Page 21 of Office Hours
I stare at my hands, then at the tiny shadow of my diary under the pillow. Confidence isn’t what I feel. More like a hunger that never ends, a need so deep it’s almost a wound.
“Hey, Simone?” Andie says, voice small. “You’re not in trouble or anything, right? I mean, you can tell me. If a professor is being weird, I’ll go full DefCon 3 on his ass.”
I laugh, for real this time, and the tension breaks. “No trouble,” I say. “Professor Thomas isn’t like that. He’s just a good teacher.”
She seems hesitant.
“But do you feel like you’re losing control? I mean, he’s so much older and maybe you’re brainwashed?”
I giggle.
“No, I’m not brainwashed. I don’t think he’s that old either. Like thirty-five, not sixty.”
Andie nods, satisfied. “Okay, good. Just don’t fall for him, okay? That never ends well.”
I nod, but my throat is thick with all the things I can’t say.
She yawns, then pulls her blanket up and closes her eyes. “Night, babe,” she murmurs.
I watch her breathing for a while. The campus is finally quiet, the world soft and blurry around the edges.
When I’m sure she’s asleep, I slide the diary out and open it to the fresh page. The pen is warm in my hand.
“I want to have sex with Liam,” I write. “I want him to fuck me until I forget my name. I want him to fill me up and ruin me for anyone else. I want him to own me, even if it destroys us both.”
My hand trembles as I put the pen down.
Outside, the moon is a thumbnail above the quad, thin and sharp and dangerous.
I close my eyes, and the need swallows me whole.
I sleep like shit,which is a miracle because I thought swallowing a quart of come would put me out like a hibernating bear. Instead, I toss and turn all night, the sheets wound around my legs, my thighs wet and sticky with need that won’t cool down no matter how many times I roll over and try to forget about it.
When I finally wake, the sun is already up, burning white through the cheap blinds and striping my bed with bands of light. I’m halfway through a fantasy of Liam in a three-piece suit, bending me over his desk and fucking me so hard the books fall off the shelves, when Andie pops her head in.
She’s already dressed and freshly showered, her hair in a high pony and her mascara surgical. She’s on the phone, probably with her mother, but when she sees me awake she snaps the phone shut and grins. “You live!”
I grunt, burying my face in the pillow. “I barely survived.”
She laughs, plops onto her bed, and then starts lacing her sneakers, her fingers flying with muscle memory. “Me and Pamela are going to Creamery on 8th. You in?” She pauses, then smirks. “You never say no to ice cream for breakfast. It’s your thing.”
I stretch, making a show of yawning. The truth is my mouth tastes like sleep and memory and something sweeter, and I have zero appetite for anything but more of last night.
“Hard pass,” I say. “I want to shower and maybe do some real work for once.”
Andie stops dead, one shoe dangling from her fingers. “Wow. You really are sick. Or in love. Or dying.”
I pull my comforter up, hiding the stickiness in my pajama pants. “Just tired. It was a long day yesterday.”
She studies me, her gaze narrowing the way it does when she’s about to go full therapist. “You never turn down Creamery. Are you sure you’re okay? You look…” She squints. “Different.”
I shrug. “That’s because I am different. I had a life-changing experience yesterday.”
Andie’s eyebrows shoot up. “You’re not pregnant, are you?” She says it as a joke, but her face gets serious real quick.
I roll my eyes. “Oh my god, Andie. Relax. It’s not that. I just…” I bite my tongue, the words itching in my mouth. “You’re not going to believe me, so I don’t even know why I’m telling you.”
Andie sits on the edge of her bed, leans in, elbows on knees. “You can tell me anything. Unless you killed a guy, in which case, please let me know so I can call in a favor.”
