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deeply for one another.
    Better not ask Pete his opinion on that or I’d have to endure more of his questioning my masculinity. To be fair, I hadn’t really registered any problem, because I was having sex, and that generally isn’t a sign of trouble. To give Pete’s theory it’s due, I’d had better and worse ice cream in my life, but never bad ice cream.
    But the emotionless sex, and then the questions afterwards, where she usually just wanted to bask in the afterglow. That was troubling.
    Eventually, I gave up and threw off the covers. Sleep just wasn’t going to happen. I was too restless, and the only thing that would help was to do something.
    I decided to take Nique’s advice. I had a coffee and a shower, shaved, put on a clean shirt with actual buttons and a collar, and no ambulance company logo on it. I cleaned Vlad the Impala so that there would be no take out bags or empty cups on the floor. On my way to the college, I stopped and picked up some flowers. I timed my visit for lunchtime, when I knew she had a gap in classes and the school was unlikely to schedule meetings.
    If she was just stressed, then surprising her with a lunch date might cheer her up. It was also possible I had started taking her for granted without realizing it, and this would show her I was paying attention.
    While this wasn’t my first dance, I had always handled my relationships with an eye on the door. Now, for the first time, I was in for the long haul, so maybe I did have something to learn about keeping the spark alive.
    And if the whole thing was nothing, there were worse ways to spend my day off than taking Sarah to lunch.
    I walked into the library, passed through the stacks of humanity’s accumulated knowledge, past the bored undergrad slouched behind the desk texting on her phone, to Sarah’s office in the back.
    The door was closed, which it never was. I knocked. No answer. I tried the handle, but it was locked. That was odd. It was just before noon. She always finished class at eleven, came back and worked on papers then went to lunch just after twelve. She should be here.
    I looked at the door, and saw a new brass plate screwed in. “W. Caruthers PhD.”
    Well, he wasn’t here either.
    Hmm.
    I went back to the main desk and picked up a course schedule. I sat at a table and flipped through it, making a list of all the classes either of them taught. I knew Sarah’s schedule, or I thought I did, but I didn’t know Caruthers’ at all, and I wanted to compare. I wasn’t exactly sure what I was looking for, but intelligence gathering is like that. Look around and you’ll find connections, links, seemingly independent facts that show you what you didn’t know you wanted to see. Or wanted not to see, but not seeing a thing doesn’t mean it isn’t there.
    Neither of them had a class now, nothing until two this afternoon.
    A cold, sinking feeling grew in my stomach. Were they together right now? Is that what was wrong? Had she been measuring me up against somebody else? Thinking of leaving and giving it one more shot just to make sure before she moved on? Maybe to a suave, cultured poet?
    I felt a surge of anger in which I recognized fear and uncertainty. Jealousy and loss like this were new to me. To really feel that awful hollow sinking feeling, you need to be deeply committed to the other person. The shock of your world crumbling can only hit you when you believe on some level that it was going to last forever.
    Before Sarah, I’d always known I’d have to move on, that any relationship, no matter how close, was only temporary, and I’d held back enough to guard my feelings. I’d given Sarah more of me and let her in deeper than anyone over the centuries. So this sick, empty, vertiginous feeling was new.
    I didn’t like it.
    I took a deep breath. Forced myself to calm down. I was jumping to conclusions. Letting my worst fears and insecurities take root and create obstacles and pitfalls where there might not be