Chapter 8
PREPPING FOR A DATE WITH THE WRONG MAN … OR IS HE THE RIGHT ONE?
SIMONE
“Sure,” I type. Then I delete it. I try again: “Sounds great.” Delete. Finally, I just thumbs-up the message, then throw the phone onto my crumpled sheets.
In the silence, my mind drifts back to yesterday—Liam’s face, the taste of him, the way his hands bruised my thighs in the classroom.
I touch my lips, as if I can still feel the pressure of his mouth, but all I feel is Chapstick and regret.
I shiver, even though the room is way too warm for November.
The key turns in the door then Andie bursts in, red-cheeked and breathing hard, like she’s been running up and down the halls just for fun.
“Girl, are you alive?” she calls, slamming the door behind her. She’s wearing a miniskirt and leggings, a pink turtleneck, and a denim jacket so stiff it could stand up on its own. She’s holding a cardboard tray with two iced coffees, each dripping condensation onto the backs of her hands.
“I’m breathing,” I say, voice raw. I sit up, tugging my old Centennial swim camp t-shirt down over my hips.
Andie surveys the carnage of my bed, then plops herself cross-legged on my desk chair, shoving aside a pile of printouts and an empty La Croix can.
“You look like shit,” she says, but her tone is affectionate. “Are you hungover? Tell me you’re not still pining over the Professor.”
“Did you just bring coffee for yourself?” I ask, eyeing her tray.
She holds up the second cup, waggles it in my direction. “You want, or are you off caffeine again?”
I reach for it with a shaky hand. The plastic cup is so cold it makes my teeth ache. “Thanks.”
Andie peels the lid off hers and slurps. “So. Details. You bailed on movie night. Something happened, I can tell.”
I sip the coffee, letting the sugar and ice hit my tongue before I answer. “I have a date tonight,” I say, as casually as I can.
She almost chokes. “With who? Oh my god. Is it Liam Thomas? Again? Is this studying or for real?”
I bark a short laugh. “No. Not him. It’s—” I pause, embarrassed. “It’s Dylan Tourneau. The swimmer. He asked me out yesterday. Says he’s going to take me to the Olive Branch.”
For a second, Andie’s mouth goes slack, then she jumps out of her chair, coffee sloshing onto the rug. “Stop it. Shut up. The guy who everyone says is going to the Olympics? The guy every girl on campus is dying to date?”
I shrug, not looking at her. “I don’t know. I guess. I don’t follow sports.”
Andie is already at my closet, flipping through the tangle of clothes with her free hand. “The Olive Branch? That’s, like, a wedding proposal. Nobody goes there on a first date unless they’re crazy rich or want to sleep with you really, really bad.”
I roll my eyes. “It’s just dinner. He probably takes all his dates there. We were supposed to go to some swimming party, but I guess he didn’t want all his teammates watching us.”
Andie yanks out a powder blue minidress, then a slinky red top, holding them up for inspection. “You’re underselling this, Simone. You do realize what a big deal this is, right? Dylan Tourneau was on the cover of the alumni magazine last year. His abs have an Instagram account.”
I flop back on my pillow, trying not to think of Liam’s abs, which are less famous but way more interesting. “Why are you so hyped about this? It’s just a date. It doesn’t mean anything.”
She pulls her phone from her back pocket, thumbs furiously, then reads aloud: “Dylan Tourneau. Four-time conference champ, pre-law, family from Wisconsin, no siblings, never been seen with the same girl twice.” She looks up, triumphant. “You’re a unicorn, babe. You are stardust.”
I snort, then let the silence settle in. I want to care, but the only thing I care about is the slow-motion memory of Professor Thomas—how he looked when he told me we were “just having fun,” how he made it clear we weren’t serious. My mouth tastes sour, and I make a face.
Andie drops the phone onto my bed, then sits beside me, legs bouncing like a metronome. “Are you okay, really? You seem, I don’t know, out of it.”
I shrug, then risk the truth. “I just keep thinking about the Professor. Like, is that normal? Shouldn’t I be excited about this date?”
She leans in, her voice low and serious for once. “You had a thing. It was intense. Of course it’ll mess with your head. But Simone, Professor Thomas is not worth throwing your whole college life away for. I mean, that guy is old, whereas you could get a hot jock who’s young.”
“Yeah, I know,” I say, but the words don’t stick.
Andie sips her coffee, then sighs. “You need to get out of your head. Put on something hot, go to dinner, and let Dylan worship you like the goddess you are.”
