Author's note: U.S. Thanksgiving is held on the fourth Thursday in November. Colleges and  universities (as well as state and federal agencies) typically get both Thursday and Friday off, for a four-day weekend.

***

"Hi, Professor," I say as I approach the stage where MacDowell is busy gathering his notes from the podium. "You wanted to talk to me?"

MacDowell looks up and flashes me a distracted smile. "Ah, Charlie—yes, if you don't mind."

"Um... Sure, but my next class starts in fifteen."

His smile turns a little sad. "I won't keep you long."

"Okay."

"Walk with me to my office, will you?"

"Sure. Can I, um, help you carry anything?"

He pats his briefcase. It's old and made of battered tan leather. Between it and his tweed jacket, he looks like a professorial stereotype.

"Thank you, but no. I learned early in my career to travel light."

He descends the stage, and I follow him to the side exit.

Another professor might have had to fend off a swarm of students, all jostling to ask their burning questions, most of which would have been answered if they'd taken the time to read the syllabus properly.

Not MacDowell. He'd made it very clear that he would not answer questions after class. This, he said, was the purpose of his office hours, during which he could give his students the time and attention their questions undoubtedly deserved.

What he really meant was that if, after reading the assigned materials and checking the syllabus, a real question remained, then he would gladly answer it. Consequently, his office hours were typically quiet, and he spent them catching up on work.

I'm grateful for this, as it means we can walk in peace and converse in relative privacy.

"So, how have you been?" MacDowell asks.

"Pretty good. I mean, pretty well, I guess." I cough awkwardly. "How about yourself?"

"Oh, I'm all right." We pass beneath some trees with brilliant red foliage. He pauses and squints up at the branches. "Liquid amber," he says, pointing. "Pretty tree. Damned hazardous method of reproduction, though."

He looks down and kicks at the spiky seed-balls accumulated along the path with the toe of his leather shoe.

I clear my throat. "Um... So, what did you want to talk to me about, Professor?"

"How's Hazel been?" he asks, indirectly answering my question with his own. "We, uh... We haven't spoken since the incident with the surfing competition. He won't return my calls and seems to have blocked my number."

"Oh, um... He's doing fine, I think."

"He's been taking care of himself?"

"Yeah. I think whatever happened at the beach was a one-off."

MacDowell nods. "I'm glad. I don't blame him for resenting me, but I worry about him sometimes. He has a tendency to go into a sort of tailspin when he's upset, and often doesn't right himself until he lands hard. I'm glad he's got you to keep him steady."

The silence lengthens. I'm not sure what else to say, except the truth, which is that this seems like a deeply personal matter between father and son, and that I'd rather not get caught in the middle of it.

Seeming to read my thoughts, MacDowell smiles disarmingly, crow's feet crinkling the outside corners of his eyes. "Do you have plans for Thanksgiving?"

I shift my weight, adjusting the strap of the heavy pack on my shoulder. "Not the day of, no."

Almost shyly, he nods. "I'd like to invite you both over for dinner, if you can make it. No need to bring anything. It would just be us three."

He hesitates for a moment, as if weighing his next words with care. When he speaks again, it's not in the voice of a professor, but in a quiet, almost vulnerable tone I've not heard from him before.

"I know I dropped the ball, and dropped it badly," he says. "Hazel is a grown man, but he's still my son, and without meaning to, I confirmed a deep fear: that I wouldn't be there for him when he needed me. I'm hoping he'll give me another chance. Pass that along, will you? Tell him I..."

He takes an uneven breath, and to my alarm, I see a distinct glimmer in his eyes.

"Tell him I miss him," he concludes with a sniff, and gives my shoulder an awkward pat. Then, abruptly, he walks away.

I watch him go. Between Hazel's dad and my own, I certainly know which one I'd rather share a meal with; but if it were really up to me, I'd skip Thanksgiving altogether.

🐚

The week of Thanksgiving break, those of us who attended the summer internship are invited to speak at a gathering of prospective candidates for the next year's program.

Public speaking is not among my favorite activities, but because the other five interns are taking part, and because MacDowell pulled me aside and asked me, specifically, to discuss my passion for paleontology, I agreed.

My contribution amounts to all of five minutes at the mic, but in true 'me' fashion, I spend a good sixteen hours preparing, and yet I'm still sweating bullets as I enter the small auditorium where the presentation is being held.

Hazel accompanies me, though he's still doing his best to avoid his father at all costs. I'd passed on the invitation to dinner, of course, but Hazel said he'd rather starve than spend Thanksgiving day with his dad.

Despite all he's told me, I don't fully understand what he has against his father. Clearly, the professor has a tendency to be busy and distracted, but the same could be said of a lot of single parents. From what I've heard and witnessed firsthand, his dad loves him and has done his best.

To be entirely honest, Hazel's refusal to accept his father's apology is beginning to wear on my nerves. If my own father had made even a quarter of the effort to enjoy a holiday meal and spend real time with me, I'd have been impressed, but I can't force Hazel to change his mind, and it's not my place to try. The best I can do is sympathize, and encourage him to make amends if he's ever open to the idea.

I'd expected a small audience, but the lecture hall is packed with a combination of faculty, hopeful future interns, and other students from various disciplines. The presentation is part of a series that spans several disciplines, and professors are encouraged to offer extra credit if students attend. Still, there weren't nearly so many people at the English department's poetry recitations. I should have known dinosaurs would be the bigger draw.

Sensing my trepidation, Hazel reaches for my hand, giving my fingers a light, discreet squeeze before drawing away again.

"You're gonna kill it," he says, and shoots me a wink before moving off to find a seat.

