of the expensive chairs, the copy of the letter still in my hand, Dr. Castellano sitting opposite me. I don’t remember sitting down but here I am, feeling like I’m in the center of a whirlpool.
I take a deep breath. I put the letter on the table, because I don’t think I can hold it any more. And then I make myself read it, from start to finish, both my hands over my mouth.
It’s simple. It’s a straightforward, brief, no-frills account of how Caleb took advantage of his relative power over me to convince me to start a relationship with him.
It’s also a complete lie, from top to bottom.
“This isn’t true at all,” I say, when I finally finish. My voice is a hoarse whisper, and I only realize I’m crying when a drop lands on the paper.
I swallow. I clear my throat, but before I can say anything else, Dr. Castellano speaks.
“Professor Loveless has already terminated his employment with the university, and anything you might say to me now won’t change that,” she says, slowly, looking me dead in the eye.
I clench my jaw, grit my teeth, will myself to stop crying.
“If you were particularly determined, you could request that your case be re-opened,” she goes on. “But I want to be absolutely clear that this —" she puts her finger on the letter, “—is already done and cannot be undone, no matter what you might say or do.”
I bite the inside of my lips together so hard I draw blood, then look down at the letter.
I hate every single word on that page. I hate every sentence, every paragraph, every punctuation mark. I hate it for being nothing but lies, and I hate it for being what the University administration wanted to hear.
“The only real question is whether you’d like to press charges,” she goes on.
“No,” I say, the word coming out half-sob. “No. Jesus, no.”
She just nods, and I don’t say anything else. I understand, with crystal clarity, what she’s telling me.
“Then I think we’re done here,” she says, softly, and takes the letter back. She walks, ramrod straight, back to her laptop, picks up her briefcase, puts the letter back into it.
Then she stands again, turns, looks out one window.
“The administration isn’t particularly concerned with true justice,” she says, after a long pause. “But they’re very concerned with the appearance of justice. If this ever comes to light, they want to be able to parade someone’s head on a stick, and now that they’ve got that, they’re happy. And forgive me, Thalia, but I don’t see a reason for you to suffer needlessly.”
I say nothing, but only because I have nothing to say. I’m cold, numb, and feel like any moment now I’m going to wake up from this stupid anxiety-induced nightmare.
“Is there anything I can do?” she asks, finally looking back at me.
I take a deep breath and close my eyes. I’m still crying and still trying not to, but it’s not working.
“He’s not a bad person,” I say, quietly. “He’s not the monster he makes himself sound like, I swear.”
“I suspected as much,” she says, slowly. “You’re a smart woman who chooses your associates well.”
“Who reported it?” I ask, the only other question I have. “It’s over. Tell me that.”
“I don’t know,” she says, but she walks toward me again, puts her briefcase down on a chair. “I sincerely don’t. We weren’t told that information.”
She pulls her laptop from her bag, and I can tell a but is coming.