Total pages in book: 78
Estimated words: 73233 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 366(@200wpm)___ 293(@250wpm)___ 244(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 73233 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 366(@200wpm)___ 293(@250wpm)___ 244(@300wpm)
I don’t see his face.
I don’t see the way his eyes find me through the fogged glass—the girl in the booth, the girl with the still hands, the girl who’s laughing at something the boy across from her just said while the boy reaches across the table and touches her cheek.
I don’t see his hands on the steering wheel. I don’t see the way his fingers tighten, knuckles going white, gripping the leather so hard the tendons stand out under his skin.
I don’t see any of it.
But the car idles at the curb for a long time. And when it finally pulls away, the tires leave marks on the wet asphalt, sharp and black, the tracks of a man who pressed the accelerator the way you press a fist against a desk. Once, hard, and then silence.
Chapter 11
AGNES CUTHBERT’S OFFICE smells like lilies.
Not real ones but something bottled, something that sits in a crystal diffuser on the corner of her desk between a brass lamp and a framed photograph I can’t see from this angle. The scent is expensive and deliberate, the olfactory equivalent of her silk blouses and her pencil skirts and the way she says warm regards like she’s sharpening a letter opener.
I’m sitting across from her in a chair nicer than the one in Luciano’s office. Upholstered, cushioned, the kind that invites you to settle in. A chair designed to make you comfortable before someone makes you uncomfortable.
“Thank you for making the time, Miss Lively.” Agnes folds her hands on the desk. Her nails are perfect. Her lipstick is the color of dried roses. Her smile is the one from the hallway—the one with teeth. “I know your schedule must be very full.”
“I’m happy to be here, Professor Cuthbert.”
I’m not. My hands are in my lap, flat against my thighs, perfectly still. No circles. I haven’t drawn a circle in weeks, and the absence of them is something I carry the way you carry a phantom limb—the motion is gone but the need for it pulses at the edges of my fingers, aching.
“I wanted to discuss your scholarship review in person.” She opens a folder. Cream paper inside, institutional letterhead, the same thick stock as the formal notice that’s been sitting in my notebook for weeks. “As you know, the review was triggered by a failing grade on your most recent submission.”
“A grade I’ve contested with my advisor.”
“Yes. Dr. Malvar has expressed her support for your work.” Agnes pauses. Lets the pause work. “Dr. Malvar is a wonderful advocate. But she’s not the department chair.”
The room is very quiet. Beyond the door, the hallway hums—fluorescent buzz, distant footsteps, the muffled life of a building that has no idea what’s happening inside this office. The lilies press in. My stomach turns against them.
“Miss Lively, I’ll be direct.” Agnes closes the folder. Her hands return to the desk, laced, composed. “I’ve concerns about your trajectory in this program. Not your academic ability—your file speaks for itself. But ability isn’t the only metric. Judgment matters. Conduct matters. The choices a student makes about how she—“ Another pause. Surgical. “—allocates her time and attention.”
My jaw tightens. I feel it happen—the involuntary clench of a person holding something back—and I think, absurdly, in this awful office with this awful woman: I’ve picked up his habits. His jaw. His stillness. He’s in my body now, and I can’t get him out.
“I’ll speak plainly.” Agnes leans forward. Her eyes are sharp, clear, the eyes of a woman who has been building toward this moment for weeks and is now standing on the summit of it. “Some students arrive at this university with backgrounds that, while admirable, leave them unprepared for the realities of academic life at this level. They confuse a professor’s kindness for something personal. They mistake attention for affection. And when those students come from—“ She tilts her head. Studies me. “—more provincial environments, the confusion is understandable. Even sympathetic.”
My blood goes cold.
Provincial.
The word sits in the air between us, and it’s not about geography. It’s not about Nebraska or farms or a father’s spreadsheet or a mother who says oh, my stars. It’s about me. It’s about who Agnes Cuthbert thinks I am. A country girl too naive to know the difference between a mentor and a man, too dazzled by attention to see that she’s being used, too provincial to understand the rules of a world she doesn’t belong in.
“Professor Cuthbert.” My voice is even. My hands don’t shake. My back is straight in her comfortable chair, and I’m looking at this woman the way Robert Lively looks at anyone who underestimates his land. “I earned a 3.8 GPA. I earned my scholarship. My thesis advisor has called my work one of the strongest undergraduate analyses in the department. I earned my place here.”