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)
When class ends, the exodus is brutal. Students stampede for the exits, leaving a trail of coffee cups and crumpled notes. Kat hangs back, packing up slow. I linger at the top of the stairs, waiting until the room is mostly empty before descending.
She looks up when she hears my footsteps, a small smile curving her lips. “Did you get anything out of that?”
“Other than some quotes?” I say, taking the seat next to her. “Yeah. He’s good.”
She snorts. “He’s a maniac. He once threw a copy of Oedipus Rex at a kid who used ChatGPT for a paper.”
I like my woman when she’s like this—at ease, making fun of the world, unselfconscious about how smart she is. I want to reach for her hand, but I settle for nudging her knee under the table.
She closes her notebook, then turns to me. “You going to introduce yourself, or just skulk in the back like a serial killer?”
I glance toward the podium. Avery is packing up, but moving slow, like he knows someone’s waiting to pounce.
“Would it be weird?” I ask, and Kat laughs.
“You’re the King of Weird. Go.”
So I do, as my woman vanishes with a wink over her shoulder.
Avery doesn’t look up when I approach, but I can feel him watching me from the corner of his eye. He snaps his briefcase closed with a crisp click, then slides on his glasses and surveys me like I’m an ungraded final.
“Mr. McKnight,” he says, voice thin and reedy. “Welcome to my humble classroom.”
I pause, momentarily thrown. “You know my work?”
He gives a half-smile. “I know your publisher. And your agent. Also, I’ve read the first two chapters of Angel’s Share, though I’m told the best parts have yet to come.”
I laugh, but it’s not entirely at ease. “Sorry to drop in unannounced. I’ve heard a lot about your classes.”
He tips his head. “From Katherine, I suppose. I appreciate that. But tell me: what brings the King of the Modern Thriller to my humble hall of self-flagellating undergrads?”
I think about disseminating, then decide there’s no point. “I wanted to get your opinion on a matter dear to my heart.”
He considers this, then gestures to the battered folding chair next to the podium. “Have a seat. I’m partial to honesty, even when it’s not a good story.”
I sit, and for a second we just look at each other, two men who could not be more different but who are, at base, chasing the same goddamn thing. Professor Avery gives the impression of a bumbling academic, but I know beneath the absentminded demeanor is a sharp, discerning mind. I’m bigger, broader, and resemble a burly woodsman with muscular arms and roughened hands, but in fact, I create the written word for a living.
Avery leans in. “Tell me: are you here for my opinion, or my approval?”
I don’t flinch. “I’m here because I wrote something I wasn’t supposed to. And it hurt someone I care about.”
He raises one eyebrow. “So you want exoneration.”
“No,” I say, meaning it. “Just perspective. Maybe a sentence or two to help me think about what comes next.”
He drums his fingers on the desk, then steeples them. “You know the history of confessional literature? Most of it is garbage. There’s no craft. Just wound-licking and solipsism and a desperate need to make the world feel as much as the writer does.” He pauses. “But the best of it? The best of it is a gift. Not because it tells the truth, but because it tells the truth beautifully.”
I nod, following.
He fixes me with a look. “Your book was a gift to Katherine. At least the first two chapters were. It was messy, unedited, sometimes repugnant. But honest. The only real sin you committed was being so damn readable.”
For a moment, I feel a release I didn’t know I was holding. I lean back, let out a breath. “Thank you.”
Avery grins, slow and wolfish. “Don’t thank me yet. The sequel is always harder. No one cares about the man who wins the girl; they want to see if he can keep her.”
I stand, feeling both chastised and emboldened. “I’ll try not to let you down, Professor.”
He laughs, a short bark. “Just don’t plagiarize my lectures, and we’ll be fine.”
I walk out of the lecture hall, the weight in my chest a little lighter, the sky outside bright as a new page.
Kat is waiting on the steps, perched like a bird, legs crossed at the ankle. She’s tapping her phone, but looks up as I approach.
“How’d it go?” she asks.
“Not as weird as I expected,” I say. “I think he liked me.”
She giggles, then slides her arm through mine. “Professor Avery told me once that writers are the only people on earth who can simultaneously love and hate themselves. He’d probably take you as a project.”