Total pages in book: 144
Estimated words: 136296 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 681(@200wpm)___ 545(@250wpm)___ 454(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 136296 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 681(@200wpm)___ 545(@250wpm)___ 454(@300wpm)
As exhausted as I am, I’m on edge, and my brain won’t shut off. I get in bed and stare up at the ceiling, watching the shadows shift and move as cars pass by slowly, thumping bass. A few hollers come from down the street.
My eyes have adjusted to the dark, and I notice my closet door is closed. I stare at it for a while, debating whether I can handle it being left like that all night. It’s a weird thing. I always keep it ajar. Doesn’t matter if my room is neat or a sty like it is today, or if my closet is overflowing with dirty laundry, I always leave it open a crack. Otherwise it reminds me too much of the past. Of other mistakes I’ve made.
I roll out of bed and amble across to the closet, without tripping on anything this time. Logically, I know the only thing in there are my clothes, my laundry basket, and a few old high school photo albums, but I flick on the light and check to make sure. A flash of memory hits me.
Lavender’s split lip.
River screaming bloody murder.
Kody’s accusing glare.
Dad taking me to his office and yelling so loud he was a sonic boom.
Choking on the guilt.
I flick off the light and pull the door closed.
When I finally fall asleep, it’s not peaceful. I dream I’m locked in a room that gets smaller and smaller, and the door to escape doesn’t have a knob, so all I can do is bang on it until my bones break and pierce the skin. And still, no one saves me from myself.
Six
I’m so Sorry
Maverick
I check Professor Sweet’s office hours first thing in the morning. Luck seems to be on my side since she’s scheduled to be there at nine. I’m crossing my fingers that she’s the kind of professor who shows up early, because I need to deal with this situation.
My palms are sweaty as I make my way to her office on the twelfth floor of the English building. I’m beyond nervous. The nightmares were next-level shitty, and I couldn’t eat breakfast, my stomach a churning mess. I feel like a dick for the way I behaved, and it didn’t occur to me until after I’d gotten home how much I’d probably freaked her out.
I need to know what I’m facing.
I walk down the hall, glancing at the nameplates on the doors until I reach the one that reads Professor Clover Sweet.
It’s ironic that her name happens to be some kind of nature, flowery thing. She could be a character in a Disney movie.
If I believed in signs, I might think it was one.
I can smell her before I see her, which sounds creepy, and maybe it is. But her perfume is distinctive. It’s not floral, as her name would suggest. It’s like . . . cinnamon and something sweet, maybe with a citrusy bite.
The clicking of her fingers on the keyboard and the low tones of music filter into the hall. At first, it sounds like classical because of the violin, but an electronic beat follows—a marrying of two very different types of music. I stand there for a moment, listening. It’s an emotional piece, a journey through a river with everything from raging rapids and deadly waterfalls to the serene warmth of a bubbling sulfur spring.
I pull my hood down and hunch my shoulders, hoping it will make me less imposing. The last thing I need is to scare the fuck out of her again.
I take a deep breath and knock on her door. Her office hours start in twenty minutes. Hopefully that’s long enough to sort this out.
She doesn’t pause her typing as she calls out, “It’s open. Come on in.”
I push on the door, allowing it to travel slowly toward the wall, and I make sure I’m standing off to the side so I’m not blocking the exit. There’s nothing I can do about my size, not a thing I can do to make myself less physically intimidating, apart from how I position myself and my body language. I tuck my thumbs in my pockets and tilt my head down, so I have to look up at her, aiming for submissive as I take in her office. There’s a desk, facing the wall so it’s not a barricade between her and her students. A vase of daisies on the windowsill. A half-eaten Godiva chocolate bar next to her keyboard. A small jar of individually wrapped Lifesaver mint candies sits next to the single empty chair, along with a box of tissues and a coaster with Book Nerd printed on it.
I aim for contrite when I finally speak. “Good morning, Professor Sweet. Can I talk to you about last night?”
Her eyes go wide, and she glances over my shoulder to the empty hallway as she rolls her chair backwards. The office door across the hall is closed. She’s wearing a mint-green cardigan and a pair of black pants. Her shoes are flats. Her hair is pulled up into a tight bun, and she pushes her black-rimmed glasses up the bridge of her nose with her index finger. Her nails aren’t painted. They’re naked and carefully filed. The nail on her middle finger is shorter than the rest, like maybe it broke.