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 daysafter 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 Sciencedepartment 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 workinmuseum 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.”
