The rest of the meeting blurs past. When it ends, I go back to my office, shut the door, and open the window. The air is crisp, the campus oddly silent except for the distant thump of a soccer ball. I watch the quad, searching for her blonde ponytail in the crowd, but she’s gone.
I read over the emails again, tracking the breadcrumbs.
I’m walking into a minefield with my eyes open.
And I can’t fucking wait.
I’m supposedto be writing a letter of recommendation for a grad school candidate, but instead I’m searching “Simone McCall” on every database and social media platform I can think of. It’s pathetic, but here we are.
Her Instagram is private. I stare at the tiny circle of her profile picture—her at a football game, face painted with blue and white stripes, tongue stuck out, arms draped over another girl. Her Facebook is locked down, but the cover photo shows her with her mother, who is both prettier and harder than I’d imagined. I see now why Simone wears armor.
Her LinkedIn is barren: Century College, English major. There’s no mention of extracurriculars or work experience, but she’sjoined the “Women in STEM” group, which I can’t help but find funny.
There are a few forum posts about the school—typical college drama—but one post under a throwaway name stands out.
“Anyone have Thomas for American Lit? Is he as strict as they say?”
Replies range from “He’s hot but an asshole” to “Just write the essays and he leaves you alone.” My favorite: “He has a stare that makes your panties evaporate. True story.”
I wonder if that was Simone.
I get an email notification. It’s from her.
Subject: “Re: Office Hours / Grade Inquiry”
“Professor Thomas—Saturday afternoon is perfect for me. Can you let me know what time, and where to meet? Is it okay if I bring snacks? Just kidding (unless you want me to lol). I’m kind of nervous, so please don’t be scary. See you soon!”
Her tone is different in email—less honey, more nerves. The real girl peeking through the artifice.
I wait an hour before replying, to seem normal.
“Simone—I’m free at 2:00 on Saturday. If you’re comfortable, we can meet at my house; the campus library can be loud and coffee shops are always packed. I’ll send my address if that works for you. And snacks are always welcome.”
I hover on “send,” pulse thudding in my throat.
I click it.
Now there’s no way back.
The next twodays are agony.
Every class, I catch her out of the corner of my eye: the flash of leg, the cut of her top, the way she never breaks gaze when I call on her. She’s playing the long game, and she’s winning.
She always sits in the back, but never slouches. She’s straight-backed, bright-eyed, and every time she answers a question, her voice is just a decibel lower than necessary, making everyone lean in. Even the TA is in love with her.
But I watch her for the tiny tells: the way her pencil skips between her lips, the way she bounces her foot under the desk, the way she waits until I look at her to fix her skirt or brush hair from her face.
It’s enough to make me raw.
After class, I try to escape, but she’s already waiting at the door. She walks beside me, matching my stride.
“Hi, Professor Thomas,” she says, as if we haven’t already spoken in private.
“Simone,” I reply, wary.
She leans in, voice private. “Is your house far from campus?”
“Not really. Twenty minutes, if there’s traffic.”
