Chapter 7
THE TEXT
Andie
There’s a theory in quantum mechanics that nothing is real until you look at it. That the very act of observing a particle makes it choose. That’s how my dorm room feels at midnight: all my sensations waiting for me to notice them, for my body to decide what’s real.
I lie on my bed, propped against a stack of pillows that smell like last week’s conditioner and three years of secrets, the soft pool of lamplight turning everything into honey.
Outside, the windows glow blue with city light, the glass painting the skyline into a flat, shivering movie set.
My roommate, Simone, is still out, probably with her secret boyfriend again.
The room is so quiet I can hear the ticking pulse of the pipes.
In this slow bubble, every memory from tonight unspools in my head with impossible clarity.
I can’t decide if I’m more turned on or existentially shocked by what happened.
Maybe both. My skin still hums from earlier—the burn of Thomas’s hand around my waist, the mark of his teeth behind my ear, the aftershocks rolling up my spine.
The ghosts of our bodies in that dark theater row play over and over, each time more vivid, more impossible, as if my mind is working in high-def and everyone else’s world is lagging behind.
It’s not lost on me that Thomas was with another woman tonight.
He didn’t even try to hide it, and why would he?
She was beautiful, older, probably smarter, and her outfit probably cost more than my entire fall wardrobe.
A week ago, I would’ve felt angry, but now?
Now I just feel fine. After all, I’m the one Thomas kissed.
I’m the one he wanted to be with. She was just for show, a nuisance at best.
Besides, I was technically on a date too, with Jake Namors.
Or, at least, I had the version of Jake that the world expects me to want.
The jock, the Big Man on Campus, the cocky, handsome boyfriend for girls who shop at Target and call themselves “hot messes” in their Instagram bios.
The thing is, Jake made me feel less than nothing, and Thomas made me feel like a planet being pulled out of orbit. That’s the difference.
I turn on my side, letting my fingers graze the edge of my hip, tracing the place where Thomas’s palm left a tender bruise.
I want to relive it, to feel again the moment where he told me to ride him, impale myself on his cock, “show Daddy how you do it, my little anal whore,” in a voice so deep it made my entire body vibrate.
I shiver, remembering how he filled me up—every inch, every pulse, every fucking sound—and how my own shame just made it hotter.
The way he bit my neck, or whispered things I should never have wanted to hear, and how he made me want it anyway.
It still aches, in a way. A sweet, raw ache in my asshole, like I’ve been rearranged from the inside out. I’m sore, and I love it. I love the evidence of what we did, the way it lingers after the fact, proof that I didn’t just dream all of it.
I roll onto my back, one hand behind my head, the other on my stomach.
My heart beats just under my ribs, fast and out of rhythm, every flutter a reminder that I’m awake, alive, and basically insane.
My phone is on the nightstand, dark and silent, but I can’t stop staring at it.
I want to text someone, to spill the entire story, but I also want to keep it for myself.
To savor it like a stolen chocolate in a house full of dieters.
But the silence is too much. I flip the phone on, squint at the screen, thumb through the photo album just to see the picture again.
Thomas, shirt undone, sweat at his collar, his cock hanging half-hard and proud against his thigh.
The memory alone makes my legs tense up, thighs pressing together in anticipation of a pleasure I can’t repeat alone.
I swipe to the home screen, thinking about texting Mary Kate. Or maybe Kayleigh, who would probably die of curiosity and then immediately ask for every detail. But I can’t. Not tonight. Not when the world feels like it might tilt off its axis if I say the wrong thing.
So I close my eyes and try to let the night fade out.
I’m almost asleep, almost free, when my phone buzzes against the lamp base. The sound is so sudden that I jerk upright, nearly knocking the light off the table.
The text is from an unknown number:
Meet me tomorrow at the Riverside Café, 2 PM. -T
My breath catches, and I read it again, just to make sure it’s real. It’s him. Of course it’s him. How did he get my number? Well, Thomas Moreland is a powerful man, and I’m sure he has his ways.
For a second, I don’t move. I just stare at the text, letting the idea of it bloom inside me like a rash. My entire body responds, a little surge of heat and panic racing to my fingertips. I want to trace the letter T on my own skin, to see if the sensation matches the memory.
I set the phone down, palms sweating, and for a full minute I just lie there, floating. The dorm room feels like a shoebox now, a space too small for the feeling in my chest. The lamp glows on, painting the walls gold and red, and I try to picture tomorrow, try to imagine the words I’ll say to him.
