Chapter 119
\[Alessandro 's POV\]
The interview goes better than I could have imagined.
I'm sitting in a conference room three thousand miles from home, surrounded by some of the most accomplished historians in the country, and I'm not choking. I'm not freezing up or second-guessing myself or letting imposter syndrome convince me I don't belong here. I'm actually good at this—engaging with their questions, defending my research, demonstrating the kind of intellectual agility that got me into academia in the first place.
Dr. Harrison, the department chair, leans forward with genuine interest as I finish explaining my approach to primary source analysis. His silver hair catches the light from the floor-to-ceiling windows, and his expression holds the kind of academic enthusiasm I remember feeling when I first entered this field.
"Your work on immigrant narratives is exactly the kind of interdisciplinary thinking we've been wanting to strengthen in our program. The way you connect personal histories to broader social movements—it's compelling."
"Thank you. I believe history loses its power when we forget that it happened to real people," I reply, feeling the words flow with an ease that surprises me. "Statistics and trends matter, but so do individual stories. The challenge is holding both perspectives simultaneously without letting one overshadow the other."
"And you've done that remarkably well in your publications." Dr. Chen, the search committee secretary, flips through what I assume is my CV, her reading glasses perched on the end of her nose. "Three books in eight years, plus the journal articles. That's an impressive output, especially given your teaching load at Columbia."
"Teaching informs the research, and research enriches the teaching. I've never seen them as competing demands—more like two halves of the same conversation. My students challenge me to articulate ideas more clearly, and that clarity translates directly into my writing."
The questions continue, but I can feel the energy in the room shifting from evaluation to enthusiasm. These people like me. They're not just going through the motions; they're genuinely considering me as a colleague, imagining what I might contribute to their department. The realization is heady, intoxicating, like a drug I'd forgotten I was addicted to.
By the time we break for lunch, Dr. Harrison is already hinting at timeline—how quickly they hope to make a decision, when I might be available to start, whether I have any concerns about relocating. The questions assume an outcome that hasn't happened yet, and I find myself playing along, discussing logistics for a life I haven't committed to. Part of me feels guilty for the deception, but another part—the part that needs to know if I'm good enough—drinks in the validation like water after a drought.
"We have one more session this afternoon," Harrison tells me as we walk toward the faculty club, the California sunshine warm on my face in a way that feels foreign after months of East Coast gray. "A meeting with Dean Mitchell. It's mostly a formality—she likes to meet all the finalists personally—but it's an important one. She has significant influence over hiring decisions."
"I appreciate the heads up."
"Just be yourself. Your work speaks for itself."
The afternoon session starts well enough. Dean Mitchell is sharp and direct, asking questions that cut straight to the heart of my research and my pedagogy. Her office is lined with books and awards, evidence of a career built on the same ambition I'm trying to satisfy. I answer confidently, drawing on years of experience and the hard-won certainty that comes from knowing your own work intimately.
Then her assistant enters with a whispered message, and something changes.
Mitchell's expression flickers—just for a moment, barely perceptible—before she excuses herself to take a phone call. The shift is so subtle that I almost miss it, but I've spent enough years reading students and colleagues to recognize when someone's demeanor has shifted. The search committee exchanges puzzled glances, clearly as surprised as I am by the interruption.
"I'm sure it's nothing," Dr. Chen offers, but there's uncertainty in her voice that makes my stomach tighten.
When Mitchell returns, the warmth has drained from her face. She's still professional, still polite, but the enthusiasm that characterized our earlier conversation has been replaced by something colder. More guarded. Her questions resume, but there's a distance now, a barrier that wasn't there before.
"I apologize for the interruption," she says, settling back into her chair with a stiffness that belies her casual words. "Where were we?"
The rest of the interview proceeds, but the dynamic has shifted in ways I can't quite pinpoint. Mitchell's questions become more pointed, more probing—not about my research, but about my "personal circumstances." My "stability." Whether I have any "complications" that might affect my ability to commit fully to the position.
I answer as best I can, confused by the sudden change in tone but too professional to let it throw me. When the session finally ends, I shake hands with everyone and thank them for their time, but the optimism I felt earlier has curdled into something anxious and uncertain. The walk back to my rental car feels longer than it should, each step heavy with questions I can't answer.
On the flight home, I replay the interview obsessively, trying to identify what went wrong. Everything was perfect until that phone call. Until Mitchell stepped out and came back a different person. The shift was so abrupt, so specific, that it couldn't have been random. The timing was too precise, the change too dramatic.
Someone said something to her. Something about me. Something that changed how she saw me as a candidate.
But what? And who?
I land to find Selena and Caden waiting at arrivals, their faces bright with anticipation that I hate to dim. Selena's belly is visible now under her loose sweater, a reminder of everything we're building, everything that's at stake.
But I can't lie to them—we promised no more secrets—so I tell them everything on the drive home. The triumph of the morning. The strange turn of the afternoon. The unshakeable feeling that something happened behind the scenes that I'm not privy to.
"Maybe you're overthinking it," Selena offers, though her voice lacks conviction, her hand finding mine across the console. "Academic politics are complicated. It might not have had anything to do with you."
"Maybe." I stare out the window at the passing city, the familiar streets feeling foreign after my brief glimpse of California sunshine. "But it felt personal. The way she looked at me after that call—like I'd suddenly become a liability instead of an asset."
Caden’s hands tighten on the steering wheel, his knuckles going white. "Did she say anything specific? Give any indication of what the call was about?"
"Nothing. She just... changed. Like someone had warned her about something."