He snorts in derision. “Oh Bailey, that’s just pathetic. If you want to get back together, just say so.”
“I don’t want to get back together,” I say evenly, holding onto my temper with an effort. Guys. They always think it’s about them. “But you were a shitty, shitty teacher, and you made me think I was hopeless.” I meet his gaze squarely. “And I’m not.”
He just shakes his head. “Whatever, Bailey,” he says condescendingly. “This is what you new age chicks called empowerment, right?” He makes air-quotes as he says empowerment, and I want to punch him.
As furious with Daniel as I am, neither he nor Sebastian ever dismissed me this way. Instead, they were interested in me. They’d never once made me feel that I wasn’t important.
I consider it a win that I don’t smash Trevor’s stupid ugly vase on my way out. I’m tempted, trust me. I’m seriously tempted.
* * *
Monday morning, I’m at work, snowed under by a pile of essays, when there’s a knock at the open office door. I look up, expecting some undergrad who has come to argue about his grade, but instead, it’s Steve Ashworth, the head of the Department of Anthropology. Uncharacteristically, he has a beaming smile on his face.
“Bailey,” he booms. “Good job, great job. I can’t even begin to tell you how delighted I am. How delighted we all are.”
I blink at him, confused. “What’s going on?”
He frowns at me, entering my office. “You don’t know?”
I clear some paperwork off a chair for him to sit down. “I promise you, I have absolutely no idea what you are talking about.”
“The endowment, of course,” he exclaims. Then he looks at my expression. “Hang on, you don’t know what I’m talking about.”
“Yes, I have been saying that,” I agree blandly. “What exactly are we celebrating?”
Sameer, alerted by the noise, appears in the doorway. It’s a party at Bailey’s, everyone. Bring your own coffee. “What’s going on, Steve?” he asks.
Steve’s grin stretches from ear to ear. “Our Bailey here has friends in high places. You’ve heard of the Hartman Foundation?”
“Yeah,” Sameer says. “They’re sponsoring Maria Rivera’s trip to Siberia.”
“Oh, did that get approved? Good for Maria,” I say automatically, then I register Steve’s words. Hartman Foundation. Daniel Hartman. How did I not connect the dots? And what has Daniel done that has Steve so pleased?
“Right. Well, they were going to fund an endowment to the university,” Steve says. “Of course, I didn’t think twice about it. Most of these grants go to the business school or the engineering school.”
I want to tell Steve to hurry up and get to the point. “And instead?” Sameer prompts, suppressing a smile at my impatience. Steve’s legendary within the department for telling the longest, most rambling stories.
“Instead they gave it to Liberal Arts,” Steve announces, sounding thrilled. He’s almost dancing a jig in his excitement. “One hundred and fifty million dollars over the next five years. The official press conference is tomorrow, but I wanted to thank you personally, Bailey. George told me that Alexa Hartman mentioned in passing that you were a friend of her son.” George is the president of the NYU.
Steve winks at me and leans in, continuing his sentence in a lowered voice. “Good job, Bailey. I won’t forget this when it’s time to evaluate your tenure application.”
When he departs, Sameer looks at me curiously. “What did Steve say to you at the end?”
I swallow back the sour feeling from my mouth. “That he’d make sure to keep in mind at tenure time that a billionaire name-dropped me. You know, because the work I do doesn’t matter at all.”
Sameer shrugs. “Bailey,” he advises calmly, “these are tough times to be an anthropologist. Stop sweating it and use every advantage you have. NYU won’t give you tenure if your work isn’t good enough.”
The feeling of bitterness doesn’t go away. As I think about the situation, I start getting angry. If Daniel wanted to apologize, a bunch of flowers would have done admirably. He didn’t need to spend a hundred and fifty million dollars.