Total pages in book: 139
Estimated words: 135378 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 677(@200wpm)___ 542(@250wpm)___ 451(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 135378 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 677(@200wpm)___ 542(@250wpm)___ 451(@300wpm)
A soft smile plays around her lips, albeit reluctantly. “How thoughtful.”
“I’m a thoughtful guy.”
Her smile widens a bit. “Well, thank you.”
I nod. “I should probably leave you to it, huh?”
She nods, too. “Probably.”
“Good night, Sophie.”
“Goodbye, Silvan.”
I watch the door close and crack a smile when the lock immediately engages.
It’s cute that she thinks she can keep me out.
It’s not lost on me that her response was much more final than mine. It’s not ideal that she’s still planning to be done with me, but I don’t pay it much mind.
Regardless of what she wants, I know I’ll see her again soon.
Sooner than she knows.
Chapter Twelve
Sophie
It feels like much more than a weekend has passed since I last set foot on this campus.
Everything feels different even though I tell myself nothing has changed.
There’s a sense that Silvan is lurking even though I don’t see him anywhere, and we don’t have any classes together. Knowing he’s likely somewhere on campus taking his own classes makes it difficult to concentrate on mine.
When I got home last night, my place was empty, so I was finally able to finish studying and relax a bit. The girls were still out when I went to bed, and for a fleeting, crazy moment as I tried to fall asleep, I worried something might have happened to them.
Considering Silvan lured me under false pretenses, it’s not like the notion should be impossible or even unlikely, but I can’t explain my certainty that his depravity is focused on me and me alone.
Maybe I’m fooling myself.
The girls were all in one piece when we got ready for class this morning. More than that, they couldn’t shut up about how amazing Silvan is. He had a limo take them to a trendy downtown bar like he said, and then he paid for all their drinks.
“If you’re not interested, I’ll happily take him off your hands,” Rumi said as she poured herself a bowl of cereal, a starry, faraway look still lighting her dark eyes.
I’m not interested, obviously.
I mean, I’d have to be crazy to be interested in him.
Sure, the thought of him makes my skin burn, but that’s only because he’s stolen so much access to me, made me experience intimate things with him I should only share with someone of my choosing, and because I want to.
I know it should feel exactly like when Dylan violated me back in high school, but for some reason, it doesn’t.
I don’t know what it is about him, exactly, but he feels like once in a lifetime. An experience that’s more like a fever dream, and when it’s over and you try to explain it to someone, you can’t.
He’s like being Wendy, kidnapped by Peter Pan and flown to Neverland, but the next morning when he returns you home with no evidence he was ever there, everyone insists you imagined it.
The difference is Peter Pan wasn’t a monster, was he?
He didn’t invite himself to feast on Wendy and give her confusing, passionate kisses in the hallway before leaving her to come up for breath when he could have easily invited himself into the apartment he arranged to be empty and helped himself to much more.
He’s confusing.
I’m confused.
I’ve never met anyone like Silvan.
I’m certain I never will again.
That’s probably a good thing.
After spending the entire day restless and on edge, my last class comes to an end, and the room fills with the sounds of students all around me packing up their things to leave. I look at my notes. All I wrote down was “misattribution of arousal,” and without context, I can’t even remember what it means.
I spent the whole class doodling. Stars in the sky around a massive clock tower with two figures flying past it.
“Nice work.”
I look up in surprise at the professor standing in front of my table, gazing down at my paper.
“Wh-what?” I stammer, embarrassed to have been caught not taking good notes.
He nods at my paper. “Your sketch. I assume you were illustrating an example of misattribution of arousal.”
“Oh. Yeah, of course,” I fib, my face flushing an even deeper shade of red.
The professor smirks, the tilt of his lips telling me he knows I’m full of shit. “If you need to go over anything you might have missed, I have office hours from three to five.”
I don’t want him to think I’m some daydreaming slacker, and I’m sure I can find my answers in the textbook, so I shake my head. “Oh, I think I’ll be okay, but thank you.”
“This will be on the exam, so you’ll want to make sure you’re familiar with the material.”
“I will,” I assure him.
Quickly, I gather my things since mostly everyone else has already left.
I’m frustrated with myself as I make my way out of the building. I’m a good student, always have been, though last year was a little rough.