Page 77 of Office Hours
He’s not supposed to be here. He’s supposed to be in his office, or at home, or anywhere but orbiting my life like a satellite with a death wish. My stomach does a full flip, like I’ve just missed the last step on a staircase.
He pulls up to the curb and just stops. For a second, nothing happens. Then the window slides down, slow as a threat, and I see his eyes. They’re not blue from this distance, just two black holes, but the way they lock onto me is unmistakable. Even in the chaos of the street, even with half the campus walking on the sidewalk, I know Liam’s looking directly at me.
I freeze. Dylan keeps talking, oblivious, about drug regimens, about the effects of steroids and HGH on the human body, and about how he may no longer be fertile from the shit he’s taken.
There’s a beat, and then the world speeds up again.
Liam’s gaze flickers from me to Dylan, then to our hands—still touching from the hug. His jaw tenses, visible even from here. The Porsche lurches forward, wheels spinning for half a secondon the slick road, before he guns it past the crosswalk. For a breathless moment, the car fishtails, the tail-end almost clipping a delivery bike and a woman with a stroller.
The tires shriek. The woman shrieks. Dylan’s head snaps toward the sound.
I cover my mouth, but not fast enough to muffle the gasp.
Liam regains control, the Porsche jerking straight, and then it’s gone. I hear the engine echo against the library façade before it fades to nothing.
Nobody speaks. I stare wide-eyed, blinking in shock.
“What the fuck was that?” Dylan asks, voice shaky.
I shake my head, as if that could dislodge the image of Liam’s face, the cold, precise fury in his eyes.
“I don’t know,” I manage. “Just some crazy driver with a death wish, I guess.”
Dylan looks from me down the street, and then back. “Do you want me to walk you back to your dorm?”
I should say no, but I don’t. I just nod, and then we’re moving through the streets like ghosts.
I keep my head down. The air is cold, my breath coming in ragged clouds. Dylan makes small talk about the swim team, the upcoming finals, but I barely hear it. All I can see is the flash of black metal, the moment of almost-collision, the knowledge that Liam was there, watching, judging, maybe even warning.
We reach my dorm, and Dylan hesitates on the steps. “Are you okay, Simone?” he says. “Something seems off.”
I manage a smile.
“Yeah, I’m fine. You just focus on you, Dylan. Trials are coming up and you’re at an important turning point in life.”
“Yeah,” the boy says, looking down. “Thanks, Simone, for listening. I appreciate it.” Then, he turns and trudges off. I watch his silhouette disappear down the sidewalk, until he’s just another blur in the night.
Inside, the room is mostly dark. Andie’s already there, headphones on, typing away at something urgent. She looks up, scans my face, and gives me a look that says she wants to talk, but I shake my head. Not now.
I change into pajamas, crawl under the covers, and let the silence press in.
At 1:14 a.m., my phone vibrates.
Unknown number, but I know who it is.
Simone, it says.
I’m sorry for everything. For how I’ve acted. For today. No ultimatums this time. Can we talk tomorrow?
The message sits there, the screen burning blue into my retinas.
I type, then erase. Type, then erase.
Finally, I just set the phone face-down on the pillow and close my eyes.
Tomorrow, I’ll decide what to do.
Tonight, I just want to sleep, and dream a world where none of this ever happened.