I stare at the ceiling, counting the little dots in the acoustic tile. “What if I screw it up?”
She laughs, shoving my shoulder. “Impossible. Just don’t talk about Moby Dick, and you’ll be fine.”
I smile, for real this time. “You’re the best, Andie.”
She stands, twirling a golden strand of hair around her finger. “I know. Now, let’s get you ready. What did you wear to your last date?”
“I don’t remember,” I say, because there wasn’t one.
She whistles, low and sweet. “That’s tragic. We’re fixing it.”
She yanks a black tank from the closet, then a pair of dark jeans with strategic rips. “Try these. You can thank me later.”
I take the clothes, but I don’t move to change. I stare at my phone, scrolling back to the text from Dylan. He’s so normal, so clean, so obvious in his intentions. No games, no drama. Just “Looking fwd to Olive Branch 2nite.”
I touch my lips again, remembering the taste of Liam, the heat of his hands, the way he said my name like it was both a punishment and a reward.
Andie is watching me, arms crossed. “You want to talk about it?”
I shake my head. “Not really. I just…I’m not used to this.”
She plops down beside me, squeezing my hand. “It’s going to be fine. You don’t have to marry the guy. Just have fun. If it sucks, you can bail. If it’s great, you get free dessert.”
I laugh, and this time it sticks. The idea of free dessert is more appealing than the idea of being someone’s first or only.
Andie stands, clapping her hands. “Okay. Sit up straight. I’ll do your hair, and then we can pick out an outfit. Forget the jeans and tank top. We need to go sexy.”
I move to the mirror, but my reflection is a stranger—eyes too wide, hair a mess, lips swollen from last night’s crying jag. For a second I feel like I could be anyone, anywhere, someone whose whole body isn’t haunted by a forbidden crush on a brooding older man.
Andie brushes my hair, quick and efficient, twisting it into a high ponytail, then stands back to admire her handiwork. “You’re a bombshell. That boy won’t know what hit him.”
I glance at myself in the mirror, unsure.
“You got this,” she whispers, squeezing my shoulders.
I nod, not trusting my voice.
When she leaves to borrow something or other from a neighbor, I sit on the edge of my bed, hands shaking. I scroll to Liam’s number in my phone, stare at the empty text box, and then, for the first time all day, type something.
“I miss you,” I write. Then I delete it.
Instead, I shove my phone in my bag, grab my student ID, and go out into the hallway. The air is cold, the building silent. I head to the bathroom and stare at my reflection until I don’t recognize the girl looking back.
Tonight, I’m supposed to be someone new.
But all I feel is the same old Simone: empty, electric, waiting for something that will never come.
I straighten my tank and walk back to my room, bracing myself for whatever comes next.
When I get back to my room, Andie is already there, waiting for me with a pile of outfits spread across my sheets like she’s a human version of a tornado siren. Her face is bright with anticipation and the remnants of Sephora’s “Glow Stick” highlighter.
“Okay, sit,” she orders, pulling me down onto my own bed. “We have exactly two hours to transform you from tragic waif to sex goddess, and I’m not wasting a second.” She’s already sorted my closet into three piles: ‘cute,’ ‘slutty,’ and ‘maybe when you’re forty.’
She holds up the black dress first, a bodycon number I bought for a sorority event but never wore. “Try this one. With your boobs, it’s gonna look insane. I’ll get the push-up.”
I shuck off my clothes, letting the new dress slither up my thighs and hug me like a vacuum-sealed sausage casing. My chest threatens to revolt, the fabric barely containing the twin orbs of my D-cups.
Andie steps back, eyes wide. “Oh my god, Simone. It’s criminal. You look like you could break up marriages.”
I glance at my reflection in the mirror, half-expecting to see a stranger. The effect is jarring: my tits look huge, my waist tiny, my thighs smooth as poured milk. I barely recognize myself.
Andie purses her lips, sizing me up for a moment. “Perfume is what you need,” she declares, then mists me with something sweet and floral, the particles hanging in the air like a weaponized mood.
“Now sit,” she says, shoving me in front of the desk mirror. She lines up her artillery—eyeshadow, mascara, three shades of lip stain—and gets to work. Her hands are deft, practiced, her chatter running nonstop.
“You know, Dylan Tourneau only dates the hottest girls. Like, no offense, but I didn’t think you were his type. You’re more, like, hot girl who’s a poetry major than pool party girl.”
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 mouth on 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, throwing long 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.