With Me Now Read online

  “Jesus Christ.”

  “It’s been a pretty epic night of failures. Oh, and I fucked an engineering student.”

  “Typical.”

  Madison unfolded the citation. She was still tipsy enough that the words wobbled and swayed in front of her. Her step-dad was going to see words like citation and crime and go through the roof. Hell, he could see her name listed in conjunction with terms like “citation for meritorious service for the prevention of crime” and freak out. Richard Essington was the human equivalent of boiled oatmeal. He liked structure. He liked schedules. And he especially liked being President of Monongahela University of Western Pennsylvania, where he could monitor her academic achievements and ensure nothing remotely resembling “fun” or “shenanigans” happened in her social calendar.

  Shit.

  Chapter Two

  The voicemail from her step-father was to the point: “My office. 10:00am.”

  There were no extraneous threats, no “If you know what’s good for you, you won’t be late.” There didn’t have to be—she knew that tone. She’d heard that tone a lot since she was twelve. Richard Essington was never an abusive man; he was the king of guilt trips and revenge, Mr. “It’s a shame I have to be so disappointed in you” parenting fail.

  His secretary, Mary Beth, was staring at the doorway when Madison slid into the outer reception area. She raised her hand in a half-wave. “Good morning, Madison. President Essington is just finishing up with a conference call. He asked me to have you take a seat until he’s ready. It should only be a few more minutes.”

  President Essington, for Christ sake. She was surprised he didn’t decorate his office like the Oval Office or issue school currency with his picture on it. Douchebag.

  Ten minutes into her wait, she knew he was proving a point. Despite the fact he’d been married to her mother for nearly eleven years, she wasn’t entirely sure what the man’s occupation entailed. When he became President of the University, she knew even less. All she knew for sure was that he wrote an article for the alumni magazine. Sometimes he made phone calls. Other than that, she assumed he sat in his office, doing as she did now: playing mindless games on an iPhone.

  “He’ll see you now, you can go on in.” Mary Beth nodded to the still closed door. How did she know? Text? Instant message? Mind chip?

  Madison shoved her phone in her pocket and hoisted her bag over her shoulder. It was about damn time. If he pissed around any longer, she’d be late for class.

  He didn’t look up as she entered the office, instead keeping his focus on his computer screen. His hand rested delicately on top of the wireless mouse. He moved it back and forth over the mouse pad with conviction—probably difficult moves in solitaire or something equally unimportant.

  “I have class in eleven minutes.” She consulted the clock on her iPhone. “It’s going to take me four minutes to get to Ferris Hall, so…how exactly can I help you?”

  “Close the door,” — he still didn’t look up — “and sit down.”

  She complied, setting her bag on the floor. And we’re off.

  “Your mother and I are disappointed in you.”

  “Okay.”

  “You couldn’t even be bothered to discuss it with us? At least let us know something happened?”

  “It happened about eight hours ago. I hardly think we’re outside the statute of limitation for letting you know I got a citation.”

  “I hope you don’t think you’re going to get away with this. It’s a serious concern, both academically and ethically.” His eyes remained transfixed on the computer screen. “Your future is at stake, especially if you think you’re going to move forward toward graduate school.”

  “It’s not a big deal—”

  “It is a huge deal.”

  “Look, I have class I need to get to. If you insist on reprimanding me, can we do it later? I have a paper to turn in and a speech to give in seven and a half minutes.”

  “You’re treading on thin ice, Madison. I will not permit this type of behavior on my campus and certainly not in my family.”

  “Are you threatening me?” She narrowed her eyes. Bastard. The fact he couldn’t comprehend why she hated him so much was mind boggling.

  He double clicked the mouse and then pressed his fingers to the keyboard; slowly, impeccably, beginning to type. “You can go.”

  She rolled her eyes, throwing her bag over her shoulder as she trudged to the door. She wanted to slam it, to punctuate her disdain for him. He was infuriating, from the way he used a keyboard to the way he thought he could run her life. “No preferential treatment just because you’re my stepdaughter.” She wanted to give him a newsflash: being a jackass was not preferential treatment.

