Chapter 9 #2
It’s then that the unthinkable happens. The front door opens and Professor Thomas—no, Liam, I have to remember to call him that, at least in my head—materializes inside the restaurant.
He’s drop dead gorgeous in a dark coat over a white button down and black pants.
But the asshole isn’t alone! His arm is wrapped around a woman’s waist as he ushers her inside, a sharp-featured brunette in a red sheath dress that could put out a fire by walking through it.
She’s middle-aged, maybe thirty-five or so, but still attractive.
She’s clearly enthralled by Liam, and smiling up at him with adoration.
“That’s so funny,” she breathes. “You’re hysterical, Liam.”
My stomach knots in that special way: anger, jealousy, the petulant knowledge that even when I try to move on, there he is, cooler and more untouchable than ever.
He sees me in an instant. There’s no flicker of surprise, just a subtle tightening in his jaw and that same glacial blue stare, turned up to maximum voltage. For a second, I swear he might come over and drag me out by the ponytail, caveman-style. Instead, he steers his date forward.
“Claire,” he murmurs to the woman beside him.
I act before I think. My hand slides into the crook of Dylan’s arm, squeezing it, just so.
The handsome boy looks up from his phone, startled, then beams and puts his arm around my shoulders, pulling me in.
We are suddenly the image of collegiate coupledom, as if we’ve been doing this for months and not ninety minutes.
Liam’s mouth twitches, barely. I can feel him watching every micro-movement, every fake laugh, every squeeze of Dylan’s hand on my ribcage. He and the brunette pause just a little too long in the foyer, the moment vibrating.
And then, as if God is running a dress rehearsal for my humiliation, the hostess shouts, “Mr. Tourneau, your coat is ready!”
Dylan steps forward to get it, which means I’m suddenly standing alone, right in front of Professor Thomas and his attractive, age-appropriate companion.
She’s the first to speak. “You and that boy are so cute together,” she says, smiling at me with real warmth. “Is he your boyfriend?”
The word tastes like battery acid, but I nod. “Something like that.”
Liam’s face is set in stone, the blue of his eyes more a bruise than a color. His date glances at him because we obviously know each other. She’s waiting for an introduction, and when he doesn’t give it, she sticks out her hand.
“Hi, I’m Claire,” the woman asks, sensing something in the air. “Have you two met before?”
“No,” Liam says, at the same time that I say “yes.”
Claire’s brows go up, and she puts on a smile.
“Well, that’s an interesting answer,” she laughs. “I’m a friend of Liam’s from way back when. And you are?”
I shake her hand, which is soft and cold, her nails glossy red. “Simone,” I say. “I’m an English major at Century.”
Liam’s lips twitch again, but he still doesn’t speak.
Dylan, ever the puppy, bounds back with both our coats, grinning like he just set a world record. “Hey, Professor Thomas,” he says, giving the older man a head-tilt. “Didn’t know you liked Italian food.”
“I don’t,” Thomas says, smooth as glass. “But Claire does.” He squeezes the woman’s waist, a gesture so studied it might as well be an answer on a pop quiz.
“Oh, are you guys…?” Dylan’s hand flaps vaguely in the air. I’m not sure he even knows what gesture he’s making.
“Old friends,” Claire says. “But tonight, I get to claim him as my date.” She leans in, the perfume wafting off her like a warning. “It’s strictly pleasure.”
“Strictly pleasure,” Liam repeats, gaze boring into me. I swallow hard as my skin goes electric. I have no idea if Dylan feels the vibe in the air, but his hand finds the small of my back and tugs me close, fingers warm through the fabric.
Liam’s date is sweet, almost too sweet, as she smiles. “So, are you two the same year?” she asks.
Dylan shakes his head. “We’re both seniors, but Simone’s like a genius or something. She’ll probably graduate before I do.” He laughs, then adds, “If I ever pass American Lit.”
Liam’s mouth is a straight line. “I’m sure you’ll find a way, Mr. Tourneau,” he says. “Student athletes always do.”
There’s a beat of silence, the kind that makes even the wait staff slow their step.
Dylan blinks, not sure if it’s a joke. “Yeah, well, the Student Learning Center has tutors just for athletes, so we get the help we need. It’s one of the bonuses of dedicating so much to your sport.” He laughs, but there’s an edge of confusion, like he doesn’t know why he’s being needled.
Claire jumps in, eager to smooth the waters. “Oh, that’s clever! I wish they had tutors for my job.”
“What do you do?” I ask, mostly to be polite.
She shrugs, a silky movement that sets her hair swishing. “PR. I spin disaster for a living.”
