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)
“Oh, are you guys…?” Dylan’s hand flaps vaguely in the air. I’m not sure he even knows what gesture he’s making.
“Old friends,” Claire says. “But tonight, I get to claim him as my date.” She leans in, the perfume wafting off her like a warning. “It’s strictly pleasure.”
“Strictly pleasure,” Liam repeats, gaze boring into me. I swallow hard as my skin goes electric. I have no idea if Dylan feels the vibe in the air, but his hand finds the small of my back and tugs me close, fingers warm through the fabric.
Liam’s date is sweet, almost too sweet, as she smiles. “So, are you two the same year?” she asks.
Dylan shakes his head. “We’re both seniors, but Simone’s like a genius or something. She’ll probably graduate before I do.” He laughs, then adds, “If I ever pass American Lit.”
Liam’s mouth is a straight line. “I’m sure you’ll find a way, Mr. Tourneau,” he says. “Student athletes always do.”
There’s a beat of silence, the kind that makes even the wait staff slow their step.
Dylan blinks, not sure if it’s a joke. “Yeah, well, the Student Learning Center has tutors just for athletes, so we get the help we need. It’s one of the bonuses of dedicating so much to your sport.” He laughs, but there’s an edge of confusion, like he doesn’t know why he’s being needled.
Claire jumps in, eager to smooth the waters. “Oh, that’s clever! I wish they had tutors for my job.”
“What do you do?” I ask, mostly to be polite.
She shrugs, a silky movement that sets her hair swishing. “PR. I spin disaster for a living.”
Liam’s hand is still tight on her waist. He hasn’t looked away from me for a second. “Simone is one of my best students,” he says, and the compliment is so sudden I almost flinch. “Her last paper was remarkable.”
Claire claps, delighted. “Oh, how wonderful! What did you write about?”
I want to say “how professors ruin their students,” but instead I murmur, “The American obsession with failure. Through Melville, mostly.”
Claire seems genuinely impressed. “That’s so much deeper than anything I did in college. I just got drunk and played Ultimate Frisbee.”
There’s another silence, but it’s gentler this time. I sense we’re all waiting for Liam to say something, but he doesn’t. Instead, he looks at Dylan, then back to me, then at Claire, as if he can’t remember whose arm he’s supposed to be holding.
Finally, Claire breaks the spell. “Well, we’d better get going. I’m hungry and we have a reservation! It was lovely to meet you both.” She means it, I think.
“Good night, Simone,” Liam says. “Dylan.”
Dylan gives a salute, like he’s about to dive into the pool. “See you in class, Professor.”
They walk in, the red of her dress fluttering as she passes. For a second, I stand frozen, watching them vanish into the depths of the restaurant, the two of them so perfectly matched, so appropriate together, that it almost makes me want to cry.
Dylan is busy wrangling my coat onto my shoulders. “Was that weird?” he asks. “It felt kind of weird.”
I shrug. “Professor Thomas is always like that. Intense.”
Dylan snorts. “That’s one way to put it. You’d think he was still up for tenure or something.”
I want to ask about the tenure thing, but I’m too busy thinking about the word “pleasure” and the way Liam said it, as if he meant me and not the woman on his arm.
We step out into the cold, and the wind cuts through my tights. Dylan pulls me close, his hand steady, warm, real. For a moment I let myself imagine that this is enough, that being with someone who wants me this way will be the cure for whatever uncertainty Liam left in my veins.
I know better, but I pretend anyway.
As Dylan opens the car door for me, I look back through the restaurant window, just in time to see Liam and Claire seated comfortably at a table. He’s talking, she’s laughing, her hand on his arm. The light catches his face, and for a split second, he’s looking straight at me, as if he knew I’d be watching.
My cheeks go hot. I duck into the car and shut the door.
Dylan gets in, slaps the steering wheel with a grin. “You want to go somewhere else, or call it a night?”
I pause, then shake my head. “Let’s just drive for a bit.”
He shrugs, turns the key, and the car rumbles to life. We pull out of the lot, headlights tracing two bright lines down the empty street. The world is quiet, cold, waiting.
In the rearview, the Olive Branch sign glows blue and gold.
I close my eyes, and try to remember what it feels like to be invisible.
The ride back is mostly quiet except for Dylan’s taste in music, which runs exclusively to playlists called things like “Epic Pre-Game Jams.” I nod along, but my mind is elsewhere—out in the cold, pacing a sidewalk with a mouthful of angry words I’m too cowardly to spit out.