  And he wondered why she drank.

  * * * *

  A fifteen minute wait for a chicken salad sandwich on a croissant instead of a hamburger bun was preposterous, yet Madison was willing to let it slide this time. What other pressing matters did she have? There was only one final left to worry about—WWI Comparative Perspectives—and her mother’s telephone calls to avoid. Somehow it seemed easier to roam around the Barista and debate what flavor of potato chips best accompanied chicken salad and diet Mt. Dew.

  She swung her bag to her other shoulder. Now that classes were over, she’d have to start packing up her belongings in preparation for moving home. Thank God summer would be busy with the Normandy trip. Her step-father would no doubt make life unbearable...at least, more unbearable than usual.

  “Madison. Hey.”

  She wanted to slam her hand in the refrigerator case door. Repeatedly. “Anthony. How delightful.”

  He flashed his impish, crooked smile. It’d seemed so adorable when they’d started dating. Now she wanted to smash a bag of chips in his face. “Are you okay, Maddy? I heard what happened last night.”

  “I’m fine, Anthony, thanks for asking.” She snapped a bag of chips from the display and stormed to the counter. How long did it take to scoop chicken salad onto a croissant?

  He was right behind her. “How did your step-dad handle it?”

  “Okay, you know Tricky Dick.” She avoided looking into his chocolate hued eyes. She wouldn’t fall for his Italian charms—again. “He was a real peach.”

  “Maddy, can we go somewhere and talk? I think we have a lot to talk about.”

  “We have nothing to talk about, Anthony.”

  “Maddy, please. Give me another chance.” He touched her hand. “We were good together.”

  She ignored the surge of electricity in her veins. “I gave you about four chances, Anthony, and despite that, I still caught you fucking Sarah Radford in the parking lot. The parking lot, Anthony. She sounds like a God damned wildebeest.”

  “I know, I know, it was a mistake.” He paused and took a deep breath, as if he was grounding himself. She felt herself leaning forward. “And I’m sorry.”

  “Anthony, no.” She debated throwing the chips down and just leaving the Barista. No sandwich was worth this. “I told you before, obviously I have to tell you again. There is no ‘we’ anymore. There’s you. There’s me. You can’t keep doing this.”

  The hair netted Barista girl moseyed to the counter. “Chicken salad on a croissant?”

  Madison pushed past Anthony and snatched the Styrofoam container out of the girl’s hands. She barely mumbled a thank you, instead throwing herself into the line at the register.

  It wasn’t that easy to lose her ex. He was right beside her, again, blathering on about change and regrets and love.

  Ha—love. Yes, there’d been a point when she would have dropped out of school to marry Anthony Bautti. But Anthony had the persistent habit of always making her third to everything else: usually right behind hockey and other girls.

  She wasn’t about to put up with that shit.

  “Look, I’m flattered you feel this way, but you need to get over it. We’re through. Over.”

  “I can’t lose you.”

 
“Anthony,” she groaned, pawing through her bag in desperate search of her student ID/meal card. “I can’t do this right now. I’m stressed. I’m hung over. I’m just not in the mood to be a spectacle in front of half the student body.”

  He reached around her and handed his ID to the cashier. “I’ve got this one.”

  “You don’t have to do that.”

  “I want to.”

  She sighed, uncomfortable with his sudden show of generosity. It didn’t feel genuine, not entirely. She was fairly sure he was just trying to buy her affection. She wasn’t that type of girl, but if she was: chicken salad and chips? Really?

  The cashier loaded her lunch into a plastic bag and slid it across the counter. Anthony adjusted the handles, deliberately running his fingers across hers as he handed her the bag. “Call me if you need me, especially if things get ugly with your step-dad.”

  “Thanks.” She watched him saunter away, the fabric of his black t-shirt smooth across his broad shoulders. There was no denying he was gorgeous. He knew he was gorgeous; he reveled in it. And he also knew part of her was struggling getting over him. Anthony was like a pair of old shoes, albeit expensive Italian old shoes. He was comfortable. He’d been through everything with her. They were a match set.

