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)
“Ready? He’s picking you up downstairs, right? I’ll walk you to the lobby.”
I hesitate. I touch the edge of my lip, feeling the unfamiliar stickiness of gloss, then run my hand down my dress, the texture slick and tight against my skin. I want to feel something, anything, but my body is a suit of armor, impervious and heavy.
“Yep. I’m ready,” I lie.
Andie grins, all teeth. “Let’s kill it, babe.” She loops her arm through mine and leads me down the hallway, my heels clacking like gunshots. Every door we pass, girls peek out, sizing us up, whispering as we march to the elevator.
I glance at my phone one last time. Still nothing.
We step into the cold, the wind sharp and clean, and for a moment I let myself believe that anything is possible.
But inside, I’m still chasing a ghost, still haunted by the way Liam said “two consenting adults” like it meant nothing, even as his hands trembled on my skin.
I follow Andie into the evening, my body dressed for war, my heart left somewhere on the classroom floor.
9
THE REBOUND
SIMONE
The Olive Branch smells like fragrant tomato sauce, the air heavy with steam that fogs every mirror and bead of glass. Waiters scurry back and forth, dressed in formal black and white, and all around us, diners eat and chat in the glow of flattering candlelight.
Across from me, Dylan Tourneau is downright movie star material. His hair is even better in this light: thick and glossy, styled into a crest that looks engineered to resist both water and gravity. He wears a crisp white shirt that fits like he was poured into it, the sleeves just tight enough to threaten a bicep explosion if he so much as flexes to reach for his wine. Three tables over, a cluster of Century College girls is already checking him out, their faces a parade of interest and jealousy, each one hoping their date will go to the bathroom so they can sneak a better look.
I check my phone—reflex, not need—and find nothing. Not even a notification from the student portal, much less a text from Liam. My heart drops. I jam the phone into my bag and turn back to my date.
“You look incredible,” Dylan says, and I believe him, because the way he’s staring at my chest is almost clinical in its intensity. I remember what Andie said about my boobs in this dress—criminal, she’d called it—and resist the urge to fold my arms or fidget with the neckline.
“Thanks,” I say. “You clean up pretty well yourself.”
He laughs, not loud but enough for the neighboring table to notice. “Yeah, my mom would murder me if I didn’t iron my shirts. She thinks wrinkled shirts are a sign of moral decay. She’s kind of intense.” He leans in, eyes bright. “What about your parents? Do they care about stuff like that?”
The question is real, but I know he doesn’t want an actual answer. I give him the version that’s easiest to digest: “My mom’s more into making sure I don’t get kicked out of college. She texts me every Monday to remind me not to screw up.”
Dylan nods, like he gets it. “Yeah. Moms.” He pronounces it with a capital M.
A waiter materializes, decked out in black vest and a smile so brittle I worry he’ll snap. “Would you like to see the wine list, or start with a cocktail?” he asks, eyes briefly darting to me but then sliding right back to Dylan.
Dylan doesn’t even look at the menu. “I’m not drinking because of the swim season. So we’ll get Diet Cokes?” He glances at me for confirmation, and I nod. I would have taken a regular Coke, but it seems criminally lame to say that out loud.
The waiter vanishes.
“So,” Dylan says, and now his smile is softer, a little more for me. “I don’t know if you know this, but you kind of broke the Internet in the Lit group chat last week. After you answered that question about Hawthorne, all the guys in the team started arguing about whether you were, like, secretly a genius or just trying to show up Professor Thomas. I said it was probably both.”
I fake a laugh, hoping it doesn’t sound as plastic as it feels. “It was a dumb answer. I was just guessing.”
Dylan nods. “Still, you had the balls to speak up. Most people just sit there and zone out. If you’re not talking, you’re not living. That’s what my coach always says.”
I nod, but my mind is a thousand miles away. I can’t help but picture Professor Thomas at a table like this, one hand on a heavy glass of wine, the other tracing the rim, voice like dark honey as he reads something just for me. I feel the pulse of old want in my chest, and try to drown it with a gulp of ice water.