Chapter 11: Maxwell's Porch

I did not cry in the gym.

I did not cry on the walk back to the dorm, or when I turned my clinic badge in at the front desk.

I cried at nine that night, in the shower, with the water as hot as it would go.

At ten, someone knocked on my door.

Maxwell stood in the hallway with a paper bag in one hand and his tie stuffed in his pocket.

"They don't let faculty into the dorms," he said. "So I'm technically outside."

"You're technically at my door."

"Technically." He held up the bag. "Real pizza. The kind with a crust."

I wanted to laugh, and it came out as a hiccup.

He set the bag down on the floor and opened his arms.

I walked into them.

He held me against his chest until my breathing slowed, and his hand moved up and down my back.

"I'm going to fix it," he said into my hair.

"You can't. She's got a statement, and a mother's tears, and a director who has to be fair."

"I have a goat."

I laughed again, really laughed, against his shirt.

"Come to my place," he said. "It's a mile down the road from the clinic."

"It has a porch and a bad couch, and nobody there will ask you anything."

I stayed in his arms a long moment.

"I'm scared," I said. "Of what I'd do if I went."

"What would you do?"

"Stay."

"That's allowed."

His farmhouse had a deep porch with two mismatched chairs and a string of yellow bulbs.

Moths bumped against the glass.

Inside, there was a worn leather couch, a kitchen smelling of coffee, and a dog bed with no dog in it.

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