"I need you to come back to campus. I've just had a call from Lee. Ahem." Her voice cracked.
"Someone has made the accusation that you and I have been sexually involved."
I was standing in a juice bar. My girlfriend — Ace, as I called her, the nickname I had given her that night on the harbour under the half-moon when I told her I loved her — stood across from me, tilting her head to the left as she watched me from across the bar, my face falling as I listened to the voice on the other end of my cellphone.
Dr. E. James , the woman who taught me how to fall in love with books, who had brought Ace and I around her table for meals, for breakups, for life, for so many months that it seemed impossible to number, asked if I had heard what she had said.