Total pages in book: 139
Estimated words: 134133 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 671(@200wpm)___ 537(@250wpm)___ 447(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 134133 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 671(@200wpm)___ 537(@250wpm)___ 447(@300wpm)
It reminds me why I came here in the first place.
Not for a crude hook-up, but Professor DeMarco… he struck me as someone I might like.
Swallowing a lump of uncertainty, I call out a bit timidly, “Professor DeMarco?”
I don’t even know where his bedroom is.
I’d also much rather he meet me out here, somewhere safe with windows and books… Oh, he has such a nice book collection.
I wander into the living room, gazing lovingly at the beautiful built-in bookshelf. I move closer and run my hand gently along the spines of some of them.
The floor creaks and I nearly jump out of my skin.
My heart beats so loudly I feel like he must surely hear it, but that movement definitely came from upstairs.
I guess his bedroom must be upstairs.
My crummy instincts whisper that going up there is a bad idea. They’re the same ones that told me not to go back for Dylan, the same ones that told me not to go upstairs with Silvan.
I should listen to them, but I don’t want to believe them this time. Not about Professor DeMarco. I don’t want to believe all men are like that, but I don’t have a great case with the evidence I’ve gathered so far in my lifetime.
You can’t disprove a hypothesis if you’re too big a chicken to run the damn experiment.
Besides, I’ve survived the failed experiments in my past. If I’m wrong, I’ll survive one more.
The old wood creaks as I ascend the staircase. I keep a hand on my purse, cognizant of the pepper spray inside.
Not that I want to pepper spray him, but I’m betting everything on the hope that he’s not a fucking creep, and I could be wrong.
Please don’t prove me wrong about this.
I’m so tired of constant diligence. It shouldn’t be so fucking hard to just exist in the world and not be used and tossed aside.
Perhaps it’s the environmentalist in me, but I loathe this culture of easy disposability. Everything can’t be replaced, and even the things that can be… should they be? I don’t think so. Not always. I believe in the value of people and things, and I believe some things are well worth the effort of fixing them up instead of throwing away.
A flash of Dylan with Elle surfaces but I stomp it down with more force than any of the other memories.
He doesn’t deserve to have someone loving him when I’m trapped in solitude, unable to trust or let anyone in because of what he did to me.
I wish I wouldn’t have come here, but I’m here now. It’s too late to turn back.
I want to go back to my safe little bubble. I don’t want to unearth any more unpleasant truths or bet on the decency of any more people.
I’m tired of being alone, but alone is… safe.
If you don’t have anyone, then you don’t have anyone to hurt you.
Only that’s not fucking true either, is it? Because I sure as hell have been hurt by men who weren’t mine.
My face is warm by the time I reach the top of the stairs.
I’m fighting back anger because I know the hope I’m clinging to is fragile and it won’t take much to snap that thread.
Please be decent. Please be decent.
If he’s not, I might push him down the stairs.
Time slows as I walk down the quiet hallway. My stomach rocks with nerves. Ahead of me, there are closed doors on both sides of the hall, but one is cracked open.
An invitation?
I suppose so.
The tension inside me pulls tighter, but I straighten my shoulders and lift my chin and force one foot to go in front of the other.
I feel sick by the time I stop outside the door.
I close my eyes and take a breath.
Please.
“Professor?” I call softly.
The floor creaks on the other side.
I shift my weight, glancing down and tucking a chunk of hair behind my ear.
I clear my throat. “Should I wait downstairs?”
“No.”
The word is terse and sounds strange through the door.
A frown flickers across my brow, my instincts trying once more to get me to turn around.
I wish he’d say more, anything to ease my mind, but the idea that he’s angry at me does more to get me in the room than anything else.
The nerves I always feel in class start to flood my system, washing out the anger and doubt. The pepper spray in my purse might as well be a bottle of bubbles for the threat it poses as I walk inside his bedroom, my stomach rocking with the idea that I’ve displeased someone.
The lights are off, but it’s around sunset so there’s still some light coming in through the windows.
The bed looms large on the right wall.
I don’t see him.
I expected him to be sitting on the bed, I guess. I don’t really know what I expected.