Chapter 13
A MIRACULOUS ACADEMIC IMPROVEMENT
SIMONE
This is all on display one gray Tuesday night in the main library, a Gothic cave of cracked wood, yellow-glowing lamps, and the muffled desperation of a horde of students cramming for finals.
I’m wedged into a booth-like table with Andie, both of us surrounded by teetering towers of literary theory—Jameson, Barthes, the complete set of Modern American Novels like a brick wall between us and the rest of campus.
The air smells like dust and pencil shavings, but also like the lingering aftertaste of victory.
Andie’s got on a headband with pink cat ears—finals week tradition—and her eyes are ringed in purple glitter, even though her face says she hasn’t slept in days. She’s nibbling the end of a mechanical pencil, staring at the text in front of her like it’s written in Klingon.
“You’re sure it’s a metaphor for race?” she asks, voice barely more than a ghost.
I tap the page in her Norton anthology. “Faulkner doesn’t do anything on accident, And. The cypress trees are literally imported, and the soil’s all wrong, so they can’t take root. Just like—” I flick the page again. “Just like the characters.”
She sets down her pencil. “Okay, but explain it again. Slow. Like you’re talking to a five-year-old.”
I smile and lean in, lowering my voice. “The point isn’t that they’re out of place. It’s that they know it, and they keep trying anyway. Faulkner wants you to see them as tragic, but also as stubborn as hell. It’s a kind of—” I pause, searching for the word. “—grace? Even in failure.”
Andie’s mouth drops open just a little, the way it does when she’s actually impressed. “Holy shit, Simone. Are you sure you didn’t hire someone to take over your brain?”
“Just sold my soul to Satan,” I whisper, rolling my eyes. “He does thesis statements, too.”
She cackles, then drops her voice. “Seriously, though. I don’t get it. Just recently, you could barely keep your eyes open in class, and now you’re, like, a Faulkner whisperer. What happened? Is it the gluten-free diet? The new vitamins?”
I smirk, twirling my pen. “Private tutoring,” I say, letting the syllables drag out.
Her eyes get wide, then she dissolves into a giggle fit that draws angry shushing from a nearby grad student. “You’re the worst,” she whispers. “Are you seeing him again tonight?”
I shake my head, feeling my cheeks flush hot. “He’s got a faculty meeting. Plus, we agreed to keep it on the down-low.”
Andie arches an eyebrow. “You’ve said that, like, twelve times and yet somehow you’re always glowing after lit class.”
I shoot her a look, but she’s not wrong.
I am glowing. I feel it in the marrow, in the crackle of every nerve, in the way I can see through even the most dense assigned reading as if it’s been translated just for me.
Like everything makes sense for the first time ever. The world is the same, but I am not.
We settle back to our books, the only sounds the steady turning of pages, the low hum of the ancient heating system, and the occasional expletive as Andie’s pencil lead snaps.
I lose myself in the text, highlighter gliding neon arcs across the margin, words sparking in my head.
I jot a note, then another, constructing a mental cathedral out of quotes and arguments.
I can almost hear Liam’s voice in my ear, the careful way he explained “symbolic density,” the way his lips moved when he was in full lecture mode.
I’m so far gone I don’t notice the shadow looming over our table until Andie’s pencil stops tapping.
I look up, and there’s Dylan Tourneau, six foot three and all swimmer’s bulk, shoulders wide enough to block out the ugly overhead fluorescents.
He’s in his team windbreaker, the one that makes every guy on campus look like an escapee from the US Olympic Training Center.
He’s not looking at me, at first. He’s looking at Andie, but only as a formality. Then his eyes find mine, the green in them so sharp it’s like someone turned the saturation knob to max. My stomach sinks. I’ve been not-so-subtly avoiding him, but obviously, that isn’t going to work now.
“Hey Simone,” he says. “Andie.” He nods, just once. “Do you mind if I steal her for a second?”
Andie glances at me, then at him, then at me again. “Sure,” she chirps, voice too bright. “I need caffeine anyway.”
She grabs her phone and her wallet, gives me a look—call me if you need saving—then floats away, leaving a faint cloud of vanilla perfume and a growing sense of dread.
Dylan slides into her seat, all elbows and knees, and leans in. He’s close enough that I can smell the chlorine baked into his skin. He doesn’t speak at first, just watches as I close my book and cap my pen.
“What’s up?” I ask, aiming for casual but missing by a mile.
He doesn’t answer. Instead, he sets both hands on the table and drums his fingers, slow and deliberate. “I’ve been trying to get you alone for weeks,” he finally says. “You’re hard to track down.”
