Page 11 of On Thin Ice

After catching up with my dad on the phone, I spent most of the next Sunday reading an anthology of contemporary short stories, ones I’d never read before and many by authors I’d never heard of. As I began growing sleepy, I got up off the bed to stretch and walk around. I drank the rest of my water and then sat on the edge of the bed, picking up the book again.

And then I noticed.

Inside the book was his name written neatly in ballpoint: Sinclair C. Whittier. Directly underneath I read the words Furnald Hall. I wasn’t sure what that meant at first—but when I searched those words on my phone, I discovered it was a dorm at Columbia University. And that must have meant that the book I was reading now had been one of his textbooks—for a literature class maybe?

Just that knowledge drew me closer to him, knowing that, right now, I was probably the age he’d been when he’d read this book—and it had to have meant something to him. Otherwise, why would he still have it?

But before I could muse over that any longer, my phone lit up with a text message from a number I didn’t recognize. Anna, I’m sorry I’m just now reaching out to you. How are you doing?

There was only one person I could think of who called me Anna on a regular basis—but I hadn’t seen him in over a month, not since the night my life changed forever.

Mr. Sherwood? I texted back.

The response was immediate. Please call me Alan.

No, I wouldn’t call him by his first name. He’d wanted to get too friendly as it was. And there was nothing to respond to, so I simply stared at the phone. I reread his first message, but I didn’t know that I wanted to tell him everything that had happened to me since my last night at WCC.

But that didn’t stop him from sending another message: Dr. R. told me what happened. And I want you to know I told her I refuse to believe you had anything to do with what happened to the sim lab. All she told me was that you’re in Denver working off your debt.

That seemed simple enough—so I responded. Yes. It seemed better than jail.

Several minutes passed and I assumed we were done with the conversation, so I picked up the book again and began turning to the story where I’d left off when another message finally came through.

I’m sorry to hear that. I saw your father at the store earlier today and we were talking about you. He’s the one who gave me your number.

At first, I wanted to ask him how he knew who my father was. But what a dumb question that would have been. Everyone in Winchester knew who we were. That was the biggest problem with living in a town rather than a city. But then I thought of the Whittiers, imagining that they were recognized even in an ocean as vast as the Denver area.

I had to know. How does my dad seem?

He looked all right. Mr. Sherwood continued. Is there anything I can do to help you out?

My response, though flippant, was true. If you have a million dollars or so, you could put that toward my debt. I followed it with lol.

His reply seemed almost sad, even though he didn’t send it with any emojis to tell me so. I wish I could.

I felt relieved when we typed our goodbyes, my thanking him for his concern and his telling me to reach out anytime I wanted to talk.

I didn’t return to the book, instead musing over the similarities and differences between Mr. Sherwood and Sinclair. Obviously, there was the difference in class and wealth, and it made me wonder if I was starting to find Sinclair desirable because of those things. Had I not liked Mr. Sherwood because he didn’t have those things?

No. That wasn’t it. Not at all.

Mr. Sherwood had seemed to cross a lot of boundaries…but then I realized that was the same thing that was happening here and now. Sinclair and I had crossed a line once—and we often threatened to do it again.

But then it dawned on me that that was the difference. Between Sinclair and me, that line crossing was mutual.

Mr. Sherwood’s attention had come out of nowhere. One day he was lecturing in the classroom, the next he was stopping me in the hallway, inviting me out for a cup of coffee. And it wasn’t as if he’d ever done anything blatantly wrong.

It was just a feeling. A creepy feeling that I couldn’t shake whenever I was around the man—and it was now extending through the ether to my phone.

And then I thought of something. Picking up my cell, I shot a quick text to my dad. Why didn’t you tell me you ran into Mr. Sherwood at the store when we were talking this morning?

It was a minute or so later that he replied. Your college professor? I just saw him at the store an hour ago. Did he already call you? I hope it was okay that I gave him your number. He seemed concerned about you.

I didn’t want to tell my dad that giving Mr. Sherwood my number was like feeding me to the wolves, even though it almost felt that way. Why should I make him feel guilty over yet another thing he had no control over? So I just told him, Yes, it’s fine.

And I left it at that. But having Mr. Sherwood juxtaposed in my mind next to Sinclair, there was no denying that I was falling hard for the man who was deemed by contract my employer.

The Sunday meetings shouldn’t have been a thing. At first, I was just supposed to make sure I’d turned in my timesheet by Sunday at five o’clock, and Sinclair had asked that I turn them in to his office. But the first Sunday I’d done that, he’d been sitting there waiting and we’d verbally agreed that I should turn in my timesheet at that particular time—five—instead of sometime before, and that he should receive and review it with me.

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