Liam’s hand is still tight on her waist. He hasn’t looked away from me for a second. “Simone is one of my best students,” he says, and the compliment is so sudden I almost flinch. “Her last paper was remarkable.”
Claire claps, delighted. “Oh, how wonderful! What did you write about?”
I want to say “how professors ruin their students,” but instead I murmur, “The American obsession with failure. Through Melville, mostly.”
Claire seems genuinely impressed. “That’s so much deeper than anything I did in college. I just got drunk and played Ultimate Frisbee.”
There’s another silence, but it’s gentler this time. I sense we’re all waiting for Liam to say something, but he doesn’t. Instead, he looks at Dylan, then back to me, then at Claire, as if he can’t remember whose arm he’s supposed to be holding.
Finally, Claire breaks the spell. “Well, we’d better get going. I’m hungry and we have a reservation! It was lovely to meet you both.” She means it, I think.
“Good night, Simone,” Liam says. “Dylan.”
Dylan gives a salute, like he’s about to dive into the pool. “See you in class, Professor.”
They walk in, the red of her dress fluttering as she passes. For a second, I stand frozen, watching them vanish into the depths of the restaurant, the two of them so perfectly matched, so appropriate together, that it almost makes me want to cry.
Dylan is busy wrangling my coat onto my shoulders. “Was that weird?” he asks. “It felt kind of weird.”
I shrug. “Professor Thomas is always like that. Intense.”
Dylan snorts. “That’s one way to put it. You’d think he was still up for tenure or something.”
I want to ask about the tenure thing, but I’m too busy thinking about the word “pleasure” and the way Liam said it, as if he meant me and not the woman on his arm.
We step out into the cold, and the wind cuts through my tights. Dylan pulls me close, his hand steady, warm, real. For a moment I let myself imagine that this is enough, that being with someone who wants me this way will be the cure for whatever uncertainty Liam left in my veins.
I know better, but I pretend anyway.
As Dylan opens the car door for me, I look back through the restaurant window, just in time to see Liam and Claire seated comfortably at a table.
He’s talking, she’s laughing, her hand on his arm.
The light catches his face, and for a split second, he’s looking straight at me, as if he knew I’d be watching.
My cheeks go hot. I duck into the car and shut the door.
Dylan gets in, slaps the steering wheel with a grin. “You want to go somewhere else, or call it a night?”
I pause, then shake my head. “Let’s just drive for a bit.”
He shrugs, turns the key, and the car rumbles to life. We pull out of the lot, headlights tracing two bright lines down the empty street. The world is quiet, cold, waiting.
In the rearview, the Olive Branch sign glows blue and gold.
I close my eyes, and try to remember what it feels like to be invisible.
The ride back is mostly quiet except for Dylan’s taste in music, which runs exclusively to playlists called things like “Epic Pre-Game Jams.” I nod along, but my mind is elsewhere—out in the cold, pacing a sidewalk with a mouthful of angry words I’m too cowardly to spit out.
We park in front of my dorm, the lot nearly empty. Dylan shuts off the car but doesn’t move to open my door. He looks at me, eyes a little glassy, and asks, “Did you have a good time tonight?”
I could lie, but he deserves better. “Yeah. It was nice.”
He bites his lip, then looks down. “You ever feel like you’re only pretending to be normal? Like, everyone else got the rulebook, but you’re just winging it?”
I blink. It’s the first truly honest thing he’s said all night, and for a second, I see the scared kid behind the swimmer’s grin. “All the time,” I say. “But I think everyone’s just faking it, some better than others.”
He nods, relieved. “Cool.” Then, “I’d like to see you again.”
There’s a crash of loneliness inside me, sudden and sharp. “Me too,” I say. And it’s true, in a way.
He leans in, but stops an inch from my face, giving me space to decide.
I kiss him, soft and gentle, tasting a faint tang of tomato and leftover dessert.
It’s not fireworks, but it’s not nothing.
We hold the kiss for a moment, then break apart.
Sadly, my heartbeat is completely normal, and I feel nothing.
“I’ll text you?” he says.
I hesitate but then smile.
“Sure,” I say. “Goodnight.”
He waits until I’m inside the lobby before he drives off, headlights painting the glass with quicksilver stripes. I watch until his car is out of sight, then take the elevator to my floor, each step heavier than the last.
Andie is already back, sprawled on her bed in a haze of makeup remover and cheap sheet masks. “Hey, babe,” she slurs, voice muffled by a mouthful of Skittles. “How was swimmer boy? Did you get laid?”
I kick off my shoes and flop next to her, the mattress creaking under the combined weight of our expectations. “No sex. But Dylan’s nice.”