Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 83858 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 419(@200wpm)___ 335(@250wpm)___ 280(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 83858 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 419(@200wpm)___ 335(@250wpm)___ 280(@300wpm)
What I need is someone who understands how this stuff works. Someone who knows the difference between real pain and performance, between confession and manipulation. Someone who won’t pat my head and say “it’ll be okay,” but will actually tell me what I should do.
By four a.m., the answer is obvious. I stare up at the cracked ceiling, feeling it loom closer every minute, and wait for daylight.
Professor Malcolm Avery’s office is on the third floor of the old humanities building—a place that smells like dust and pipe tobacco and faint, irrepressible mildew. The hallway is a maze, walls papered with flyers for dead authors and lost cats, and by the time I reach his door, my pulse is up again. There’s a sign taped crookedly to the wood: OFFICE HOURS, KNOCK LOUD, I’M PROBABLY INSIDE.
I rap once, twice, then push in.
Inside is a planet with its own gravity: every inch of space crammed with books, stacked on shelves and chairs and in weird, unstable towers on the floor. There’s a grandfather clock in the corner, a dead orchid on the sill, a taxidermied owl perched on a reading lamp. Professor Avery sits behind a desk that looks like it’s losing the battle, with one leg propped up on a box and a mug of black coffee wedged between two printouts. He’s wearing a faded sweater and jeans, the professor look dialed down to “retired lighthouse keeper.”
He peers over his wire-rimmed glasses, blinks, and then—surprisingly—smiles. “Katherine Vreeland. To what do I owe the pleasure?”
I try to smile back, but it feels more like a grimace. “Hi, Dr. Avery. I hope it’s okay to drop in. I know you’re slammed.”
“Nonsense,” he says, gesturing to the only open chair, which is covered in a sheepskin and two library books. He sweeps them to the floor without looking. “You’re a welcome distraction from grant applications and the tyranny of social media. Sit. Please.”
I sit, fold my hands in my lap to hide the tremor. “I, um, have something personal I need to talk about. Not for a grade or anything. Just advice, I guess.”
The old man leans back, steepling his hands in the universal sign of contemplation. “All the best conversations begin with ‘not for a grade,’” he says, then waits.
I take a breath. “It’s about a relationship. Not a normal one. There was a lot of deception. I got tricked into something I thought was real, but it turns out it was all an act. Worse, the guy wrote a whole book about it and made it look like a love story. Except it wasn’t. Not for me, at least.”
Avery doesn’t flinch. If anything, he blinks owlishly.
“An act,” he says in a slow tone. “So, you’re the character. He’s the author. What’s your role now?”
I let the words settle, trying to pick them apart. “I don’t know. I think that’s the problem.”
He drums his fingers on the desk, then takes a deliberate sip of coffee. “Let me hazard a guess. Your main character did something inexcusable, but has since presented a dramatic confession, complete with remorse and perhaps an offer of restitution?”
My mouth drops open. “How did you know?”
“Because, Ms. Vreeland, I have been teaching undergrads for thirty years. Also, I read books for a living. The only thing rarer than an original sin is an original apology.”
That lands harder than I expect. I glance at the dead orchid, then back at him. “Yes, but how do you know if the remorse is real? Or if it’s just another performance?”
Avery’s lips quirk, just a hint. “Ah. Now we’re talking narrative theory.” He stands, shuffles over to a shelf, and pulls down a battered volume. “Do you know what distinguishes a confessional narrator from a manipulator?”
I shake my head, but he keeps going.
“A confessor is transformed by their admission. A manipulator uses the confession itself as the next move in the game.”
He sits back down, sliding the book between us like a chess piece. “So. Has he changed? Or is he just escalating the stakes?”
I want to say I don’t know. But I do. The problem is that, even in his honesty, Talon was still running the show. “He said he wrote the book for me. That he wanted to make it right. But I don’t know if he can change, or even if he wants to. That’s how confused I am.”
Avery shrugs, not unkindly. “Few people change all the way. Most of us just learn to hide our worst impulses better. Or to redirect them into something productive, if we’re lucky.”
The old man leans in, voice quieter now. “But the question isn’t whether your protagonist can change. It’s whether you can trust yourself not to be changed by him.”
My brain shorts out for a second, and I just stare at the mug. The world seems to slow, the silence thickening.