Nothing comes. Only the pulse, the want, the promise of what’s next.
I close my eyes, and the last thing I see is the blue of his eyes, and the letter T, vibrating on my phone like a code I’m just beginning to understand.
The door clicks open at exactly 1:17 a.m., and Simone drifts into the room on a cloud of sex, perfume, and residual starlight.
She’s not even pretending to sneak, not tonight.
Her blouse is misbuttoned, a dark streak of mascara flares out from one eye, and there’s a perfect, plum-colored hickey stamped at her collarbone like a VIP pass.
Her hair is a glossy blonde tangle, equal parts staticky and luxurious, and she grins when she sees me awake.
I’m sprawled on my comforter, lamp still on, phone face-down next to me. My heart is still thumping from the text, my brain hot and busy. I watch her slink to the mirror, unfasten an earring, and smile at her own reflection like she’s won a private lottery.
She catches me watching and laughs. “What?” she says, voice tinged with laughter and fatigue.
“Rough night?” I ask, trying to sound dry but probably coming off as jealous. “You look like the before photo in a ‘Glow Up’ meme.”
She beams, unbothered. “I’ll have you know this is exactly the look I was going for.” She glances down at her blouse, shrugs, and leaves it. “It was worth it. You should try it sometime, Andie.”
“I’m working on it,” I say, and regret it immediately. I don’t want to open this door, but now that I have, Simone is never going to let it go.
She sits down at her desk, spins the chair to face me, and props her bare feet on the side rail. “Who’s the boy?” she asks, sing-song. “Or is it that hockey jock who’s been texting?”
“God, no,” I say, and surprise myself by meaning it. “Jake? He’s not even in the running.” I try to keep my face blank, but Simone is better at reading people than Google.
She leans in, eyes bright. “Then who is it? I can keep a secret, you know. It’s basically my superpower.”
“Do you want the truth, or the ‘truth’?” I ask, staring at the ceiling.
“Surprise me.”
I look at her, and for a second, I almost tell her the real thing.
That I let a man I barely know do things to me in public, that I can’t stop thinking about it, that the idea of seeing him again is the only thing that makes my skin feel tight and electric.
But I can’t. Not yet. Instead, I give her the story that’s one layer above the truth.
“There’s this thing with Kayleigh, Mary Kate, and Stella. A bet.” I can’t believe I’m saying this, but it feels easier than anything else. “First one to lose her v-card wins the pool. Thousand bucks, plus eternal glory.”
Simone snorts, not even pretending to be shocked. “You guys are literal children.”
“I know,” I say, face flushing. “It’s stupid. But… also not? We just wanted to make it less of a big deal. Like we’re surprised to be virgins as upperclassmen, and it kind of hangs over you, you know?”
She tilts her head, studying me. “Kind of. Sort of. You shouldn’t feel pressure to lose your virginity, Andie. It’ll happen when it happens. But, have you?”
“Lost my virginity?” I shake my head, then realize what she means. “No. Not technically.”
She raises one eyebrow. “Not technically?”
I look away. “I mean, other stuff has happened. But the official record is intact.”
She grins, pouncing on the opening. “And what ‘other stuff’ is that, Andie? What base are you at? Second? Third?”
I want to lie, but I’m tired, and the weight of the secret is pressing into my chest. “Not any base, actually. We’re doing anal,” I whisper, and immediately wish I could un-say it.
Simone bursts into laughter, half genuine, half horrified. “Oh my god. Who is he? Please tell me it’s not the pizza delivery guy.”
“It’s not the pizza guy,” I say, smiling in spite of myself. “It’s someone older. Much older.”
Her eyes widen, but she doesn’t laugh this time. “Like, professor-old?”
I shake my head, but not fast enough. She reads me anyway. “You’re joking,” she says, but it’s not a question.
“It’s not like that,” I say, desperate to explain. “I don’t even know his last name. Well, I sort of know it. It’s just that he’s there, and then he isn’t. We’re not a thing.”
Simone’s mood flips. She swings her legs off the desk, scoots the chair close to my bed, and gives me a look that’s half-conspirator, half-concerned big sister.
“Okay, but why not? I mean, not to be judgey, but you’ve always been, like, the Sweetest Girl in the Midwest, and suddenly, you’re hooking up anally with an older guy?
What’s with the sudden craving for depravity? ”