Will reconnecting after more than a decade apart rekindle their love? Or will they not like each other at all?
Unexpectedly, two-year college English instructor Joseph Rutledge gets a letter from Quentin Richards, the boy who sat in front of him at a charity school for wayward boys. Joe vividly remembers Quentin comforting him in fifth grade during an unprecedented earthquake. What could have been a lasting friendship with the boy he loved dissolved under Joe’s inherent shyness.
Little does he know Quentin too remembers the traumatic day of the earthquake and has relied on his memories of Joe’s comfort to buoy him during rough times. After recovering from a debilitating incident at the Olympics, Quentin’s keen to get together with Joe and writes to ask him out.
Will their memories of each other be enough to spark a relationship? Or do they each remember a person who never really existed?
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- Twelve months later, the dreaded annual performance review weekend of looking back at the past year and forward to the next one began Friday night with a welcome dinner. The Mogrovejo and Paredes Counties Community College Consortium managed seven two-year colleges in a predominantly rural area in the Northwest United States.
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- Since I graduated from college, I’ve taught English composition at two of the colleges and probably would until I retired.
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- Attending the yearly recap, team building, and planning for the future was required for department heads such as myself. It was an extremely boring two days for those of us who’d been-there, done-that for the past eight years. Same people, same problems, no additional funds, no real hope for the future except for incentives the individual instructors could give their students.
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- At least the new area casino which was sponsoring this year’s symposium offered more entertainment than listening to my fellow instructors bitch and moan during the session breaks.
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- We had convened in the hotel foyer and had been milling around, talking about the casino and by-passing discussions of the recession year and the consequential budget shortfalls. A call to dinner had galvanized us into a booze-fueled crowd ready for food.
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- Following behind a group of others who were chattering away, I was stopped at the door to the dining room.
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- “Dr. Joseph Rutledge?”
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- Although I never got my PhD and am not a doctor, I nodded and stepped out of the way of the crowd which was moving toward the white-clothed tables and uncomfortable-looking chairs.
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- “I’m here to escort you to your seat at the head table.” He pointed at the stage.
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- “Oh, uh, no. There must be a mistake. Um, I’m not speaking or presenting or anything. I’m not even a PhD, a doctor. I think maybe you should check your records.”
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- When he looked down at the paper in his hand, I melted into the crowd and found a seat next to an English instructor from another college.
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- The scuttlebutt around my table was the Consortium had scored a coup by landing a well-known athlete to head up a new, revolutionary regional sports medicine program.
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- The women at the table were excited because according to rumor, even though the new program director was a man, he was an advocate for women athletes and their education as well.
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- Finally, the hall doors closed and the lights dimmed, signaling everyone had made it to the ballroom and was to be seated. The casino had opted to serve us. No plodding buffet lines this year. But as we settled down, no waiters hustled into the room with trays of food. Instead, the PA system clicked on and a shrill screech assaulted us.
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- “Ladies and gentlemen, may I have your attention?” As if the noise hadn’t already made us sit up and react. “Will Doctor ...” the sound of a hand covering a microphone, “Will Mr. Joseph Rutledge please come forward to the stage? Mr. Joseph Rutledge?”
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- Reluctantly, I rose as everyone looked around for the mysterious Mr. Rutledge.
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- “Joe! What in God’s name ...?” my fellow instructor started to ask.
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- I shook my head in bewilderment.
- “I have no idea.”
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