“Don’t ever say that,” I say. “I was happy for you then, and I’m happy for you now.”
Colton’s jaw tightens. “Your family sucks.”
I release a contented sigh. “I know. That’s why I stole yours.”
“Borrowed mine,” he says with a raised brow.
“Pretty sure your mom would say she’s mine,” I say with an evil little smile. “Haven’t you always wanted a sister?”
He levels me with a stare. It’s heavy and loaded and even though his eyes never leave mine, I feel it across every square inch of my skin. “You arenotmy sister, Chaos.”
I love when he calls me that, the nickname that has belonged solely to him since I cornered him the first week of our freshman year, flying between topics like a monkey on cocaine jumping through trees. The split second of self-consciousness when he first said it was quickly washed away by the smile he tried to cover with his hand.
A group of river dancers start performing in my stomach as he walks over to lie across the small portion of the bed not covered in my clothes. He’s too big for the space, his long legs stretched out and his head propped on one hand. My eyes follow the line of his body, heat creeping up my neck at the image of him reclined on my bed.
No, definitely not my brother.
“Do you want to talk about a plan for this summer?” he asks.
I scowl down at the dress in my hands. No, I don’t need a plan. I have the experience to run this class well, and my talent will speak for itself, contrary to what the faculty members expect. They won’t be able to deny the value the staff contributes when it’s right in front of them. Even knowing Colton’s intentions are good, the question digs under my ribs.
“No, thank you,” I answer primly.
He lifts a brow at my civil tone, the awkward, formal one I use with professors but have never used with him. He holds my gaze, staring into my eyes like he can read my thoughts and is daring me to speak my mind.
It takes less than a minute for me to crack. “Look, I know everyone expects me to fail, but I was a TA my entire graduate career and am an expert in the field. I don’t need a strategy to trick the faculty into thinking I bring something to the table.”
Colton props himself up on his elbow. “That’s not what I’m saying. No one is going into this hoping you’ll fail.”
“Dr. Guarino is,” I say quietly, unable to meet his eye.
“I hate to tell you this, Quinn, but Dr. Guarino was perfectly civil until you called him pompous.”
I groan and run my hands over my face, the lace of the dress scratching my skin. He’s right—I never should have said that to Dr. Guarino—but Colton also can’t understand. He hasn’t dealt with years of being dismissed, of being talked over and ignored. Of presenting irrefutable proof of your success and impact, and still being treated like a flippant, unnecessary part of campus.
I’ve tried placating and sweet, strong and stern, self-deprecating and friendly, and none of it has made any difference. My voice is treated with a fraction of the respect and consideration of his, even when talking about my own field. I can recognize that in this instance, Dr. Guarino wasn’t terrible, but he still threw away my idea for no other reason than it didn’t align with campus culture, and that was triggering.
“I know I fucked up, okay,” I say. “But I felt backed into a corner. I’ll be better. And I really do feel good about this summer.”
“Good,” he says, his expression stern but his eyes soft. “What about the class? Want to talk about that?”
I fight down my knee-jerk defensiveness. “I’ve read every resource Billings offers on methodology and planning. I’vereviewed the syllabi for internship classes across the country. I’ve even practiced my first day introduction in the mirror like a kid excited about their one line in the school Christmas play. I think I’m good to go.”
I try to play off the self-consciousness as a joke, but I can’t help the flood of fear. I have experience, but it’s been eight years since I ran a classroom. My father’s voice echoes in my head.Of course you can’t do this, Quinn. You’re weak, throwing away everything because you can’t handle a little rejection. Your class is going to be a mess, and the professors will see every misstep.
Colton tucks his hands behind his head as he shakes it in mock disappointment.
“You’d think someone who spends their days convincing people to do internships would put more faith in the benefits of hands-on learning. I’m sure there’s a thing or two I’ve picked up over the years that aren’t in the pamphlets.”
He always knows the perfect approach to pull me out of a spiral. No placating words or tearful heart-to-hearts. Just pure, logical facts. He has experience I don’t, and he wants to help. The short burst of frustration fades from my veins.
I stop folding the clothes and sit down next to him with a huff. “Fine. What do I need to know?”
He shifts up on his elbow to look up at me, his expression so serious, my body tenses. “The most important thing? Know that everything is going to go to shit.”
“Excuse me?” I ask.
“Every time.”
