Page 145 of Twisted Needs

“I know people are gonna have shit to say. I know Luca’s probably gonna try to kill me.” A weak smile pulls at my mouth. “But I’m at the point in my life where I just don’t care anymore. I just wanna be happy.”

I glance down at my phone sitting face-down beside my drink. There’s probably a text from Anders waiting for me already, and the idea makes me too giddy.

“And Anders…” I shake my head softly before I can stop myself from smiling. “He’s so unapologetically himself. Bold. Loud. Difficult as hell. He walks into a room and takes up all the oxygen in it.” My chest aches warmly. “Being with him doesn’t feel shameful. It feels like I’m finally being honest with myself.”

Bishop watches me carefully. Then he sighs again and points at me with two fingers. “You just need to be careful.”

“I know.”

“No, I mean really careful.” His voice drops lower. More serious now. “Because the second you get comfortable, that’s when shit blows up.”

I stare at him. Bishop looks toward the sleeping team around us before leaning closer. “You’re a public figure. He’s young. You’re living together. His brother is one of your best friends.” He pauses. “If this goes bad, Park, it’s not just gonna hurt you.”

The knot in my chest tightens painfully. Because I know. God, I know. But then I think about Anders standing in my kitchen wearing my shirt and nothing else, kissing me sleepy and slow before I left for the trip. I think about the empty side of the bed waiting for me at home. The text that’s probably sitting on my phone right now. The fact that somewhere over a thousand miles away, he’s counting down the hours until I walk through the front door.

The knot in my chest doesn’t disappear. If anything, it tightens. Because Bishop is right. This could absolutely blow up, and it could cost me friendships. But I know exactly what’s on the other side of that risk.

CHAPTER 40

COMPLETELY ENTHRALLING

ANDERS

“Thanks for meeting with me on such short notice,” Dr. Keir says as soon as I step into her office.

The room smells like coffee grounds and old paper, kind of like one of those hidden gem libraries. There are books stacked everywhere in unstable towers that somehow haven’t collapsed in the four years I’ve known her. Her office has always looked like this. Chaotic in a very curated academic way. Sticky notes shoved between pages. Half-dead plants on the windowsill. A cardigan hanging off the back of her chair like she abandoned it halfway through grading papers and never remembered to pick it back up.

Outside, rain taps softly against the windows. Typical D.C. spring weather. Gross and humid and gray enough to make everyone on campus look vaguely miserable.

Dr. Keir slides her glasses out of their case and settles them onto her nose before motioning for me to sit down across from her desk.

“You’re scaring me already,” I mutter as I sink into the chair. “Be honest, Dr. Keir. Am I going to fail?”

She looks up from the stack of papers in her lap with an almost offended expression. “On the contrary.” That somehow makes me more nervous. Dr. Keir exhales slowly and reaches beside her chair for a thick manila envelope. “You’re going to hate me.”

“As long as it isn’t a bad grade, we’re still besties,” I joke weakly, leaning forward to take it from her. “And honestly, your class has been the easiest class I’ve taken in four years. I actually really liked⁠—”

I stop. Everything inside me stops. My fingers tighten around the papers as my eyes skim the first paragraph. Then I read the line again because surely I’m misunderstanding what I’m looking at.

“Tragic, yet compelling retellings of modern-day Lolita myths that explores…”

I throw the packet down onto the desk so fast the papers slide halfway onto the floor. “What the fuck is this?”

Dr. Keir folds her hands together carefully. Too carefully. “My wife has a friend in publishing⁠—”

“No.” The word comes out instantly. “No. Absolutely not. Not happening.” My pulse starts pounding so hard I can hear it in my ears. “I wrote that two years ago.”

“Anderson—”

“No.” I shove back in my chair so abruptly the legs screech against the old hardwood. Out of every single thing I’ve ever written…a fucking short story I wrote freshman year while having a psychological breakdown over Parker. Heat floods my face so violently it stings. I snatch the packet back up and scan farther down the page.

“…explores power dynamics of homo-erotic relationships…”

“Oh my God.” I clamp my hand over my mouth.

Freshman year Anders really deserved to have his laptop confiscated forever because what the fuck was wrong with me?

I remember writing this thing at two in the morning while sitting cross-legged on the floor of my dorm room listening to Mitski and convincing myself I was processing my feelings in a healthy artistic way when really I was just turning my unresolved daddy issues into literary fiction. And not even subtle literary fiction. Anybody with half a brain and enough context could probably figure out exactly who inspired it.