  Unbelievable. Things couldn’t possibly get any worse.

  Chapter Three

  She received her court summons in the mail the next morning. And, ten minutes into her last final, she received a voicemail message from her academic advisor, Dr. Ruzich.

  Much like her step-father’s was the day before, it was short and to the point: Madison, please come to my office as soon as you can. I’ll be available until noon.

  As she climbed the steps of the student center, Madison exhaled with the vehemence of a charging bull, so loudly a nearby student glanced quizzically in her direction. Nothing good ever came from a spur of the moment advisor meeting. No good was going to come from this one—she was fairly sure of that. It could only be about one thing.

  Dr. Ruzich’s office was the “dorm room” of tenured professor’s offices: small, cramped, and with room dimensions too strange to adequately hold a standard size desk and chairs. Even so, she managed to cram two bookshelves on either side of the desk and a small one behind her, working solely from an iPad. Books were neatly stacked on the shelves and on her desktop. Not a paper was out of place, despite the lack of space or storage.

  She didn’t look up as Madison edged in the room. “Hello, Madison. Thanks for coming in on such short notice.”

  “It’s bad, isn’t it.” She said it as a statement, not a question.

  “It’s bad.” Dr. Ruzich pulled a file folder from a stack and opened it in front of her. She flipped through the papers clipped inside and ran her finger down a familiar form. The citation. “I’m sure I don’t need to say anything else about what happened. The department head reviewed the case this morning.”

  “Dr. Emerson reviewed it or my step-father asked Dr. Emerson to review it?”

  “Madison.” Dr. Ruzich momentarily closed her eyes. When she opened them, she looked back at the file folder. “Dr. Emerson reviewed the case this morning, and the department decided to revoke your acceptance into the Normandy program.”

  She felt her stomach lurch to one side, as if she’d just plummeted face first from a plane and onto Omaha Beach. Her mouth ran dry; she licked her lips. “Are you kidding me? I wasn’t the only one at that party who was given a citation. A citation, may I remind you. I wasn’t arrested. I didn’t run someone over with my car. I was given a citation for underage drinking.”

  “You’re right. There were other people cited at the party. But none of them were the so-called ‘golden child’ of our history department. People had expectations for you, Madison. You were well on your way to being accepted into the masters/doctoral program this fall, but now that’s put on hold. They wanted to throw you out of the program completely. It was recommended you be placed on academic probation.”

  “I assume the recommendation came from my step-father, who no doubt also recommended I be kicked out of the doctoral program before I was even accepted.” She could feel her pulse pounding away in her temple, a cadence she felt like replicating with her fist against the desk. This couldn’t be happening.

  “I’m not going to lie. Dr. Essington had a lot to say at the meeting today.” Dr. Ruzich held up her hand to silence her before she could speak. “Dr. Emerson was strongly against throwing you out of the program. The department as a whole doesn’t want you thrown out of the program.”

  Madison huffed, digging her fingernails into her knuckles until she left crescent shaped indentations in her flesh. “So what does that mean?”

  “Right now it means you won’t be going to Normandy with us.”

  Madison stared down at the file folder and crossed her arms over her chest. There was nothing to say.

  “The good news is, your application to the joint masters/doctoral program will still be reviewed in the fall. Your citation won’t be mentioned in the official department recommendation, pending your completion of the court’s determined sentence. Besides, by the fall you will be twenty-one, and you can petition the court to wipe your official record clean.”

  “So, basically my step-father has assured I won’t get accepted into the program.” Madison hunched forward in her chair and pressed her palms to her forehead. She then sat upright and wildly motioned around the room, as if talking it out in pseudo-communicative dance would help solidify her point. “I needed the Normandy trip to get me in. You said so yourself; a dig backed by the French government and the American Monument Association was a rocket launch in. I worked my ass off to even get put on the Normandy trip. I sorted and documented nail fragments at Fort Necessity for seventy-two hours straight for god’s sake. My qualifications are pretty slim to none—Normandy was going to be my qualification. What I am supposed to put on my application now? Trust me, I’m really good at what I do despite being a drunk?”

