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)
She nods, solemn. “I feel like I’m playing a background character in a sitcom that’s been running too long. Everyone’s in season five, but I’m still stuck in the pilot.”
I laugh, and it feels less fake than anything else I’ve done all week.
We get down to the business of finals: comparing note cards, rehashing the finer points of Puritan shame, diagramming the love triangles in The Great Gatsby until it looks like a conspiracy board. For a while, it almost works. We’re two students, battered by the end of term, the whole world boiling down to bullet points and caffeine.
But Andie sees through me, as always.
After an hour, she leans forward and drops the hammer: “Do you want to talk about it?”
I keep my eyes on the notes. “Talk about what?”
She waits.
I cave. “I saw Liam yesterday.”
Andie’s face doesn’t change, but her fingers tighten on her mug. “And?”
“He said he was sorry. He tried to explain.” The words come out flat, like a recitation.
Andie waits for the rest.
I take a breath, try to organize the truth. “He told me everything. Why he did the surrogacy thing. Why he couldn’t just want me like a normal person.”
Andie purses her lips. “And do you believe him, whatever explanation he gave?”
I want to say yes. I want to say no. What comes out is, “I don’t know.”
The silence stretches, soft but absolute.
Andie tilts her head. “What do you want, Simone? Really.”
I stare at the window, at the sun lighting up the smudged glass, at the dust motes spinning through the air. I want to say I want to be done, that I want to torch all my feelings and start over.
But I’m so tired of lying, even to myself.
“I want him,” I say. “But I’m scared. I’m scared it’ll be like before. That I’ll just be another variable. That he’ll use me, and I’ll let him, and then I’ll hate myself for it.”
It sounds so pathetic out loud that I have to bite my lip to keep from crying.
Andie nods, her face calm. “You don’t have to decide right now, you know. You’re allowed to want him and hate him at the same time.”
She reaches out, covers my hand with hers. “It’s not like feelings are easy to explain, and they don’t go away just because you want them to either. You’re allowed to be confused.”
We sit like that, the warmth of her palm grounding me, until my phone vibrates again.
I pick it up, dreading what I’ll see.
It’s not Liam.
It’s Dylan.
Hey. Can we get coffee tomorrow? I have to talk to you about something. -D
I show the screen to Andie.
She snorts. “Two at once. You’re a heartbreaker.”
I roll my eyes. “It’s not like that. Dylan is a friend to me.”
Andie fixes me with a look. “Yeah, but does he know that? You know boys sometimes. They just hope and hope and hope and never give up unless you spell it out to them in capital letters.”
My friend’s right, and she isn’t. There’s no part of me that wants Dylan, not really. But it’s nice to be wanted. It’s nice to have something—someone—that isn’t so fucking complicated.
I shrug and decide to go for it. We’re friends. It’s fine. I text back: Sure. Library?
Dylan replies in under a minute: You’re the best. See you then.
Andie watches me type, then says, “You know, he’s in love with you.”
I laugh, but it sounds wrong. “He’s in love with the idea of me. It’s different.”
Andie shrugs. “Sometimes the idea is better. Cleaner. Less sharp around the edges.”
She leans back, tugs her braid. “You don’t owe anyone anything, Simone. Not even yourself. You can fuck up, you can change your mind, you can walk away. That’s allowed.”
The words hit me in the gut. “Is it really?”
She smiles, the soft, sad one. “It’s not easy, but it’s allowed.”
We get back to studying, but the mood is changed. I feel lighter, somehow, like the worst thing has already happened and everything else is just aftermath.
As we pack up for the library, Andie pulls me into a quick hug.
“You’re not broken or malfunctioning,” she whispers. “You’re just scared.”
I hug her back, hard. “Thanks, Mom.”
She grins, then pelts me with a granola bar. “Now let’s go pass American Lit so we can get matching jobs at Target.”
We laugh, loud enough to echo down the dorm hallway. And for the first time all week, I almost believe that everything might be okay.
We leave the room, the lights off, the desk still a mess. But we’re moving, at least. Forward, or sideways, or just out the door.
Maybe that’s enough for now.
The library’s empty except for the ghosts of finals week. Every surface is sticky with desperation and coffee residue. The old building has that distinct collegiate smell—dust, ink, ancient varnish, a hint of mold that the Facilities staff will never fully eradicate. The lights hum overhead, a low, persistent whine, and the only movement is the slow orbit of the reference desk librarian as she does another circuit to shush the invisible.