Page 10 of Unbound
I made my bed, pulling the comforter tight. I laid out my clothes: a crisp blue button-down shirt, ironed khaki trousers, brown leather shoes polished to a dull shine. Control. Order. These were the foundations of a righteous life. By the time I left my apartment, I felt almost normal again. Friday night was an anomaly, a test. One I had failed, but one I could recover from. I walked across the campus quad, my messenger bag held tight against my side, and entered the law building.
Professor Okonkwo’s Constitutional Law lecture was in atiered hall. I took my usual seat, third row from the front, exactly in the centre. I opened my laptop to a fresh word document, typed the date at the top, and waited.
Professor Okonkwo began to speak, his voice a rich baritone that usually held my complete attention. But today, his words about judicial review were a low drone. My mind was in a dimly lit washroom, trapped by the memory of a stranger’s smile. My heart hammered against my ribs, a frantic, panicked rhythm. How could one person, one brief encounter, undo years of work?
“Mr. Miller, Jesse isn't it?”
Professor Okonkwo’s voice sliced through my thoughts. I jolted, my back going rigid.
“What’s your take on Justice Scalia’s views on the Establishment Clause?”
My mind went blessedly blank, years of religious training and recitation taking over. I repeated the answer I had been taught, the one I had written essays on. “Justice Scalia correctly interpreted the First Amendment as preventing the establishment of a national religion, but not prohibiting religious expression in public life,” I said. My voice was clear but stiff, every word a stone laid carefully in place. “The modern interpretation that demands complete separation goes beyond the founders’ intent and restricts religious liberty.”
I finished, my heart still pounding, but a sliver of relief washed over me. I had answered correctly. I had performed.
Then a hand went up in the back of the room.
“Mr. Costas, why am I not surprised you would have the counterpoint to this argument?” Professor Okonkwo acknowledged.
A voice, casual and confident, filled the hall. “With respect to Mr. Miller, Scalia’s originalist interpretation conveniently ignores Jefferson’s 'wall of separation' letter andMadison’s writings on the danger of religious influence in government.”
My blood ran cold. I knew that voice. A low, amused tenor that had haunted my weekend. I did not dare turn around.
“The founders were explicit about keeping church authority separate from state power, not just preventing an official religion,” the voice continued, smooth and articulate. “Religious liberty means the freedom to practice without government interference, not the freedom to impose religious values through legislation.”
The argument was a direct assault. A public dismantling of everything I had just said. My shoulders tensed until they ached.
“An interesting counterpoint, Adrian,” Okonkwo nodded slipping informally to our first names. “Jesse, your response?”
Every eye in the room felt like it was on me. My mouth was dry. I gripped my pen, the plastic creaking under the pressure. “The Jefferson letter Mr. Costas references was a personal correspondence, not a constitutional document,” I managed, my voice strained. “The First Amendment’s language is clear, and modern interpretations expand its scope beyond recognition.” The words sounded hollow even to my own ears. They were a shield, but a flimsy one.
“Adrian, briefly,” the professor said.
“The Constitution isn’t a religious text, Mr. Miller,” that voice said again, closer now, it seemed. “It wasn't handed down from a mountain. It was written by imperfect men who expected us to interpret it according to evolving understanding. Jefferson's letter reveals intent, and intent matters in law. Unless you believe the founders were divinely inspired?”
A few students chuckled. Heat flooded my face, a burning wave of shame that started at my collar and crept up my neck. I stared blankly at my notebook, unable to form a response. Hehad not just beaten my argument; he had made a mockery of its foundation.
Professor Okonkwo moved on, but I heard nothing else. For the rest of the lecture, I felt his eyes on my back. My note-taking devolved into aggressive, meaningless paragraphs that would be useless after this session. A muscle in my neck seized up. It was him. The man from the washroom. And he was in my class.
When the bell finally rang, its shrill cry was a release. I moved mechanically, my hands clumsy as I stacked my books and stowed my laptop in its bag, desperate for the anonymity of the crowd. I stood and shuffled out into the hallway, head down, needing only to escape.
I took three steps and stopped dead.
Across the corridor, leaning against the opposite wall as if he had been waiting for me, was him. The man from the washroom. The voice from the lecture. Adrian Costas. He wore a grey Henley that stretched across his chest and a leather jacket. And as my eyes met his, a slow, knowing smile spread across his face.
He pushed off the wall and stepped forward, closing the distance between us.
“Jesse Miller,” he said, my name rolling off his tongue like he’d been saying it for years. “We need to talk about your argument in there. It was terrible.”
4
JESSE
The blood rushed from my face so quickly I thought I might faint. Adrian Costas stood three feet away, arms crossed, that same knowing smile from the bathroom playing at the corners of his mouth. Students flowed around us like water around stones, their conversations a distant hum beneath the roar in my ears.
"I—what?" The words came out strangled.
"Your argument. In class." He stepped closer, and I caught that same scent from the night before—something clean and masculine that made my chest tight. "About the Establishment Clause. It was weak. Memorized talking points without substance."
