Page 28 of Office Hours
“I know,” I say, before I can stop myself. “Everyone knows.”
His cheeks go a little pink, and for a second he looks younger than me, despite being a senior and probably old enough to drink beer with actual adults. “Yeah, I guess. Anyway—” He stops, runs a hand through his hair, and then holds out a flyer for some campus event. “I’m supposed to invite people. The whole team is, like, required.”
I take the flyer, but don’t look at it.
“It’s at the pool,” he adds. “There’ll be food, and stuff.”
I look up. His green eyes are actually pretty nice—gentle, no calculation. He’s nothing like the professor.
“Maybe,” I say. “I’m not really a party person.”
He grins, showing perfect teeth. “It’s not a party. It’s more like…a mixer? You can just watch. You don’t have to swim.”
I fold the flyer, tuck it into my bag. “Thanks, I’ll think about it.”
He shifts on his feet, then blurts, “May I see you?”
The words hang in the air, formal and awkward, like he’s reading from a script. “I mean—would you want to go, with me? On Friday?”
I stare at him. Honestly, the words “may I see you” were just so awkward and weird. Where did he get that from? Wasn’t it the billionaire Bill Ackman who recommended that pick-up line?
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.
