Total pages in book: 50
Estimated words: 51243 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 256(@200wpm)___ 205(@250wpm)___ 171(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 51243 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 256(@200wpm)___ 205(@250wpm)___ 171(@300wpm)
My lips were still throbbing, my breath uneven, but beneath the heat there was something sharper—shame, maybe. Or fear that I’d finally let him see how easily he could break me.
My fake email address was the culprit, but they’d never be able to trace the messages back to me. Besides, Erica could do way better than Taylor, and he always wrote better broken-hearted.
He should be thanking me.
And maybe, deep down, I wished he would.
TRACK 19. THIS IS WHY WE CAN’T HAVE NICE THINGS (3:56)
TAYLOR
Audrey
Hey… I noticed you haven’t been back home these past few days. You okay?
I’m spending some nights at a teammate’s condo.
You plan on snitching on me to the staff?
No.
Is our apartment on fire? Is this an “emergency”?
Taylor, I was just being a fellow “human” and asking if you were fucking okay.
I’m not okay.
No need to text back, though. I’ll see you in class eventually.
TRACK 20. EPIPHANY (3:24)
AUDREY
My Monday morning class made me want to claw out my eyes and chop off my hands. Then again, even if I did those things, it’s not like any of the criticism of my work would’ve come any softer.
In Advanced Peer Critique, every essay was a lamb, and no one was immune to slaughter.
It was one thing to get private written feedback from a teacher, another to see red mark-outs, but that was child’s play compared to “Hot Seat.”
Everyone in the circle was required to tear the essay of the day to shreds, and the writer wasn’t allowed to utter a word in response.
Unfortunately, I was settling into the Hot Seat now, armed with a cup of coffee and an emotional-support squishy ball.
“So?” Professor Walton cleared her throat. “Who wants to start our critique of Miss Parker’s The Bullying Years?”
Matt, a guy who wrote the best lyrical metaphors I’d ever read, raised his hand.
“I enjoyed reading it. Very beautiful sentence structure.”
“I agree,” Beth—a strong poet—chimed in. “The essay has a really easy rhythm, and I felt bad for all the bullying that the guy in her high school put her through.”
That was it.
Silence spread. Pens clicked. Someone coughed.
“Taylor, what did you think of Miss Parker’s Farewell to My Latest Ex piece?” the professor asked.
“My honest opinion or a soft one?”
“Honest, of course.” She smiled. “The only way we can all improve as writers is with honest feedback.”
He looked at my printed words, and then at me.
“I thought her words were hollow and superficial as hell, almost like she wasn’t being truthful about how this supposed ‘bully’ hurt her.”
“What?” I snapped.
“No, no, no, Miss Parker.” The professor wagged her finger at me. “Silence. You’re not allowed to say anything. Taylor, feel free to elaborate.”
“She says she cried enough tears to fill a lake, which is a pretty metaphor, but we never find out what the guy did to cause that. Seems like she just wants sympathy without giving the full story. In fact, she does that multiple times throughout the piece, so…I feel like she’s just farming for emotions without telling the truth.”
My blood boiled, and I took a long sip of coffee.
“You know what?” Harold—the guy who usually said my work was perfect—nodded. “I see what Taylor’s saying. It’s kind of like she’s scared of being completely vulnerable with the reader. Like she’s telling us, ‘This guy ruined my life,’ without the reasons.”
“Exactly.” Taylor looked at me. “There has to be a reason.”
I dropped the pen to the floor to prevent myself from jumping up and stabbing him with it.
The timer on the professor’s desk kept ticking, smug and steady, while suddenly everyone had something to say.
Another student cleared her throat and said, “It’s like you’re editing your feelings before we can feel them.” Someone else added, “I wanted the bruise, not the bandage.” The professor drew a slow line through an entire paragraph and murmured, “Kill your darlings.” By the time the buzzer sounded, the only sentence left untouched was, I miss the silence more than him.
I paced behind the front door later that night, ready to give Taylor a piece of my mind and make him think twice about embarrassing me like that ever again.
If he came home…
I’d been waiting for three hours now, and I was beginning to have my doubts.
Suddenly, the lock turned and the door gave way.
He came in stretching, earbuds still in, the ghost of a smirk on his mouth like he’d just jogged a victory lap.
“Hello, Audrey,” he said.
“Fuck you,” I hissed. “Apologize.”
“For what?” He pulled one bud out. “Coming back to my room?”
“Stop playing dumb. Just apologize.”
He blinked.
“For destroying my work in front of everyone.” I was shaking. “You know damn well it was well written, and if it were anyone else—”
“You can write a lot better than that,” he said, voice even. “You know it, I know it, and everyone in that room knows it too. They’re competing with you, so they aren’t going to tell you the truth.”