Total pages in book: 110
Estimated words: 104050 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 520(@200wpm)___ 416(@250wpm)___ 347(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 104050 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 520(@200wpm)___ 416(@250wpm)___ 347(@300wpm)
Nonetheless, Dylan’s cute, and I know at least five girls in my dorm who would murder me for this chance. But all I can think about is the way Liam told me we were “two consenting adults,” like he was making change at a gas station.
Dylan waits, nervous. I realize he has no idea what happened in the classroom, no idea that I’m ruined, that there’s a mess inside me still leaking onto my thighs.
I force a smile. “Yeah sure,” I say. “I’d like that.”
His face splits into a grin, and I want to be happy for myself, but mostly I just feel hollow.
“Great!” he says. “I’ll pick you up at seven. Um, what dorm?”
I tell him my address. He repeats it, like he doesn’t want to forget, and then backs away, almost tripping over his own feet. “See you, Simone!” he calls, and disappears around the corner, leaving a faint trail of chlorine and Axe body spray.
I stand in the hallway, alone, flyer in hand.
I want to laugh. I want to text Andie and tell her I finally did it, that I’m going on a real date with a real, non-homicidal guy. But I don’t. I just stand there, breathing in and out, wondering if anyone will ever look at me the way Professor Thomas did, if anyone will ever want me enough to risk everything.
I touch my lips, still swollen from his mouth.
I close my eyes, and for a split second, I can taste him again.
Maybe I’ll never be special.
But for a moment, I was.
And that will have to be enough.
8
PREPPING FOR A DATE WITH THE WRONG MAN … OR IS HE THE RIGHT ONE?
SIMONE
The next morning, my bed is a shipwreck. There’s mascara on my pillowcase, a sticky ring of Chapstick around my mouth, and my phone gripped so hard in my hand that it’s molded a permanent rectangle into my palm. The clock says 10:13 a.m. but the light through the blinds is the color of old cream, time moving in slow motion. The dorm is almost empty. It’s Friday morning: half the kids are at school, the other are probably still snoozing.
I stare at my phone, rereading the text from Dylan: “Hey Simone, change of plans. Can I take you to the Olive Branch tonight instead of that swimming thing? 7 ok? Will pick u up at 6:45.” There’s a smiley face, but it’s one of the shy, lopsided ones, like a parenthesis with a guilty secret. It’s the fourth time I’ve read it, and the first time I bother to reply.
“Sure,” I type. Then I delete it. I try again: “Sounds great.” Delete. Finally, I just thumbs-up the message, then throw the phone onto my crumpled sheets.
In the silence, my mind drifts back to yesterday—Liam’s face, the taste of him, the way his hands bruised my thighs in the classroom. I touch my lips, as if I can still feel the pressure of his mouth, but all I feel is Chapstick and regret. I shiver, even though the room is way too warm for November.
The key turns in the door then Andie bursts in, red-cheeked and breathing hard, like she’s been running up and down the halls just for fun.
“Girl, are you alive?” she calls, slamming the door behind her. She’s wearing a miniskirt and leggings, a pink turtleneck, and a denim jacket so stiff it could stand up on its own. She’s holding a cardboard tray with two iced coffees, each dripping condensation onto the backs of her hands.
“I’m breathing,” I say, voice raw. I sit up, tugging my old Centennial swim camp t-shirt down over my hips.
Andie surveys the carnage of my bed, then plops herself cross-legged on my desk chair, shoving aside a pile of printouts and an empty La Croix can.
“You look like shit,” she says, but her tone is affectionate. “Are you hungover? Tell me you’re not still pining over the Professor.”
“Did you just bring coffee for yourself?” I ask, eyeing her tray.
She holds up the second cup, waggles it in my direction. “You want, or are you off caffeine again?”
I reach for it with a shaky hand. The plastic cup is so cold it makes my teeth ache. “Thanks.”
Andie peels the lid off hers and slurps. “So. Details. You bailed on movie night. Something happened, I can tell.”
I sip the coffee, letting the sugar and ice hit my tongue before I answer. “I have a date tonight,” I say, as casually as I can.
She almost chokes. “With who? Oh my god. Is it Liam Thomas? Again? Is this studying or for real?”
I bark a short laugh. “No. Not him. It’s—” I pause, embarrassed. “It’s Dylan Tourneau. The swimmer. He asked me out yesterday. Says he’s going to take me to the Olive Branch.”
For a second, Andie’s mouth goes slack, then she jumps out of her chair, coffee sloshing onto the rug. “Stop it. Shut up. The guy who everyone says is going to the Olympics? The guy every girl on campus is dying to date?”