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Every time I shift in this chair, I feel him. Deep inside me, sore and swollen, like he left something of himself behind. The bruise on my hip’s pressing into the seat. The bite on my titty is rubbing against my bra. And he’s still slipping out of me into these brand-new Neiman Marcus panties, every time I move, and every time, I’m right back against that hotel door with my wrists pinned over my head.

You’re scared of me.

Yes.

Good.

I’m not finna sit here and get wet in class over that. I’m a grown woman. I’m a scholar.

I cross my legs. Then uncross them. That’s worse.

“Miss Jackson?”

My head jerks up. Professor Okafor’s looking at me over her glasses.

“Sethe tells Paul D that love is or it ain’t. Thin love ain’t love at all. Thoughts?”

I know this. I wrote four pages on it last week.

“She’s saying you can’t love somebody halfway,” I say. “It’s all of you or it’s nothing. And Paul D’s scared of that. He thinks it’s too much.”

“Is it?”

“I mean.” I shrug. “It’s a lot.”

Somebody in the back laughs. Professor Okafor smiles and moves on.

The dude next to me leans over. Jordan. Braids, Jordans, always smells like Black Ice.

“Aye,” he whispers. “Why you block me?”

“I didn’t block you.”

He tilts his phone so I can see. His text from last night, and under it, in little gray letters: Not Delivered.

I pull out my phone and scroll for him. He’s not there. Not in my messages, not in my contacts. Like I never had his number at all.

“I… My phone’s been tripping,” I say.

He gives me a look like okay, girl, and sits back.

I stare at my screen. At Sasha, sitting at the top of my messages. At Mine.

I look down at my notes. I underlined too much three times without noticing.

* * *

The bursar’s office has a line out the door like always. I stand in it for forty minutes rehearsing my speech.

I’m two payments behind on my plan. Rent ate one, my car ate the other, and the last email said if I don’t catch up by the fifteenth, they’re putting a hold on my registration. So I got it all planned. I’ma be polite. I’ma be sad. I’ma say first-generation at least twice. Whatever it takes. I’m not leaving this window without an extension.

“Next.”

I step up. The lady behind the glass has long red nails and a Hello Kitty lanyard. She doesn’t look up.

“ID.”

I slide it under the glass. “Hi. So, I’m a little behind on my payment plan, and I know the deadline is the fifteenth, but I was hoping…”