I move up towards the front, where the other interns are gathered with Professors MacDowell and Yuan near the edge of the stage. River, Riley, George, and Abdul greet me with nervous waves and smiles, each anxious to get his, her, or their part of things over with.

Things go smoothly enough. Professor MacDowell gets up on stage first and talks about the program, showing slides from this year's excavations and highlights from the past. A very high percentage of the interns who take part go on to earn Ph.Ds, he points out, and some are already working in top universities.

Next, George gets up and rambles through an awkward but heartfelt testimonial, followed by Abdul, who sounds like he's reading from a textbook, but is easier to follow. River makes the whole thing sound like the best four weeks of her life, and then it's my turn.

I don't remember speaking, to be honest, but when it's over, the audience claps enthusiastically enough, and the others tell me I did a good job, so I choose to believe them.

It's not until Riley mounts the steps of the stage and takes the mic that I realize that one of us is missing.

"Where's Michaela?" I ask, glancing around. "Is she not here?"

MacDowell comes up behind me and rests a hand on my shoulder. "Ms. Dunn was not invited," he says.

"She... wasn't?"

"No. She—or her father, more precisely—has lodged a formal complaint against the university, claiming favoritism and misuse of funds. More precisely still, she's lodged this complaint against me, specifically."

"I don't understand."

"Hazel," MacDowell says, lifting grizzled brows at me over the tops of his rimless spectacles. "She's alleging that Hazel was given a spot in the program, to the detriment of some other, far more deserving, student."

"But that's... I mean, he was the camp workhorse." I say. "He wasn't even paid. Was he?"

MacDowell nods. "He received a very small stipend—out of my own pocket. There was money set aside for a camp assistant, but that only covered the cost of his presence in camp—food and transport, and so forth. The position is basically a free vacation paid for with hard labor, for someone interested in spending several weeks in the middle of nowhere. Nonetheless, Ms. Dunn has argued that in selecting my own son for this position, I have violated some sacred ethical law—which is ridiculous. I literally could not have chosen someone else. He was the only applicant."

And not even a willing applicant, at that; he'd had to be bribed.

"Will her claim hold water?" I ask.

MacDowell shakes his head. "No. At least..." He rubs the back of his neck. "At least, I hope not. I keep all my receipts and very careful records for exactly this reason. So my hope is the investigatory board will find no fault."

"Why would she do that, though?" I ask. "Even if you had chosen Hazel over a hundred other candidates, how would that hurt her?"

George speaks up, rolling his eyes. "It's 'cause her first claim fell through. Religious discrimination. She claimed the camp fostered an environment 'hostile' to her sincerely held views regarding... gender and sexuality."

Still confused, but beginning to feel a little sick with cold suspicion, I turn to the others questioningly.

"I think it was me, mostly," Riley says, having finished their speech and rejoined us. They wince and rub their arm. "Michaela... didn't like me too much. I was in the 'boy's' tent, where she'd think I belonged, but..." They shrug awkwardly. "I was still there."

"It wasn't you, Riley," MacDowell says, giving them a reassuring smile. "In other circumstances, it might have been, but I give you my word it wasn't."

"It was me and Hazel, wasn't it?" I ask, as nausea roils my gut and cold sweat breaks out across my skin.

MacDowell gives me an apologetic look. "Most likely. However, that claim had no standing, and was summarily dismissed."

George's brow furrows with concentration. "So... What about the new one? Should we be worried?"

"No, not at all." MacDowell shakes his head. "It seems there were some minor discrepancies in accounting, but that is on the administration's side, not mine. My receipts will clear that up. The bigger worry, unfortunately, is that of favoritism. If that is proven, the program may go on, but I may no longer be a part of it, which, at the end of the day, is an outcome I can live with."

"What favoritism, though?" I ask, acutely conscious of MacDowell's obvious discomfort. The man gets up on stage and speaks in front of crowds regularly—it's his job, for godssakes—and I've never seen him break a sweat. Now, his brow shines and damp circles stain his shirt beneath his arms.

"Perhaps we might discuss this later," he says, "in a more private setting."

I'm about to agree when River intervenes. "It's because of this," she says, and holds out her phone.

I see, but don't fully comprehend, until the reel loops three times and it sinks in.

It's the video Dave took of Hazel rescuing me from the beach, side by side with a video of me dropping to Hazel's side as he's pulled from the waves. There's a dumb caption with it—something about true love or some shit—but that's not what sticks with me.

"This has over a million views," River says. "And the link to the first vid is proof you knew Hazel before the internship. Michaela's using that to argue you were chosen for reasons other than 'academic merit.'

I try to inhale and find that I can't. My lungs are frozen as effectively as if I'd had the wind knocked out of me. All I can think is that, at the end of the day, it's true.

MacDowell chose me because Hazel asked him to; and however sincere and unbiased Hazel's motivations may have been at the time, it doesn't change the fact of what happened after. He pursued me; I fell for him, and now we're living together.

It's not a good look.

Two things clicks into place, and suddenly the air rushes back into my body as my heart begins to race.

My dad's voice plays like a scratchy gramophone recording in my head:

"Mike Dunn's daughter is in the same program as you... Mike—the realtor. The one with the yacht... He's already got her a job lined up for an oil company doing offshore drilling. It's big bucks."

In short, Michaela's dad knows my dad, and Hazel never deleted that video. In fact, he—or Dave, or someone—made another video without my knowledge, and just about everyone (well, okay, 0.0125% of everyone) has seen it.

And suddenly, the timing of my father's annual unexpected visit makes a lot more sense.