Chapter 4: Beyond the Section

Autumn in London smelled of fallen leaves and damp stone. The old corridors of the department echoed with the sounds of a new term, but for me, everything felt different. The invisible yet solid wall between Theo and me turned every encounter into a small, private wound.

Theo after that rainy night call was different. He was still energetic in class, enthusiastic with students, but that enthusiasm had boundaries now. When our eyes met in seminars or labs, he would nod politely and look away quickly, no longer the pained avoidance of before, but a deliberate, thoughtful distance.

I heard he’d moved into a small flat in Bloomsbury, ten minutes’ walk from the department. I also heard he went back to Hampstead every Wednesday evening and Saturday afternoon to see Lily. There was little news about his wife, only scraps Emma picked up from other staff. “Apparently the separation is very calm, no fighting, but that kind of calm is somehow sadder.”

One November afternoon, I was in the departmental library looking up material on Roman road networks in Britain for Linus’s new project. In the corner, I overheard two postgraduates whispering.

“Theo looks thinner this semester.”

“Divorce proceedings are exhausting, I suppose. But he’s still so energetic in lectures.”

“That’s Theo. Always gives his best side to others.”

I lowered my head further. The Latin place names on the page blurred. Guilt is a strange thing. It isn’t always sharp pain, sometimes it’s a dull ache that rises and falls with your breathing.

“Found what you need?”

I looked up. Linus stood by the desk, holding several rolled maps. He wore a dark grey jumper, looking softer than in the field, but his eyes were as focused as ever.

“Still looking,” I said, trying to sound normal. “Branches off Icknield Street.”

Linus sat opposite me and unrolled one of the maps. “Look here. The traditional view is that this branch ends at Durobrivae, but recent remote sensing data suggests it may extend further north.”

We discussed technical details for twenty minutes. When we finished, he began rolling the maps back up, his movements slow and precise.

“There’s a small academic salon on Friday evening,” he said casually. “On multispectral analysis in medieval archaeology. If you’re interested, seven o’clock at Selden Hall.”

I paused. This wasn’t a work meeting or a supervisor’s instruction. It was a social invitation.

“I’ll go,” I said.

Linus nodded, said nothing more, and left with the maps. I watched his back and noticed for the first time the slight hunch in his shoulders, probably from years bent over desks and trenches.

Friday’s salon was more formal than I’d expected, about twenty people, mostly faculty and senior doctoral students. I wore my only dark dress and felt slightly awkward until I saw Linus on the other side of the room, raising his glass slightly in greeting.

The talk was interesting, but I found myself watching the room more than the slides. Linus spoke with several senior professors, respectful but confident in his views. Theo was there too, standing by the window with a small group, animatedly recounting something amusing from the Northumberland project, laughter ringing out.

During the break, I took a glass of wine and pretended to study an archaeological map on the wall. Theo’s voice came from behind me.

“That map was drawn in the early twentieth century. The margins of error are huge.”

I turned. He stood a step away, holding his glass, wearing a polite smile.

“You can tell,” I said. “The contour lines are far too neat.”

We fell silent for a moment, the hum of conversation around us.

“How have you been?” he asked quietly.

“Fine. Busy with Linus’s road network project.”

“Good project,” he said. “Linus is one of the best in that area.”

Another silence. This polite, distant exchange felt more painful than arguments.

“How’s Lily?” I ventured.

Theo’s expression softened for a moment, genuine warmth in his eyes. “She’s… adjusting. It was hard at first, but she’s doing better now. This week she even asked if she could bring friends to stay over at my flat.” He gave a small laugh. “Fifteen years old, already handling change better than I ever did.”

“She sounds strong.”

“She is,” he said, pride flickering in his eyes before being replaced by worry. “I hope… I hope one day she’ll understand, or at least not hate me.”

I didn’t know what to say. Just then, Linus walked over.

“Discussing maps?” he asked casually.

“Discussing father daughter relationships,” Theo said with a hint of self mockery. “A more complex subject than Roman road networks.”

Linus’s mouth curved slightly. “At least road networks have clear beginnings and endings.”

“Endings?” Theo shook his head. “I’m not sure they do. Maybe just a series of waystations, where you stop, then move on.”

Their exchange carried the quiet code of long term colleagues. I looked at them, two middle aged men, one choosing to stay and repair, the other leaving to rebuild, both searching for direction in their own difficulties.

