He shrugs. “I like that kids are learning about history. But this isn’t what I saw myself doing when I was neck-deep in my dissertation.”
“Do you want to focus on writing full-time?” I’ve assumed this whole time that those books are his job, that he is already doing what he wants to do.
He shakes his head. “No, or at least that’s notallI want to do. I love teaching. I’d like to do both. Teach college and write history books. But my dad convinced me that creating this whole persona would make me stand out when history departments are shrinking or getting folded into other majors. Instead, it’s getting in my way.”
He gets up and heads toward the kitchen. “I got salads. I’ll tell you the whole story over lunch if you want to hear it.”
By the time we’re finished eating twenty minutes later, I have a fuller picture of Jay. I would almost say it’s a surprising picture, but the more I listened to him talk, the more sense it made. That charm of his allows him to assume the gamer bro persona so easily and make complicated historical events digestible.
“Why did you tell me all this like a confession?” I ask. “You’re getting views other influencers would kill for.”
“Come on, Phoebe. You know why. I’m barely credible to you as a historian because my books have snappy titles.”
My cheeks feel warm. “That’s fair. I underestimated you, which is hypocritical because you’re doing the thing I was always trying to do at the Sutton. You’re making history relevant for a whole new set of learners.”
He sighs. “I know. And even though my account won’t change anyone’s life, if it helps some kids to become more curious about history, that feels pretty good. But I also know this isn’t the kind of thing other historians respect.”
“That part surprises me,” I say. “I pegged you as a free-spirit type who doesn’t care what the establishment thinks.”
He shakes his head. “I’m about tradition to mybones. Of course I want to be respected by my peers, except they’re not even my peers because the dumb nicknames precede me and hiring panels don’t even want to bring me in for interviews.”
“Nicknames?”
He waves his hand like it’s nothing, but his neck gets kind of red. “Like the Hot Prof thing. I don’t get taken seriously, and I want to be. That’s the gist. The end.”
I consider this for a few seconds. “Why tell me all this? I’m glad you did, but what made you decide to bring it up?”
He stands and gathers our plates. “Like I said, I’ve thought a lot about what you shared with me last week. We’re friends. Seemed fair for me to share too.”
“Then I’ll share that I think colleges are dumb for not considering you. You have excellent research and reasoning skills, and undergrad students would love your classes.” Maybe more than a few of those undergrads might fall under the spell of his stupidly hot face, but I bet they’d still learn some things about history too.
He turns on the faucet and begins washing the plates. “Speaking of research, when are we going to check out the newspaper archives? My dad asked me to go out and help with a couple of things, and I don’t want to commit until I can schedule them around the Smitten Kitten hunt.”
“Don’t make your dad wait. Just go.” I grab a dish towel and take the clean plate to dry it. I feel guilty that he’s been waiting for me to get moving on the search when I’ve been putting it off because I was avoiding him.
“It’s not an emergency. It’s boat maintenance we do every year. It’s just a tradition to do it together before the Fourth of July.”
“So you need to go this week?” The Fourth is a week from Friday.
“Ideally.” He trades me the wet plate for the dry one and puts it away, then leans against the counter while I finish off the second one.
“Tomorrow,” I say. “I’ll meet you at the Spring Brook College library when it opens. However long it takes, I’ll make it up on Saturday.”
He snorts. “Phoebe, you don’t have to do that. If we count all the time you spend thinking about this job when you’re not here, I bet you’re working seven hundred hours a week.”
“Maybe a little under that.” I hand him the second plate.
“I’ll meet you in the morning, and please don’t come here on Saturday. Go do something irresponsible.”
“Like start a TickSnap account where I do get-ready-with-me videos and sneak in facts about the Industrial Revolution between mascara strokes?”
He spins from the cupboard and lunges for me, but I jump out of reach.
“Stay in your zone, friend!” I call on my way out of the cottage.
But I know the warning is really for me.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
