I let her talk, drifting in and out. The brush of her fingers is soothing, but every stroke reminds me of Liam’s hands, rough and assured, the way he’d grabbed my chin, forced me to look at him while he fucked my mouth.
I check my phone again, thumb twitching. Still nothing from Liam. It’s been nearly twenty-four hours since he told me to turn in the essay, since he vanished from my life with the efficiency of a magician’s trick.
Andie smacks my hand. “Stop doom-scrolling. Focus. This is your night.”
“Sorry,” I mumble, but my attention keeps drifting. “What do you think Dylan expects?”
She shrugs, applying mascara with tiny, stabbing motions. “Honestly? He probably thinks you’ll fuck him. But, like, it’s college. Everyone expects that. You don’t have to do anything you don’t want, babe.”
“Right,” I say, but the words feel weird in my mouth. I wonder what it would feel like to have Dylan’s hands on me, his mouthon my tits, his cock inside me. The idea is…okay, I guess. Good, even. But not electric. Not dangerous.
Andie taps highlighter onto my cheekbones, then steps back, arms crossed. “I think we’ve reached peak hotness. Put on the heels, and let’s see the final look.”
I wriggle into black stilettos which Andie insists are “required footwear for a Century College goddess.” When I look in the mirror this time, the effect is total: hair shiny, lips glossy, cleavage front and center. I look ready for a magazine cover, or a mugshot.
Andie claps her hands. “You are going to destroy him.”
I don’t feel like a destroyer. I feel like a mannequin in a window: glossy, hollow, waiting for someone to decide if I’m worth the price.
Andie paces the room, gathering my phone, my clutch, my student ID. She talks as she moves, a swirl of logistics and advice.
“Don’t talk about exes. Don’t mention the Professor unless Dylan does first. If you feel awkward, just ask about swimming. It’s his whole personality. And remember, you don’t owe him anything.”
I nod, letting her voice wash over me. I want to text Liam, want to ask if he’s thinking of me, if he dreams about me at night the way I do him. But the blank phone screen tells me everything I need to know.
Andie opens the window, letting in the scent of wet leaves and cold air. The afternoon sunlight slants across the room, throwinglong shadows onto the floor. She spritzes herself with more perfume, then spins to face me.
“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.”