Chapter 18
TARA
Iwake to the sound of my shower running.
For a moment, I’m disoriented - then memories of last night flood back.
Alfie’s hands in my hair. His mouth on my neck.
The way he’d made me come, not once but twice.
I’ve not slept with many people, but I had no idea sex could be like that.
Especially the first time with somebody.
I stretch, enjoying the pleasant ache in my muscles, and try not to think too hard about what happens next.
How do you act normal around someone after a night like that?
Is there a guidebook for the morning after sleeping with your fake boyfriend?
If so, please order me a hardback, sprayed edges, the whole shebang.
The shower cuts off, and I definitely don’t imagine water running down Alfie’s chest. Instead, I roll over to check my phone and freeze.
There, stuck to my bedside lamp, is a post-it note with an incredibly detailed sketch of my favorite ammonite fossil.
The one I found on that field trip last semester that sits on my windowsill.
Every curve of the shell is perfect, the shading so precise it looks almost three-dimensional.
I know it’s Alfie’s. After he showed me some of his sketches of trees in Luzia I’ve been dying to see more of his stuff, he seems to capture light so well. His drawings almost look like you could reach into the page and grab them.
I’m still staring at it when my bedroom door opens. Alfie steps out in just a towel, water droplets running down his chest (okay, so maybe I was imagining that a little), his dark hair curling damply at his neck.
“Your hot water’s terrible,” he says, like this is a normal morning and not deeply uncharted territory.
“Did you draw this?” I hold up the post-it.
He stills, something flickering across his face. For a moment I think he’ll deny it, but then his shoulder lifts in a slight shrug. “Couldn’t sleep. Your fossil collection is... interesting.”
“You couldn’t sleep so you drew a perfect sketch of an ammonite? At what, 3 AM?”
“4 AM.” He runs a hand through his wet hair, and it’s stupidly attractive. “Drawing helps when my brain won’t shut off.”
I look between him and the sketch. “You should really show these to more people.”
“Not likely.” He starts gathering his clothes, and I catch the tension in his shoulders. “It’s not exactly a Spencer-approved hobby.”
“What do you mean?”
He’s quiet for a moment, pulling on his jeans. “Art is fine for decorating board rooms or impressing dinner guests. Not as a serious pursuit.”
I think about his family’s expectations, about the way they talk in a sanitized, fake tone. I wonder for a moment if anybody has ever encouraged Alfie properly to pursue his dreams. Then, I wonder if anybody has ever encouraged me to.
“Well, I think it’s incredible.” I trace the lines of the sketch with my finger. “Though I have to ask - of all my fossils, why this one?”
He looks at me then, really looks at me, something soft in his expression. “You mentioned it last year, you said you’d found the most perfect ammonite when we were having dinner with everyone. Ethan teased you but you insisted it was the best you’d ever found.”
My breath catches. Because he’s right. That fossil is special. It’s the first one I found on my own, proof that I could do real scientific work.
“You notice things.” I breathe out. “Is that why you stay so quiet, so you can watch people?”
“Only the important ones.” His phone buzzes but he ignores it, moving closer to where I’m still sitting in bed.
Then something shifts in his expression, like shutters closing. He glances at the sketch still in my hand and suddenly tenses.
“I shouldn’t have—” He snatches it away, crumpling it slightly in his haste. Tosses it toward my desk but it misses, landing near my laundry basket. “This was a mistake.”
“Alfie—”
“I’m going to grab coffee.” He’s already pulling on his shirt, movements sharp and jerky. “I’ll be back in ten.”
He’s out my bedroom door before I can respond, leaving nothing but the lingering scent of my shower gel and a hollow feeling in my chest.
Twenty minutes later, my phone pings.
Space boy
Had to check on lab samples. Time-sensitive data.
I stare at the message until the screen goes dark. Nine words. That’s all I get after last night? After he drew my fossil, after he admitted he notices things about me, after we...
“Fuck this.” I grab the crumpled sketch from beside my laundry basket. I storm to my trash can, sketch balled in my fist.
This is exactly why I don’t do relationships, why I stick to casual hookups where everyone knows the score. No messy feelings, no morning-after sketches, no...
I stop, hand hovering over the bin. The paper’s soft from where I’ve crushed it, but I can still see traces of those perfect lines peeking through. The way he captured every detail of my first real find.