After the salon, Linus offered to walk me back to my halls. The London streets were damp and cold, streetlights casting wet halos on the paving stones.

“Theo is trying,” Linus said suddenly, as we passed the side wall of the British Museum. “In ways I didn’t expect.”

“What do you mean?”

“He turned down an invitation to an international conference in spring,” Linus said. “It would have been good for his CV. But he told the organisers he’d already promised to attend school events with his daughter.”

I was surprised. “That doesn’t sound like Theo.”

“People change,” Linus said calmly. “Or reveal something deeper.”

We reached my street. Linus stopped.

“About the road network project,” he said. “I need a research assistant. The workload’s heavy, but it would be good for your academic development. Are you interested?”

It was an opportunity, a way out of my current stagnation, and a chance to work closely with Linus.

“I’d be very interested,” I said.

“Good,” he nodded. “Starting Monday. My office, ten o’clock.”

He turned to leave, then paused. “And if you ever need to talk, not just about work, my door’s open.”

He said it simply, but it sent ripples through me. In that moment, I felt a sense of safety I’d never known before, not the harbour of passion, but the solid pier in a storm.

Working with Linus became intense and deep. We met three times a week, sometimes four, processing large datasets, building models, arguing over analytical methods. Linus was a demanding mentor, almost obsessive about detail, but his criticism was always constructive, aimed at improving the work rather than asserting authority.

One evening in mid December, we worked late. Outside, snow began to fall, rare in London. We’d just completed a complex stratigraphic sequence simulation when Linus took a small teapot and two cups from a drawer.

“To celebrate,” he said. “Our first milestone.”

The tea was Earl Grey, fragrant and strong. We stood by the window watching the snow, the radiator hissing softly behind us.

“I got divorced today,” Linus said suddenly, his voice as calm as if stating an archaeological fact. “The legal process finally ended.”

I turned to look at him. In the desk lamp’s light, he looked tired, but also quietly relieved.

“I’m sorry,” I said, not entirely sure why.

“No need,” he took a sip of tea. “It’s the end of a long process. Like completing a difficult excavation, painful, but necessary.”

We watched the snow fall in silence. Then Linus said, “Do you know why I chose archaeology?”

“You’ve said it’s about finding truth beneath the surface.”

“Yes,” he nodded, “but more specifically, it was because of my father. He was a lawyer, very successful, and very empty. His life was spent finding legal grounds for other people’s disputes, but he never examined the fault lines in his own. When he died, I sorted through his papers and found almost nothing personal, only case files and financial statements. Like an excavation with no cultural layers, just natural deposits, no trace of human activity.”

He turned to me, his eyes serious. “I swore I wouldn’t live like that. Even if painful, I wanted to leave real traces. Even if difficult, I wanted to excavate my own fault lines.”

“So what did you find?” I asked softly.

He was silent for a long time, long enough that I thought he wouldn’t answer. “I found loneliness,” he said finally, “and the courage to accept it. And also… a desire for connection, even though I’ve never been very good at building it.”

The snow fell heavier. The warmth of the office contrasted sharply with the cold outside, like the softness that sometimes slipped through Linus’s hard exterior.

“You and Theo,” he continued calmly, “that was a real connection. Complicated, painful, perhaps ill timed, but real. I respect that reality.”

His words made my eyes sting. For the first time in months, I felt truly seen, not just my passion or my mistakes with Theo, but the reality within them.

“I don’t know what to do next,” I admitted. “Everything feels unresolved.”

“Archaeology teaches patience,” Linus said. “Some sites take years to fully reveal. Feelings may be the same.”

That night, we talked late, no longer just about work. When I left, the snow had stopped, the streets gleaming white. Linus walked me to the building entrance, didn’t hug me or touch me, just said, “Take care.”

But that simple goodbye sank deeper into me than any physical intimacy.

Over Christmas, I went home to be with family. London’s complicated entanglements were temporarily replaced by familiar routines, but at night, lying in bed, I still thought of two faces, Theo’s eyes burning then extinguishing, Linus’s eyes deep and calm.

On New Year’s Eve, I received a text from Theo.

“Lily and I baked a cake together. She insisted on decorating it like a Roman mosaic. It was a disaster, but delicious. Happy New Year. Hope you find the road you deserve.”

I stared at the screen, warmth, sadness, and relief mixing in me. I replied, “Happy New Year to you and Lily too. A mosaic cake sounds very archaeological.”

He didn’t reply, but the imagined image of that clumsy cake made me smile for a long time.