I laugh, but it sounds hollow. “I’ve just been busy.”
He leans in more, voice dropping so low I have to tilt my head to hear. “With him?”
The question lands like a punch. For a second I can’t breathe. “What are you talking about?”
His eyes narrow. “You think people don’t talk? You think nobody noticed the way Thomas looks at you in class?” He snorts, then shakes his head. “You’re smarter than that, Simone.”
My cheeks go cold. “You’re out of line,” I whisper, but it comes out weak.
He ignores me. “Look, I don’t care who you fuck. But just so you know, if it comes out, he’s done. They’ll fire him so fast you won’t even get to say goodbye.” His lips curl in what might be a smile. “And they’ll kick you out, too. Century College doesn’t do scandal.”
I want to punch him. I want to run. Instead, I just sit, mouth open, hands shaking under the table.
Dylan stares at me a moment longer, then leans back, the old smile back on his face.
“I’m just looking out for you, Simone. We’re friends, right?
” He winks, then stands, stretching like a cat.
“If you ever want to talk—about anything—you know where to find me. But be sure to bring condoms because we’ll need them during our so-called chat. ”
He leaves, the scent of chlorine and aftershave lingering.
I sit there, blinking, the yellow pools of lamp light suddenly feeling like interrogation bulbs.
Andie returns, two paper cups in hand. She takes one look at my face and sets the coffee down. “What happened?”
I can’t speak. My hands are trembling so hard the pen rolls off the table and clatters to the floor.
Andie bends down to pick it up. “Simone? You’re scaring me.”
I swallow. “I have to go to the bathroom,” I manage, grabbing my phone and stumbling away. I don’t head to the bathroom, though—I head for the stacks, deep into the warren of back rooms and silent alcoves, until I find an isolated area near the law journals where nobody ever goes.
I dial Liam, hands shaking, breath coming in short, sharp bursts.
He picks up on the second ring. “Simone? Hey babe.”
I can’t answer. I can barely keep the phone from slipping out of my hand.
He says my name again, this time sharper. “Simone.”
I force the words out. “He knows. Dylan Tourneau. He knows about us and just threatened me!”
There’s a silence, then a slow, careful exhale on the other end. “I’ll handle it,” he says. “Don’t talk to him again. And don’t—” He stops himself. “Don’t do anything stupid.”
My vision swims, but I nod. “Okay,” I say, voice small.
“I mean it, Simone. I’ll take care of this. Just—stay away from him.”
The line goes dead.
I stand there, phone pressed to my ear, heart slamming against my ribs.
For the first time in months, I’m not glowing.
For the first time, I remember what it’s like to be afraid.
I find my way back to the table, eyes down, and slide into the chair without looking at Andie.
She waits until I’ve taken a sip of coffee before asking, “Do you want to talk about it?”
I shake my head.
We work in silence, the only sound the soft, steady whisper of pages turning, the hum of the heat, and the faint memory of something dangerous lurking just outside the yellow pool of light.
Somewhere in the distance, a clock chimes. I don’t know if it’s counting down to something terrible, or just marking time.
Either way, I’m not ready.
I’m not ready for him to show up again. But less than an hour later, Dylan is back—just as I’m settling into a rhythm of note-taking, trying to forget the green-eyed warning that’s burning a hole in my mind. What the fuckity fuck? Why can’t this guy leave me alone?
He doesn’t ask if he can sit. He just materializes beside our table, so close I can feel the heat coming off his skin, the way you can feel the sun before you see it. Only this sun feels like it wants to burn me alive.
“Hey,” he says, softer now. “You want to get coffee after this?”
He asks it with the confidence of a guy who’s never been told no. Andie’s head snaps up, searching my face for a cue.
I keep my voice frigid, practiced. “Sorry, Dylan. There’s a lot on my plate right now. I have to finish this chapter and work on my essay.”
He nods, a single, slow dip of his chin. “That’s cool.” Then, as if he’s reading a cue card, he tries again. “How about Thursday? There’s a team party, just a few people. You should come.”
This guy is unreal! But I shake my head, keeping my gaze fixed on the margin of my book. “Really can’t. I’m slammed until finals.”
For a beat, there’s nothing. I can hear the sound of his fingers drumming the wooden table, the way the pulse of his annoyance syncs up with the clock on the wall.
Then he says, “Funny. I think you don’t understand what I’m saying, Simone.”
I smile at him, although my eyes are frozen.
“I understand just fine, actually.”
Dylan shrugs.
“You always have time for Professor Thomas.”
His voice is ice over steel. The hairs on the back of my neck prickle.