She flicks off her lamp, climbs into bed, and lies on her side, facing away from me. “Good night, Andie,” she says.
“Night, Simone.”
I stay awake for a long time, watching the shadows slide across the ceiling. My body is tired, but my mind is wide awake, replaying every word, every warning, every promise. I want to believe that I can keep my secrets safe, that this won’t end the way Simone predicts.
But I know myself.
I want more with Thomas Moreland.
Even if it destroys me.
Simone’s breathinglevels out in less than five minutes. I know her rhythms by now: the way her hair snags on the pillowcase, the faint huff of air whenever she rolls over, the little click her tongue makes as she slides from REM into deeper sleep. She’s got the gift of instant oblivion, which I’ve always admired, even envied. When the world gets too loud, Simone just drops out. Gone, until morning.
I, on the other hand, am a lost cause.
I’m stretched on my back, lamp casting a soft circle over my blankets and the open chaos of my desk. The phone sits on my chest, screen still lit, Thomas’s message burning a hole straight through my sternum. The room feels denser, the air thick with the ghosts of every conversation I’ve ever had. My limbs areheavy and slow, but my brain is a hurricane, looping the last few hours on repeat.
I can’t stop replaying Simone’s words: “You know older men have, like, decades of experience, right? They know all the moves. They know how to get in your head. They can be gone in a second, and you’re the one left with the mess.”
She meant it as a warning. Maybe even as a plea. But all I can think is—yes, please.
I lift the phone, thumb hovering over the text. For a second, I imagine what will happen if I reply, and what will happen if I don’t. If I don’t, nothing changes. I go to class, graduate with honors, get a job, a starter husband, a dog. I host Friendsgivings with Kayleigh and Mary Kate. My life unspools like a Target ad: tidy, neat, acceptable, and most of all, boring.
If I reply, I don’t know what happens. That’s the part that makes my mouth go dry. The part that makes me want to tear my own skin off, just to feel something new.
I flip the phone between my palms. My fingertips are hot, my thighs pressed tight under the covers, every nerve in my body tuned to a different frequency. It’s almost like I’m hovering outside myself, watching this girl—this good, sweet, wholesome Midwestern girl—turn herself inside out for a man she barely knows.
I wonder, not for the first time, if I’m a little bit broken.
I type:
I’ll be at the cafe.
Delete. Re-type:
See you then.
No, too eager. Delete.
2 PM is perfect.
Delete. I can’t do this.
I drop the phone onto the pillow next to my face, exhale like I’ve been punched. The silence is so thick it roars. Simone shifts in her sleep, lets out a sleepy murmur, and I wonder what she’s dreaming about. Probably not this. Probably not me.
I turn the phone face down, but it’s no use. The message is tattooed on the back of my eyelids.
Meet me tomorrow at Riverside Café, 2 PM. -T
I want to ask him if there’s something special about the Riverside Cafe. If he takes all the women he dates there. Or if it’s a place that he enjoys for its food and ambience.
But I can’t.
Instead, I let my hand drift down, grazing the curve of my stomach, the waistband of my pajama shorts. I remember the way Thomas kissed me in the dark, the way he told me to “impale yourself, sweetheart,” like it was the only law that mattered. I remember the feel of him, impossibly hard, impossibly real, the raw, animal urge to give in completely.
My fingers slip lower, and I press against myself, slow and tentative at first. I’m already wet, already aching, the memory of him enough to make me gasp. The dorm room fades away. The world shrinks to the heat between my legs, and the promise of what comes next.
I work my clit slowly, thinking of Thomas’s hands, the rough scrape of his stubble against my skin, the bright-hot bloom of pain that turned sweet in a heartbeat. I picture him waiting at the café, watching the door, his eyes alive with secrets. I imagine walking in, sitting across from him, daring him to say my name out loud. My body is electric, every muscle taut and wanting. I rub faster, breath coming in shallow bursts, and when I come, it’s so sudden and sharp that I have to bite my pillow to keep from moaning.