When I returned to London in January, the department buzzed with the new term. My project with Linus entered a crucial stage, and we spent a lot of time together. The relationship shifted quietly, from supervisor student, to colleagues, to something more subtle.

One Friday in February, after working late, Linus invited me to dinner at a nearby restaurant still open. It was a small Italian family place, warm and crowded, smelling of garlic and baking bread.

We talked about work, then drifted into more personal territory. Linus told me stories from his university days, how a field placement had set his life’s direction. I shared how my first fascination with archaeology didn’t come from books, but from finding an old coin on my grandparents’ farm as a child.

“Do you still have that coin?” he asked.

I nodded, took a small leather pouch from my wallet, and poured out the worn Roman bronze. “It made me realise history isn’t distant or abstract. It’s under our feet, waiting to be found.”

Linus took the coin and examined it carefully in the dim restaurant light. “Constantinian period, probably from the London mint. Not bad condition.”

His fingers brushed the edge before he handed it back. Our hands touched briefly, and I felt a jolt, not Theo’s burning heat, but something deeper and steadier.

“You know,” Linus said softly, “you have a rare talent for seeing the big picture without losing the details. That’s valuable in archaeology, and in life.”

My cheeks warmed, unsure whether it was the restaurant heat or his words.

After dinner, we walked back towards the department. The night was cold but clear, stars unusually visible in the London sky. Passing Russell Square, Linus stopped and looked up.

“In cities, we forget the sky,” he said. “We focus on the road beneath our feet, the walls in front of us. But sometimes we need to look up, remember a larger scale.”

I followed his gaze. Standing there in the cold London square, beside this quiet, thoughtful man who had recently become single, I felt a strange sense of wholeness, not the wholeness of resolution, but the peace of accepting complexity.

“Linus,” I said softly.

He turned to me, starlight reflected in his eyes.

I did something that would have been unimaginable a few months earlier. I stood on tiptoe and kissed his cheek, briefly, gently, with respect.

He didn’t pull away, nor did he respond immediately. He simply widened his eyes slightly. Then, slowly, he reached out and took my hand. His hand was warm and dry, with the slight calluses of someone who writes and handles artefacts.

“This isn’t simple,” he said quietly. “I’m much older than you, we were lecturer and student, the department will talk…”

“I know,” I said. “But maybe we can take it slowly. Like dealing with a fragile site, carefully.”

A smile spread across Linus’s face, the most relaxed and genuine I’d ever seen. “An archaeological metaphor. Very appropriate.”

He didn’t kiss me. He just kept holding my hand as we walked back to the department. The feeling wasn’t fiery passion, but like finding the right path after a long journey.

Spring arrived, and cherry blossoms bloomed in London. My relationship with Linus developed cautiously. We didn’t announce anything, but observant people at the department probably noticed the change, our lunches together more frequent, leaving seminars together naturally, the shared glances filled with quiet understanding.

Theo certainly noticed. One afternoon in April, we ran into each other in the collections room, just the two of us. I was organising pottery samples from Northumberland, and he came in to retrieve some reference materials.

“Hi,” I said.

“Hi,” he replied.

In the silence, only the sounds of our movements. Then Theo said, “You and Linus seem good together.”

I didn’t know how to answer. “We’re trying.”

Theo nodded, his expression complex. “He’s better than me. More stable, more complete.”

“Theo…”

“No, I mean it,” he leaned against a cabinet. “I’m not self pitying. I’m stating a fact. Linus is a better man, especially in this situation.”

He looked at me, no resentment in his eyes, only tired honesty. “I’m sorry for the chaos I brought into your life. For my selfish beginning, my immature promises, all of it.”

“You don’t need to apologise,” I said. “I chose it too.”

“But you’re young, full of hope,” he gave a bitter smile. “And I was the one who should have known better.”

We fell silent again. Then Theo said, “Lily’s going to France this summer on an exchange programme. Six weeks. Susan suggested we take her together, then stay in Paris a few days and try… I don’t know, try being friends.”

“That sounds good,” I said sincerely.

“Yes,” he nodded. “Maybe we can find a way to be not husband and wife, but still Lily’s parents, maybe even people with goodwill towards each other.”

He picked up what he needed and walked to the door. Before leaving, he stopped, didn’t turn back, just said, “I wish you happiness. Truly.”

