Total pages in book: 52
Estimated words: 52643 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 263(@200wpm)___ 211(@250wpm)___ 175(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 52643 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 263(@200wpm)___ 211(@250wpm)___ 175(@300wpm)
“Okay.” I nod.
His lips curve into a smile, but he doesn’t let it stay. Instead, he moves on to the next topic.
To my surprise, the rest of the conversation unfolds over laughter, and by the time the session ends, I can’t say that I hate this new mentorship program.
I just hate him.
“If anyone has issues that can’t be discussed via email, you can call me,” he says. “You’re free to go if you don’t have questions.”
Mandy Walsh and I stay behind.
While she peppers him with genuine questions regarding the blind spots of authors in the Victorian era, I pour myself a cup of English Breakfast tea.
When she leaves, I’m left alone with him.
“How may I help you, Miss Edwards?” he asks.
“You left a note on my last paper about being concerned with my progress in your class,” I say. “I just want to know if that’s a veiled threat about failing me.”
“It’s not a threat at all.”
“Is it promise?”
“No.” He smiles, temporarily disarming me. Then he motions for me to follow him down the hall.
There are no family photographs hanging on his walls, only a few city images, framed degrees, and the word “Start Over” in cursive.
“I’ve finished reading all the work left over from Mr. Jenkins, and I realized you’re months ahead on assignments, so…” He pulls down a thick white and blue book, Phillip Lopate’s The Art of the Personal Essay. “This will help you with the second semester’s coursework and help you frame your thesis.”
“Thank you.” I look at him. “If you’re finished reading, does that mean you’ve graded the work, too?”
“I have,” he says. “You have all A’s, with a few A-minuses.”
“In that case, there’s something I’d like to discuss with you,” I say.
“I’m listening.”
“I didn’t appreciate the way you talked down on me in class the other day.”
“What are you talking about?”
“When we were discussing, ‘love is not a choice.’”
“That was last week, Miss Edwards.”
“I still don’t appreciate how rude you were.” I hold my ground. “This isn’t a typical high school. Everyone’s ideas are valid, even in the classrooms where we don’t have the Harkness table to set the tone.”
“I hope you’re not looking for me to apologize.”
“I’m looking for you to listen.” I cross my arms. “I think there can be an undeniable attraction between two people and they can choose not to act on it, but it doesn’t mean they’re not meant for each other.”
“Attraction and feelings are two different things,” he says. “But to be honest with you, you can’t choose those things either.”
“Let me finish my point.”
“I’m still waiting for you to make it.”
“Fine. Have you ever been in love before?”
“That’s none of your business.” He pauses. “But off the record, yes. I married the love of my life.”
He’s married? “Does your wife know where you were a few weekends ago?”
“I divorced her when she cheated on me with one of my closest business partners.” He looks at me expectantly. “Should I have chosen to stay and give her another chance? Even though she’s about to have his baby?”
The pained look in his eyes prevents me from answering.
“I’m waiting, Miss Edwards. Is the cuck-life what I should’ve chosen?”
“You’re supposed to ask me if I’ve ever been in love before.”
“You’re seventeen years old. The answer is no.”
“I’m eighteen, and I’ve been close.”
“Well, good for you. That’s the end of this discussion. Anything else?”
“I’ve never been in love before,” I say. “But I would die to get a taste of what it feels like to have someone wanting me more than their next breath, someone who wants to kiss me for no damn reason, someone who would rather have a bunch of shitty days with me than great ones with someone else.”
“You’re proving my point with every naive word you say.”
“And if I felt something with this person the first time we met, because when you know, you know, I would take the risk even if it might challenge what other people think.”
“So, now you’re thinking about insta-love?”
“I’m thinking about the night we first met…I think about it a lot.”
Silence.
“I don’t believe in starting relationships on a foundation of lies.” He steps closer, closing the gap between us. “Since you strike me as a hopeless romantic, you shouldn’t believe in that either.”
“It was a small, white lie…” My breathing slows as he presses his forehead against mine. “If it weren’t that emergency phone call, you would’ve never known who I was.”
“I would’ve seen you on this campus eventually.” He runs his fingers through my hair. “I think I’m smart enough to put two and two together.”
“Would you have been mad?”
“I’m still fucking mad.” His lips brush against mine, and every nerve in my body tingles in anticipation. “What you did wasn’t okay.”
“Would it be okay now?”
He doesn’t answer. He simply stares into my eyes and softly untangles his fingers from my hair. He presses his palms against my back, softly rubbing my body.