Page 54 of Office Hours
I force the words out. “He knows. Dylan Tourneau. He knows about us and just threatened me!”
There’s a silence, then a slow, careful exhale on the other end. “I’ll handle it,” he says. “Don’t talk to him again. And don’t—” He stops himself. “Don’t do anything stupid.”
My vision swims, but I nod. “Okay,” I say, voice small.
“I mean it, Simone. I’ll take care of this. Just—stay away from him.”
The line goes dead.
I stand there, phone pressed to my ear, heart slamming against my ribs.
For the first time in months, I’m not glowing.
For the first time, I remember what it’s like to be afraid.
I find my way back to the table, eyes down, and slide into the chair without looking at Andie.
She waits until I’ve taken a sip of coffee before asking, “Do you want to talk about it?”
I shake my head.
We work in silence, the only sound the soft, steady whisper of pages turning, the hum of the heat, and the faint memory of something dangerous lurking just outside the yellow pool of light.
Somewhere in the distance, a clock chimes. I don’t know if it’s counting down to something terrible, or just marking time.
Either way, I’m not ready.
I’m notready for him to show up again. But less than an hour later, Dylan is back—just as I’m settling into a rhythm of note-taking, trying to forget the green-eyed warning that’s burning a hole in my mind. What the fuckity fuck? Why can’t this guy leave me alone?
He doesn’t ask if he can sit. He just materializes beside our table, so close I can feel the heat coming off his skin, the way you can feel the sun before you see it. Only this sun feels like it wants to burn me alive.
“Hey,” he says, softer now. “You want to get coffee after this?”
He asks it with the confidence of a guy who’s never been told no. Andie’s head snaps up, searching my face for a cue.
I keep my voice frigid, practiced. “Sorry, Dylan. There’s a lot on my plate right now. I have to finish this chapter and work on my essay.”
He nods, a single, slow dip of his chin. “That’s cool.” Then, as if he’s reading a cue card, he tries again. “How about Thursday? There’s a team party, just a few people. You should come.”
This guy is unreal! But I shake my head, keeping my gaze fixed on the margin of my book. “Really can’t. I’m slammed until finals.”
For a beat, there’s nothing. I can hear the sound of his fingers drumming the wooden table, the way the pulse of his annoyance syncs up with the clock on the wall.
Then he says, “Funny. I think you don’t understand what I’m saying, Simone.”
I smile at him, although my eyes are frozen.
“I understand just fine, actually.”
Dylan shrugs.
“You always have time for Professor Thomas.”
His voice is ice over steel. The hairs on the back of my neck prickle.
I keep my face blank. “Like I mentioned, he’s my advisor. And my professor.”
He leans in, so close his breath stirs the edge of my notebook. “Relax,” he whispers. “All I’m saying is that you need to get with the picture, Simone. I care about you. I want you to do better than some washed-up old dude with flab on his belly.” He flashes a smile, and for the first time, I see it’s a weapon, not an invitation.
