It feels like my belly is sitting in my throat. “Okay, let’s come up with your thesis, and then we’ll work off that starting point to inform the rest of your body paragraphs.”
Knox cants his head at me. “What the hell is a thesis?”
Oh, dear God.
I make a fist and press it between my eyes, as if it’s amedically approved solution to a tension headache. “It’s the main argument of your essay.”
“Ohhh, right,” he replies, his tone thickening with arrogance. “I knew that.”
“Sure you did.”
Readying the tip of my pen between faded lines, I wait for Knox’s bestowment of rudimentary literature knowledge, but I can, with great confidence, deduce that there’s not a single thought behind those eyes.
And to confirm my hypothesis, he follows up with: “What are we arguing again?”
“How doesThe Great Gatsbyprovide social commentary on the American Dream and its seemingly corrupt undertones?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Maybe we should just focus on moral decay for now. There’s plenty of examples in the book that support that specific theme.”
His face puckers in concentration, and he snaps his fingers to recall some deep, long-buried memory. “You mean like when Daisy kills Myrtle and never has to face the consequences of her actions because her wealth and inner circle protect her?”
In that moment, I’m dogshit at hiding my surprise. I uncork a million different emotions from the pinhole in my chest—relief being one of them—and I’m embarrassed at how utterly ecstatic Knox’s progression makes me.
“Yeah, actually. That’s—that’s a great example to use.”
He lights up brighter than a shoddy motel sign in the dead of night, or the glowing butt of a cigarette poised over a similarly dilapidated railing.
“Now you tell me something about yourself,” he says out of nowhere.
“What?”
“We made a deal, remember? I get a question right or showoff my impeccable learning skills, and you bless me with a fact about yourself.”
I didn’t think he’dactuallycash in on it. I mean, nobody’s ever been dying to know much about me. We’re in the midst of a dead sprint, and he wants to go off track (figuratively and literally) to share facts about ourselves like we’re on a first date.
Dog-tired, I concede with a shrug. “Ugh, fine. Make it quick. We can’t get distracted.”
He looks around my room for a second, then gestures to my interior decorating skills. “You have a lot of plants in here, but no flowers. What’s up with that? I thought girls liked flowers.”
A shallow question. That’s good.Safe.
I purse my lips together. “Plants are…more resilient. They last longer than flowers. Flowers can be so temperamental. You forget to water them one day and they’re gone the next.”
“I take it you’re not a fan of things that are temporary?”
Temporariness is one of my worst fears. I don’t like change. I don’t like that your life can be turned upside down in the blink of an eye. I don’t like that anyone who enters your world has the potential to leave it within the same breath. My dad supposedly “loved” my mother enough to create life with her, then just decided to shuck all his responsibilities. I never got the chance to try and fight for a whole family.
I operate on a set schedule with a set group of people. I trust those in my small circle, and I make an effort not to step out of my comfort zone. An effort that hascontinuouslybeen tested since Knox came speeding into the picture.
“Something like that.”
As I pull out my student copy ofThe Great Gatsby—relying on my colorful annotation tabs to cherry-pick certain quotes—my phone buzzes in my pocket. I slip the device out with zero awareness of the mistake I just made, and Knox has plucked it from my fingers before I can even register who the text is from.
“Hey!” I growl, trying to swipe at the portable addiction that dangles just out of arm’s reach.
Knox doesn’t even have to strain; his arms are naturally that long. I think I also greatly underestimated the lengths he’d go to watch me bend over backwards for him (non-sexually, of course).
