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A smirk tugs at his mouth. “I’d say it’s as good a spot as any.”
His tone is more suggestive than mine, so I shoot him a teasing look as I slide off the seat to go grab my books. “Maybe after our study date.”
___
I love and hate Tuesdays in near equal measures.
I start the day off with Calhoun’s iconic, all-encompassing introductory humanities course. You’d think introductory would mean they ease you in, but not at Calhoun.
On the very first Tuesday of the semester, they assigned us The Odyssey and said we needed to be finished reading it by Thursday. After crying at the sheer impossibility of juggling all four of my classes when I knew I needed to work as well, I loaded up on coffee and gave up most of my sleep to finish the book. I was stressed and exhausted and certainly didn’t enjoy the experience, but I got it done. Then, on Thursday, instead of our regular seminar on campus, they hosted it on the yacht of some wealthy alumnus. We enjoyed free Greek food and Odyssey-themed mocktails while we took a sunset cruise along the Charles River.
I haven’t had to finish a tome in two days since, but it is known as a book-a-week class from the first day of the semester until right up to finals, and while the load is brutal, the class is fascinating, so I consider it worthwhile.
Staying with Killian has seriously cut down on my time spent studying, though, so I make sure to get to school a little early today. Tuesday is my busiest school day. I have back-to-back class until 2:45, then there’s just enough time to hustle over to the Cutler lounge and eat something before the seminar begins.
In honor of Halloween, last week’s assigned book was Frankenstein by Mary Shelley. The writing assignment was to explore the theme of hubris and its consequences in the characters, how their actions reflect the dangers of unchecked ambition and the implications of playing god.
Reading about the lonely, rejected monster got me all up in my phantom feels, so I blazed right through the writing assignment. At the time, I was grateful for an easy week since everyone had Halloween parties they wanted to attend and a denser book would have made it difficult to find the time. But after the party I went to, maybe my time would have been better spent trying to wade through Ulysses.
I already submitted my writing assignment to the digital dropbox, but I spend a few minutes leafing through the book rereading passages so everything is nice and fresh for today’s lecture.
My phone vibrates, so I dig it out of my bag. I gave Killian back Hex’s burner to give him and transferred their numbers to my phone, so I’m expecting it to be Killian.
My stomach drops when I see it’s my mother instead.
“Hey sweetie, just checking in! Are you coming home for thanksgiving this year? I’m already planning the menu and trying to get an idea of how many people will be here. Let me know if you’re bringing anybody.”
Speaking of inexcusable assholes who play the victim in their own minds and never consider the consequences of their actions…
I start to delete the message without responding as I always do when she texts me, but on second thought, I tap her name at the top of the screen—Rita Wagner, I don’t have her saved as “mom” anymore—and tap the screen to edit her info. I delete her name entirely and type “Victor” in its place.
I smile faintly at my own private joke, then I back out of the screen and go back to messages so I can delete it.
There. Much better.
I open my book and try to focus, but it’s no use. My concentration is shot.
This is not how I wanted to go into class today, but apparently that’s what we’re doing. Awesome.
I spend a few more minutes on useless attempts to repair my fractured focus, but the book I’ve already read isn’t doing it. Instead, I grab my phone and text Killian.
“Made it to the Cutler lounge. Was not kidnapped or blackmailed along the way.”
“Glad to hear it,” he answers a moment later.
Unfortunately, because he was probably walking across campus and didn’t have his phone in his hand, that moment took too long. Searching for a different way to distract myself quickly before class, I opened social media. The algorithm knows me pretty well at this point, so the very first video it shows me is a sad song playing over a shot of a dog in a cage. It shows him there eagerly watching through the bars for a potential adopter to come meet him. His tail starts to wag and he dances with excitement when a man crouches down in front of his cage and hooks a couple of fingers through the bars to say hi. The dog licks his fingers, wagging his tail so hard his little butt wiggles, then it shows him dreaming about his forever home with the guy—playing fetch outside on a sunny day and tackling his imaginary owner to give him an abundance of face kisses and ear nibbles. But then the guy walks away from the cage, and the dog watches him go, his tail wags slowing until his tail stills altogether. Then the screen cuts to his sad reality of life in a little box all alone and shows him curled up on his bed with his head down like he’s sad. “He’s losing hope,” the mean screen text tells me, making my heart contract painfully. Then the text on the video tells me this sweet baby has spent 174 days in the shelter and he just wants someone to love him. “Could it be you?” it asks on the final screen.
And yes. Yes, it could.
His sad little face squeezes my heart until it physically hurts and I screenshot the video so I can send it to Killian.
“What do you think about getting a dog?” I ask with an emotional, watery-eyed emoji.
“No,” he sends back immediately.
“But he needs a home!”
“That video has 144k views. I’m sure he found one.”
