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)
I should hate her, but I can’t. Not when she’s the only thing keeping me tethered to reality.
My friend sits up, wriggling her toes under a heap of thrift-store quilts. “You look like you found out your puppy has cancer,” she says, voice half sugar, half sleep. “Wanna talk about it, or just want me to eat snacks and pretend I don’t see the stress rash on your neck?”
I snort and reach for my phone, only to realize it’s somewhere under the pile of unfinished essays at my feet. “I’m failing everything,” I say, too honest, too fast. “If I don’t get my shit together, I’m gonna lose the scholarship. And then I’m gone. Like, instantly.”
Andie makes a sad face and flops back dramatically. “God, that sucks so hard. Why does college cost an arm and a leg anyway? My brother’s friend went to prison for less than four semesters at this place.”
“That’s because prison is technically free for inmates. It’s a different kind of bar tab,” I reply in a droll tone.
She giggles and it’s like someone shaking a snow globe full of sunbeams. “Simone, you’re not gonna fail. You just, like, haven’t found your rhythm yet. Once you do, you’ll own this place. What class are you even failing?”
I hesitate. “To be honest, I’m not doing great in any of my classes this semester, which is the problem. But my worst is American Lit with Professor Thomas. You know. The tall one with the jawline. The Melville obsession.”
Andie’s eyes go wide, even in the half-light. “Wait. Wait. You mean Liam Thomas?” She lowers her voice, as if the name itself is a spell. “Simone. Simone. There’s, like, a whole TikTok dedicated to his arms.”
“He’s got arms, all right.” I can’t help it—I say it flat, like it’s a diagnosis. “He’s also got a resting murder face and an allergy to mercy. My GPA’s in the ICU.”
Andie sits up, crossing her legs to mirror me. “Okay, okay, but I heard a rumor about him. Like, a real rumor. Are you ready?” She leans in, and her hair falls in a curtain of gold.
I brace myself. “Tell me.”
“I heard,” she says, eyes huge, “that he got a girl pregnant. Like, a student. Last year? Or maybe it was the year before. But it was totally hush-hush and the girl transferred and the department covered it up.”
I blink. “You’re joking.”
She shakes her head, solemn as a nun. “Swear on my AirPods. He’s kind of a sex legend, isn’t he? Like, the brooding ones always have drama. Maybe that’s why he only wears button-down shirts. Camouflage for all the sperm on his conscience.”
I almost choke. “Jesus, Andie, that doesn’t even make sense. Where did you even hear that?”
She shrugs. “I have sources. You’d be amazed what people tell you in the laundry room at two a.m.”
I try to picture Professor Thomas, brooding and gorgeous, knocking up a coed in some back hallway. Sad to say, it’s equal parts impossible and inevitable. “But he seems too controlled,” I say. “Like he’d rather drown himself in the Mississippi than admit to a human need.”
Andie gives me a sly look. “Don’t pretend you haven’t thought about sex with him.”
I feel the heat rise in my cheeks. “I haven’t thought about anything except not flunking out. For real.”
She grins, but it’s the nice kind, the kind that says I know you and it’s okay. “You’re allowed to want stuff, Simone. Like, maybe wanting it is the first step to actually getting what you want? Manifestation and all that.”
I roll my eyes, but it’s an effort. “Pretty sure the only thing I’ve manifested is an ulcer.”
Andie sighs and flops over, rolling onto her stomach and propping her chin up with both hands. “You know that he’s already tenured? And he’s, like, thirty-five. My mom says that’s, like, unheard of. And he’s published, too. Five books. All poetry.”
I smirk. “He told us the only reason people write poetry anymore is because they want to get laid.”
She giggles again. “See? Sex legend. If you sleep with him, can I see the videos?”
I throw a wadded-up Post-It at her, but miss by a mile. “You’re deranged. I don’t even know why you think I’d sleep with him.”
She shrugs.
“Who wouldn’t? Let’s just say I have a dirty imagination.”
I shake my head because Andie has no idea how dirty I’ve been. To be honest, I can’t even believe it, but what happened really did happen. I flashed my steamy, glistening pink pussy at my professor during class, and then fucked myself with a pencil while he lectured, making him stutter and swallow. Meanwhile, my roomie keeps talking because she has no idea.
“Please.” She waves her hand. “I heard even his TA has a crush on him.”
I gasp.
“Belinda? But she’s like fifty and a grandma!”