Track 20 Epiphany
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.”
“Well, I can’t wait to tear your essay about you and Stacey’s relationship apart next week. Brace yourself.”
“Stacey and I aren’t together anymore.”
“Good for her,” I said. “She can do a lot better.”
“Is that so?”
“I didn’t stutter.” I glared at him. “Your loss.”
“I thought you said she was unstable and not my type.”
“I was projecting your issues onto her.” I couldn’t believe he wasn’t apologizing. “Try not to make the next girl half as miserable, and you might last longer than usual.”
“Since you’re giving out tips, maybe learn how to fuck and the next guy won’t feel compelled to cheat on you.”
“Excuse me?”
“Do you need me to repeat it?” He stepped closer. “I can happily do that for you.”
“My sex life is none of your business.”
“You have to actually have sex to have a sex life, Audrey.” He looked directly into my eyes. “I bet you wanted the guy to wait for months and hope he’d forget all about it and just focus on writing with you.”
“Spoken like someone who thinks his dick is the magical cure for orgasms.” I could feel the anger radiating off him.
“Spoiler alert: there’s a reason why none of the women you’ve been with ever come crawling back.
They were just using you for your money; they could give better foreplay and strokes to themselves. ”
“I’m shocked those words are even in your vocabulary, Audrey.”
“I’m equally impressed that you know words with more than two syllables.”
I tried to push my way past him, but he gripped my hips, holding me still.
“I’m not done talking to you.”
“I don’t want to hear anything else you have to say.
” My chest heaved up and down. “You are literally the last person I would ever take relationship advice from, and you ripped my essay apart because you’re a goddamn hater and you can’t accept that there’s one person who is far better at writing than you ever will be. ”
“You can believe that if you want.”
“I do.” I tried to move away again, but he pushed me against the wall. Then he placed his hands on the wall above my head, caging me in.
“Just apologize for what you said about the breakup with Stacey being my loss, and we can move on.”
“What?” I nearly choked on a laugh. “Why do you even care what I think about that?”
“I don’t, but we agreed to be cordial,” he said. “That was disrespectful as fuck, and I don’t appreciate it.”
“Truth hurts, Taylor. Let me go.”
“No.” He leaned closer, voice dropping. The veins in his forearms stood out like wire. “Since you want to discuss ‘truth,’ let’s talk about the fact that you’re attracted to me and you wish I would fuck you so you could finally know what it really feels like.”
“I’m not a virgin, Taylor.”
“You might as well be.”
“Let me go.”
“Tell me you really mean that, and I will.”
I should’ve walked. Instead, I held his stare.
He leaned in closer, his chest brushing mine, breath hot against my lips.
“Tell me you don’t want this,” he said, low and certain, his eyes daring me to move.
I opened my mouth to say it, to tell him I didn’t, but nothing came out.
He didn’t wait. His mouth found mine in a rush—hard and possessive—the kind of kiss that stole the air from my lungs and replaced it with his.
His hand slid to my jaw, then down my neck, fingers tightening just enough to make me feel the weight of him everywhere.
My palms hit his chest, meant to push him away, but they stayed there instead, clutching the fabric of his shirt like I couldn’t decide whether to fight him or pull him closer.
The kiss deepened, a hot blur of anger and want, until I caught my breath and shoved him back just enough to break it.
For a second, neither of us moved. His forehead brushed mine, both of us breathing hard, the air between us electric.
“That was out of line,” I managed.
“You started it.”
“Keep telling yourself that.”
I slipped away from him before he could say anything else, heart hammering, lips hot, the taste of cinnamon lingering like a dare.