She backspaces and changes conscience to conscious.
My gut hardens and I replace the cap on my drink as she continues, pausing when she finds a mistake. In my section. Again.
Sweat beads along my hairline and I roll my shoulders to slough off my frustration. When it comes to academics, the only thing worse than having someone else read a paper I’ve written is having them point out the errors. I usually have the tutors at the academic center look over my work after I do the usual spellcheck and read-aloud stuff, but I didn’t have time with the AMP paper.
You should’ve made time.
Fuck. Instead of visiting a sex shop Friday, I should’ve tried for a walk-in appointment at the academic center, but I was sure I’d nailed the paper. I read over it several times. Validated all my citations. Triple checked my references.
And you still couldn’t see the mistakes.
The ones that are so obvious to Sutton.
Shame blazes through me, scorching the back of my neck.
Stupid. Idiot. Slow.
The words echo in my head like a broken fucking record.
One I wish I could forget. One I’ve worked so hard to put behind me.
Not hard enough.
The crunch of plastic shatters the silence and I glance down at the dented Powerade bottle in my hand.
Sutton hits save on the file and glances up at me. “You okay?”
No, I’m not fucking okay. I’m standing here like a dumbass while she corrects my work. “I’m good.”
She pulls up her email, where she’s already drafted a submission note to Mac, and attaches our finished paper. “You don’t look okay. Did something happen while you were downstairs?” She turns back to me, eyes wide. “Was it Maddie? I meant to tell you, but she knows we’re hooking up. Which means she’ll probably give you a hard time. Just for fun.”
“It wasn’t Maddie.” Though that certainly explains her weird commentary.
Sutton frowns, turns back to the laptop, and hits send. Then she stands and turns to face me. “What is it then? You were fine when you went downstairs and now you’re…not.”
I set my bottle on the desk and step away, putting some distance between us.
“You were fixing my part of the paper.”
“I told you I was doing one more read through.” Her brows knit together in confusion. “What’s the big deal?”
“The big deal is that instead of telling me what needed revised, you took it upon yourself to make the corrections.”
“That’s the point of editing. To fix what needs fixing.”
“I can pull my weight.” She reaches for me, but I sidestep her, ignoring the hurt that flashes across her face. “You don’t have to coddle me or pick up the slack.”
“That’s not what I was doing.”
I snort and cross my arms. “Bullshit.”
“No, bullshit is you getting upset because I fixed a few typos.” She huffs out a breath. “Everyone makes mistakes. It’s not a big deal.”
“True, but if it was anyone else—if you didn’t know I had dyslexia—you’d have called me out for sloppy work instead of fixing it.”
Her eyes narrow. “Is that what you think?”
“It’s what I know.”