“God, I’m pathetic.” But I’m already smoothing the paper out, hating how carefully I do it. I yank open my desk drawer and shove it inside, slamming it shut with probably more force than necessary.
“It was just sex. Just two people getting it out of their system. Nothing more.” I grab my phone, thumb hovering over his message. I could respond. Could call him out for being a coward.
Kay – see you later
Send.
This is what we agreed to, isn’t it?
Fake dating. No complications. No real feelings.
Two days after the surprisingly successful dinner at L'étoile I stare at my phone, gathering courage.
Deep breath. I can do this. They’re just my parents. Who happen to be brilliant academics who’ve spent their entire careers shaping young minds and probably hoped their daughter would do something more impressive than explaining dinosaurs to children.
I hit dial before I can talk myself out of it.
“Tara, sweetheart!” Mom’s voice carries that particular tone she uses for faculty meetings - bright but measured. “Perfect timing. We were just discussing your graduate school applications.”
Of course, they were.
“Actually”—I twist the cord of my hoodie around my finger—“that’s kind of what I wanted to talk about.”
“Wonderful!” Pages rustle in the background. “I’ve been looking at comparative programs. We’ve got a few old friends at some schools too and we know we could pull some strings. With your analytical skills—”
“Mom,” I cut her off, probably too sharply. “I’ve decided what I want to do.”
A pause. Then, “Hold on, let me put you on speaker. Richard! Tara’s made a decision about graduate school.”
Dad’s voice joins in, “That’s excellent news. I have a good friend who works in the Environmental Science department at Brown which has an excellent research program.”
“I want to be a museum educator.”
The silence that follows is deafening.
“Oh... what?” Mom sounds like I’ve just announced I’m joining the circus.
“A museum educator. You know, leading tours, designing educational programs, making science accessible to everyone—”
“Darling,” Dad cuts in, using his ‘explaining complex theories to undergrads’ voice, “with your academic record, you could work in museum research. Behind the scenes, doing real scientific work. Now, that I could certainly get behind.”
“This is real work.” My voice comes out stronger than I expected. “Making people fall in love with science is just as important as the research.”
“But surely...” Mom trails off. “Tara, you’re capable of so much more.”
More. Always more. Never enough as I am.
“I know what I’m capable of,” I say, surprising myself with how steady I sound. “This isn’t settling. It’s choosing.”
“But how would you even...” Dad clears his throat. “These positions are fairly competitive. You might not get one anyway. You should prepare to apply for a PhD also, just in case you change your mind.”
They’re not listening. They’re not listening again. They’re assuming I don’t have an actual plan for this and that I’ll change my mind next week.
Before I can think it through, I say something stupid.
“I actually... I have a connection. Someone on the board of the Natural History Museum.”
The words feel like a betrayal. I haven’t even talked to Alfie about his mother’s offer. But we’re ending things anyway, right? He made it pretty clear we’re not actually a thing. And it’s not like we’d be ending it because of her offer, like she’d think. We’d be doing it anyway.
“A connection?” Mom perks up. Finally, something that fits her worldview. “Through the university?”
“Something like that.” The lie sits heavy in my stomach.
“Well, that changes things.” Dad’s tone shifts from concerned to considering. “Having the right introductions can be invaluable in academia. And if you decide to do some research with the natural history museum, well, that would be pretty spectacular.”
Of course, that’s what convinces them. Not my passion or my reasons, but the possibility of networking.
“Just... think about it carefully,” Mom adds. “The best time to get on a graduate program is right after graduating and if you wait, it might not be there anymore.
“I have thought about it. This is what I want.”
Another pause.
“Well,” Mom says finally, “you’ve always had good instincts about people. If you’ve made a connection that could help your career...”
“We miss you, sweetheart,” Dad says, clearly trying to end on a positive note. “Can’t wait to see you at Thanksgiving.”
“Miss you too.” The words come out automatically.
After we hang up, I stare at my phone. On my desk, Mrs. Spencer’s business card sits like an accusation. The corners are worn from how many times I’ve picked it up over the last two days, considered calling.
It’s just networking, right? People do it all the time. It’s not like I’d be letting Mrs. Spencer buy me off - I genuinely want this.
To add to the guilt storm raging inside of me, Troy messages me.
Troy
How's summer treating you? Staying out of trouble?