The door closed softly. I stood in the collections room, surrounded by pottery fragments thousands of years old, each carrying a story from the past. And my own story was still being written, full of fault lines, repairs, and new layers.

In May, my relationship with Linus became more public. We attended conferences together as partners in collaboration, nothing flamboyant, just natural companionship. There was some talk at the department, but mostly kind. After all, we were both single, the age gap existed but wasn’t extreme, and above all, we were academic collaborators.

One warm May evening, we had dinner on Linus’s balcony. He’d made simple pasta, we drank red wine, and watched the London sunset.

“There’s something I need to tell you,” Linus said seriously.

My heart tightened. “What is it?”

“I’ve been offered a chair at Cambridge. ”

I froze. Cambridge. That meant leaving London, leaving the department, leaving me.

“Congratulations,” I said, trying to sound normal. “That’s a huge honour.”

“Yes,” he said, “but I’m not sure whether to accept.”

“Why not? It’s the peak of your career.”

Linus put down his fork and looked at me. “Because it means leaving London. Leaving everything I’ve built here.”

The air between us suddenly grew tense. The sunset cast his face in gold, and I could see the struggle in his eyes.

“You can’t turn it down because of me,” I said finally. “That would be irrational.”

“Feelings are rarely rational,” he replied calmly. “But you’re right, I can’t easily refuse. So I’ve been thinking there might be a third option.”

“What option?”

“I accept the offer, but negotiate reduced time in Cambridge for the first two years, and keep a part time position here. And…” he paused, “Cambridge isn’t far from London. An hour by train. We could let the relationship adapt to the distance.”

It was such a practical proposal, so Linus, acknowledging constraints and then searching for creative solutions.

“Do you think it would work?” I asked.

“I don’t know,” he said honestly. “But I’d like to try. If you do.”

I looked at him, this quiet, thoughtful man willing to reshape his career for a relationship. In that moment, I knew my answer.

“I’d like to try,” I said.

He reached out and took my hand. No more words were needed. The connection felt more solid than any vow.

Summer came, bringing change. Linus formally accepted the Cambridge post but negotiated to keep two days a week in London. Theo and Susan took Lily to France. According to Emma, they spent “surprisingly peaceful” four days in Paris.

One Saturday afternoon in July, I wandered through the British Museum and found myself in the Roman Britain gallery. Standing in front of a model of Hadrian’s Wall, I heard a familiar voice.

“They updated this section recently.”

I turned. Theo stood a few feet away, wearing a casual shirt and jeans, looking more relaxed than he had in months.

“Hi,” I said. “What are you doing here?”

“Lily’s shopping with friends in the fashion district,” he smiled. “I escaped to see old friends.” He gestured at the Roman artefacts. “These still make me feel grounded.”

We walked through the gallery together, discussing displays, as any two archaeologists might. Easy, unforced.

In front of a mural of Roman London, Theo stopped. “You know, sometimes I wonder if things would’ve been different if we’d lived in another time, another context.”

“Maybe,” I said. “But we live in this time, in this context.”

He nodded. “Yes. And in this context, you’ll be spending more time in Cambridge soon.”

Word travelled fast. “Yes. Linus has a position there.”

“You’ll like Cambridge,” Theo said. “The archaeology department’s excellent. And distance makes the heart grow fonder, right?”

There was no bitterness in his voice, only calm acceptance.

“Theo,” I said, “I want to thank you.”

“For what?”

“For your honesty. Even in the messiest moments, you never lied to me. And thank you for choosing to be the father Lily needs.”

His eyes grew moist. “That’s the decision I regret least.” He took a breath. “And you know, Susan and I… we’re trying dating. Very slowly, very carefully, but we’re trying.”

The news surprised me, but made me happy. “Really?”

“Yes,” he smiled. “Strange, isn’t it? Going in a big circle and ending up back at the start, but maybe this time we can build something different. Not based on youthful fantasies, but on knowing each other’s flaws and wounds.”

We continued through the museum, chatting about unimportant things, new projects, departmental gossip, the weather. As we reached the grand hall, Theo turned to me.

“I think we can be friends,” he said. “Real friends. Not pretending nothing happened, but acknowledging it all and still seeing each other’s value.”

“I think so too,” I said, feeling a strange sense of completeness.

He hugged me lightly, briefly, warmly. “I wish you all the best,” he said softly. “You deserve happiness.”

