She grins, her lipstick smudged at the corner. “Girl, same. I haven’t slept since Sunday night. You coming to Dante’s after?”
I look at the clock. It’s not even five yet. “I don’t think so,” I mumble. “I have to be up early.”
Emmeline’s smile goes sly. “You seeing someone? You keep missing club meetings.”
I shake my head, too fast. “No. Just work.”
She doesn’t buy it, but lets me off the hook. She fishes a biscotto from her jacket pocket—where did that come from?—and breaks it in half, offering me the bigger piece. I take it, the nuts digging into my palm, and manage a tight smile.
At the front of the room, Fede has lost control of the audience and is now just narrating the slide show. “Questo è il Pantheon—molto bello.You see the dome? It isun miracolo.” His accent gets more pronounced the more the club ignores him.
I bite into the biscotto, shattering it, and think about the last time I actually cared about anything enough to show up early. Probably the day I moved back in with Kent, when none of this had happened yet. When I had no idea that he and my mom were divorcing. When I had no idea that his medical condition would turn into this.
My heart jumps at the thought of our steamy encounters. I want to see him again, tonight, now. The craving is chemical, raw, and for a second I’m not even sure if I want to have sex with him or if I just want to watch him take off his shirt, stand there at thekitchen counter slicing oranges, laugh at something I say and then kiss my forehead and make me feel like I’m the only person in the world.
But that’s not the real Kent because the real Kent wouldn’t kiss my forehead like a doting father. He’d grab my jaw and own my mouth. He’d pin my wrists behind my back and tell me I’m his good girl before savaging my pussy with that huge shaft. Last night, I tasted him and it’s become a hunger for more.
“Anyone have questions about the slideshow?” Fede asks, a touch of desperation in his voice.
Emmeline leans into my ear. “Seriously, MK, you’re off in space. You gonna finish thePurgatoriofor Monday?”
I lie without hesitation. “Already read it.” Maybe I’ll fake it with an AI summary and hope there’s no pop quiz. I’m already bombing that class; if I fail one more test, I’m pretty sure the department head is going to call my mom, which is exactly what I don’t need.
At the thought of my mom, my stomach flips. Jeannine hasn’t texted in a while now, not even a meme or a “you okay, babe?” It’s fine. I should be grateful. But the silence is its own kind of question mark because what the fuck is going on? Why did Jeannine disappear so suddenly? Did she know that my stepfather’s medical treatment would entail me massaging his balls on a nightly basis? Did she agree to it? God, I almost don’t want to know the answer.
My thighs squeeze together under the desk, and I dig my fingernails into the edge of the notebook to keep from fidgeting. The images of last night refuse to leave: the heat of Kent’s mouth, the sharp, animal pressure of his teeth, the way he lickedmy clit like he was starving and made me come so hard I had to bite my lip to keep from screaming. I remember the taste of his semen, thick and sweet on my tongue, and the way he said my name as he came, eyes locked on mine.
I don’t know how I’m supposed to be in this room, this body, this life, when there’s a whole other universe waiting for me behind another door.
The meeting dissolves early, Fede defeated. There’s a brief flurry as everyone scrambles to the folding table for snacks and drinks. It’s like the cap being popped on a soda can. Relief is in the air as people slap each other on the back, laughing and talking without a word of Italian being spoken. I sidle up to the end of the folding table, snag a cannoli, and try to blend into the wallpaper.
It doesn’t work. Three minutes in, I catch the approach: tall, broad-shouldered, Century College soccer hoodie unzipped to show off a sculpted, t-shirted chest. The kind of guy who never sits alone at lunch, who always has a posse of adoring girls trailing him down the halls, who probably does that low-key head nod to every other jock he passes on the quad. Clay Newell. I clock him immediately: not just the hotshot athlete, but the hotshot athlete whose Tinder profile gets a hundred likes an hour. He’s got perfect white teeth that have to be veneers, a jaw that could split concrete, and a forehead you could host a TED talk on.
“Ciao,” he says, and grins like he just discovered the secret to cold fusion. “You’re Mary Kate, right? From Intermediate Italian?”
I nod, caught with a mouthful of cannoli. “Yeah. Section two. Professor Faglioni.”
The jock leans in, close enough that I can smell the sickly-sweet energy drink on his breath, and does the thing where he braces both hands on the table and dips his head like we’re sharing a private joke. “You been to Italian Club before?”
“Yes,” I say. “I’ve been in it since sophomore year.”
He laughs, too loud, and a crumb of biscotti launches from his lips to the tablecloth. “Wow, most people bounce after attending one meeting. Can’t blame them. Other than the food, there’s no reason to be here, right?”
I half-smile, scanning for exits.
He takes a moment to study my face—lingering, not quite predatory, more like he’s trying to memorize the answer to a quiz—and then goes, “I’m only taking Italian because my dad’s family is from Genoa like about a century ago. But honestly, it’s an easy B. Plus, the girls are cute.”
He says this like I should be flattered, like this is a gift he’s bestowing. I feel the urge to laugh or puke, or maybe both. Instead, I just nod and bite my cannoli.
He lingers another second, waiting for something. I realize too late that I’m supposed to volley the compliment back, tell him I’m taking Italian because the boys are cute, or maybe I should ask if he has a girlfriend. But I can’t fake interest. Not when the only thing I’m interested in is the memory of a man who would eat this guy for breakfast and then floss with his ego.
Clay glances down the table, grabs a chunk of sheet cake, and is immediately intercepted by one of his teammates dressed in matching sweats and that weird, slightly wet hair look that says “I just showered but didn’t bother drying off.” He leaves without so much as a goodbye.
The second he’s out of earshot, Emmeline swoops in, clutching her phone like a lifeline. “Clay Newell’s into you,” she whispers. “He totally is. Did you see the way he was leaning? He never leans. I swear to god, he’s like a human Eiffel Tower.”
I roll my eyes. “He leans on everyone. I think it’s an athlete thing.”
She giggles, popping a biscotto into her mouth. “You could do worse, MK. Most of the girls on campus would kill to get with Clay Newell. He’s got, like, legendary stamina. You know what I’m saying?”