  “I know, Madison, I know.” Dr. Ruzich held her hands up as if in submission. She leaned back in her chair and plucked a pen off the desk, twisting the cap around. “Dr. Emerson and I discussed it at length. His recommendation was a different project. It’s obviously not on the scale of the Normandy dig, but it’s good. It’s extremely good.”

  “Okay.”

  “The Gettysburg Foundation acquired the Spangler Farm several years back and, despite the fact renovations aren’t even close to being complete, they’re ready to open it up to the public. Before they can do that, they want to conduct a small archeological survey of the area. Nothing fancy, just a few small test pits and a brief write up. The dig team is set, but lucky for you, Dr. Emerson’s nephew is heading it. He offered to add you to the roster.”

  “You say that like there’s a catch.”

  “The only catch is that we don’t know what your sentence will be and if the court will allow you to go to Gettysburg. From what I can tell, most of those cited for underage drinking in the state are sentenced to community service, a fine, or alcohol rehabilitation classes. I don’t see why you couldn’t complete those in Gettysburg, but ultimately that’s up to the court to decide. When is your hearing?”

  “Two weeks, on the twenty-fourth.”

  “Dr. Emerson needs a solid answer by next week. The dig is scheduled to start the first of the month.” Dr. Ruzich leaned forward and tented her fingers in front of her, delicately resting her chin on her fingertips. “Can you give me a tentative answer? Because, worst case scenario, you go down and start working the dig, come back for the hearing, and see what your options are from there.”

  “I want this.”

  “I knew you would.” Dr. Ruzich leaned back in her chair and picked up her iPad. She ran her fingers over the screen, obviously composing an email. “I’ll let Dr. Emerson know so he can get you set up with housing and hopefully some kind of stipend. You need to call me after your court date in case there’re any issues we need t
o work around. Are you utilizing a lawyer?”

  “I hadn’t really thought about it.”

  “It might be something to consider.”

  “It was a citation for underage drinking. Not a DUI.”

  “I know. Hopefully that works in your favor.”

  Madison swallowed hard. Of course Dr. Ruzich sounded ambivalent—it wasn’t her name on the citation. Or on the history department’s hit list. “You know, Alonzo Cushing—who died at the Battle of Gettysburg—said that although he didn’t expect to last the war, he expected to make a name for himself. Similarly, I don’t expect to get into grad school. But I’ve already made a name for myself.”

  “Just be honest.” Dr. Ruzich smiled with such warmth that Madison almost felt better. Almost. “Stop worrying, Madison. It doesn’t accomplish anything. You’ll get this straightened out and you’ll move on. We’re all allowed one screw up.”

  “Tell that to my step-father.” Madison stood and hoisted her bag over her shoulder. “Thanks, Dr. Ruzich.”

  “My door is always open.”

  The walk back to the dorms always seemed to take forever. Today it seemed twice as long. Kicked off the Normandy dig. Her step-father was playing his hand and trying to prove some ridiculous point. What better way to do it than take away what she wanted most? She had suspicion he wasn’t making a show of his superiority because of a moral aversion to her drinking. More likely—and more true to his character—was that he was doing it to show he could. He always got his way. He always won.

  Fine. Let him have Normandy. She had Gettysburg.

  She pursed her lips together. Gettysburg. Great. Not that she didn’t love the Civil War as much as the next history major, it just didn’t seem on the same par as Normandy. Not as elite. And, in turn, despite what Dr. Ruzich implied, it didn’t really seem like it would be enough to get her into the Masters/Doctoral program.

  Jamming her key into the lock, Madison shoved her dorm door open and stalked inside. Cora was gone—probably for the best—and it took every reasonable sinew in her body not to chuck her backpack across the room. Son of a bitch.