Then he turned and disappeared into the museum crowd. I stood there, surrounded by centuries of artefacts, witnesses to countless human stories. And my own story continued, with no simple ending, no clear moral, only real emotions, complex layers, and truths gradually revealed through ongoing excavation.

In August, I accompanied Linus to Cambridge for the first time. His new office was in a Georgian building, with views of King’s College Chapel spires. After settling in, we went for a walk by the river.

“How does it feel?” I asked.

“Strange and familiar,” he said. “Like starting a new excavation. You know the basic methods, but every soil layer is different.”

We sat beneath a willow tree, watching punts glide slowly along the water. Linus held my hand, his palm warm and steady.

“I’ve never been good at expressing feelings,” he said calmly, “but I want you to know this relationship matters deeply to me. Not to fill a void, but to expand my world.”

“It matters to me too,” I said, leaning against his shoulder.

That night, in his Cambridge flat, we made love for the first time. Unlike Theo’s fiery, urgent, dramatic passion, intimacy with Linus was slow, deep, exploratory, like two archaeologists carefully uncovering layer after layer, respecting each stratum’s fragility and uniqueness. Afterwards, we lay in the dark, his hand gently stroking my hair.

“What are you thinking?” he whispered.

“Strata,” I said honestly. “Emotional strata. Passion, pain, healing, growth. Each layer necessary, each forming the foundation for the next.”

Linus was quiet for a moment, then said, “The deepest excavations often reveal the simplest truth. We need connection, we need to be seen, we need to love and be loved.”

“Even with all the complexity and imperfection?”

“Especially with all the complexity and imperfection.”

I closed my eyes, feeling his heartbeat against my chest. In this unfamiliar city, in this unfamiliar room, I felt a sense of belonging I’d never known before, not a perfect belonging, but one rooted in being fully seen and fully accepted.

Autumn came, and our lives settled into a new rhythm. I spent most of my time in London finishing my doctorate, two or three days a week in Cambridge. Linus worked in London two days a week. Train journeys became part of our lives, notebooks filled with ideas sparked in transit.

One Thursday in October, I worked late in my London office, sorting data. My phone rang. It was Theo.

“Hey,” he said, sounding slightly strange. “Are you in London?”

“Yes, at the department. What’s up?”

“I’m nearby. Can we meet? Not urgent, I just want to talk.”

We met at a small pub near the department. Theo looked tired but calm, a barely touched pint in front of him.

“Everything alright?” I asked.

“Lily’s back from France,” he said. “She’s grown a lot. She brought us gifts, even bought matching scarves for Susan and me.” He shook his head with a smile. “Teenagers, you never know what’s going on in their heads.”

“That’s lovely.”

“Yes,” he nodded. “And Susan and I have decided to officially get back together. Not return to the old marriage, but build something new. Starting with dating, slowly.”

I felt genuinely happy for him. “Theo, that’s wonderful.”

“Yes,” he said, though a complex emotion flickered in his eyes. “That’s also why I wanted to see you. I think I need some kind of closure. Not the cliché of closing one chapter to start another, but acknowledging what we gave each other, then letting it go where it belongs.”

“I agree,” I said.

We sat in silence for a while. Then Theo said, “You taught me something important. About the reality of passion, and its limits. About honesty, even when it hurts. About finding better parts of yourself inside mistakes.”

“You taught me too,” I said. “About embracing life’s messiness, about having the courage to love after breaking, about how parental responsibility outweighs personal desire.”

Theo’s eyes grew wet. “We’re a complex stratum, aren’t we? Messy, but real.”

“The messiest sites are often the most authentic,” I quoted an old archaeological saying.

He laughed, the lightest, most relieved laugh I’d ever heard from him. “We’ll be good friends. I’m sure of it.”

“So am I.”

When we left the pub, we hugged goodbye. This embrace was unlike any before, no unfulfilled desire, no suppressed pain, only genuine goodwill and respect.

Walking back to my halls, the London autumn night was cool and clear. I thought of Linus, in Cambridge, probably working too, or simply looking out of his window at the night. I took out my phone and sent a message.

“Just saw Theo. He and his ex-wife are getting back together, starting from zero. I’m happy for him. Miss you.”

A few minutes later, the reply came.

“Happy for him too. And grateful for our own zero point. See you at the weekend.”

I looked up at the London sky, stars faint amid city lights. My emotional strata, Theo’s volcanic layer of fire and pain, Linus’s deep and steady sediment, and the soil of my own growth in between, together formed my present. Complex, imperfect, but real.