By Jove by Marissa Doyle

seem to notice. “I was saving the Roman calendar until right before Thanksgiving, when their attention span is short and we need something non-essential to learn about. I haven’t reviewed them in a while.”
    “Hmmph. Vestis idonea requiritur . I wonder what ‘proper attire’ is? Maybe I’ll borrow Marlowe’s SpongeBob sheets for my toga.”
    “Hey, I was going to ask him. No fair.”
    “So you’re going, too?” She hoped she didn’t sound too pleased.
    He waved his scroll at her. “I hadn’t opened it yet, but I assume it’s the same. Not the standard form for departmental mail, is it?”
    “No, I guess not. Thank you.” She took her backpack from Grant as he picked it up and handed it to her, avoiding the touch of his hand on hers. “No RSVP, I notice,” she said as they continued down the hall.
    “I don’t think attendance is optional, knowing Julian.”
    Grant’s voice was heavy with irony. Theo wondered why but let it pass. “No, I guess not. I hope Mom can get my toga done by then.”
    “What? You didn’t wear one teaching at your school?”
    “And really wig everyone out? I don’t think so. Toga parties went out of fashion decades ago, anyway.”
    “Not here.”
    “No, not here. What about up at your place? Do you have department symposia as well?” Before she could stop herself, she had pictured a beautiful woman, bearing a remarkable resemblance to Renee Frothington-Forge-Smythe, wearing a floaty pale pink toga and a gold ankle bracelet with a large diamond O on it, reclining on a couch next to Grant and batting her eyelashes at him.
    “No, not generally. Not unless Marlowe’s visiting. It upsets the moose too much.”
    “Ah, yes, the moose.” Theo did not smile. “Well, I really need to be going, Grant. See you later.”
    Grant looked at her and frowned. “It’s nearly quarter of five. Let’s go have a drink and some dinner. It seems like I’ve hardly seen you lately.”
    “You see me every day. And we have our class meetings just as always,” Theo said guilelessly, but she knew what Grant was saying. She had avoided him since Halloween. Well, maybe not quite avoided him. Not really. Oh, all right. Maybe a little.
    She couldn’t help it. She had told the man, actually told him, that she loved him. And he had said he loved her too. So why had he run from her that Friday afternoon? Why hadn’t she seen him for the entire weekend after that? She’d practically lived in the Great Room, waiting for him to come, wanting to finish their interrupted talk. She’d incessantly checked email and looked for texts.
    But he hadn’t called or showed up. Was he in his apartment, regretting those three words he had said to her? By Sunday afternoon she had finished her reading for her Roman Historiography class through a haze of tears.
    Since then she had scraped up the remains of her pride and reassembled them into a fragile casing around her. She’d told Grant how she felt about him and he had run away. Now it was his turn. She had been cordial but distant all week. At dinner with him and Dr. Waterman just this Saturday to celebrate their midterm tie she had been as chatty and social as she knew how to be, but it was a brittle sort of conviviality, and Grant had known it. He’d watched her with a frown in his eyes all evening.
    Now it seemed the time had come for their confrontation. Theo stood as straight as she could and smiled distantly at Grant as she spoke. He glowered at her.
    “You know what I mean, Theo. Come on. I need to talk to you.” They were standing by the stairwell again, Theo noticed. She was beginning to hate this spot.
    “Oh, about the class term papers. We do need to talk about them, don’t we? Dr. Waterman said five to eight pages, which seems reasonable for a first-yea—”
    “That’s not what I meant! I—I need to tell you I’m sorry.” He looked straight at her as he spoke, and she had to admire his courage. But the ache was still too