Page 45 of Switching Graves

I rear back at that, earning a smirk from him that somehow makes his eyes twinkle playfully in the dimming light.

I’ve got whiplash from guessing which version of him I’m going to be met with from one day to the next.

“Fine,” I agree, hugging my bag to my chest as I slip out of my seat, hellbent on leaving before he changes his mind.

“The highest score will be recorded,” he warns in a low, purring tone—a beast playing with his food. “Be sure to take this second chance seriously.”

“Will do,” I breathe out, slipping through the doorway to head back into the brightly lit common area.

I don’t know what it is that tells me to stop—some basal instinct or gut feeling—but at the last second, I briefly pause before breaking free of his office. And in one fleeting glance back toward his desk, I see the playful, flirty expression clear across his face; the grumpy mask fully removed. He raises a brow at me in challenge, fingers now digging into his collar, loosening his tie away from his neck.

It’s a taunt. And I know what he’s thinking without saying a word.

Wasn’t that fun?

Will I acknowledge it this time, or run off like I always do?

Unsure what to do, I choose the latter, dropping my eyes back to the floor as I step out of his sight.

24

Sonny

The week passes in a blur of lectures, psychology textbooks, and work at my new job as a dishwasher in the dining hall. Every free moment I have in the three days after meeting with Dr. Whitlock is spent on my essay, which I take great care in sprinkling personal experiences with narcissists into the paper—starting with my stubborn professor. My face remains firmly placed against my laptop screen, my body sore from hours sitting in wooden library chairs.

The moment Hayes explains our next weekly assignment and dismisses class that Wednesday, I’m practically sprinting toward the psychology offices to turn the paper in, eager to see his reaction to having stood up to his challenge.

“What’s this?” he has the nerve to ask, barely glancing away from his work to greet me.

“It’s my paper—completely rewritten,” I announce proudly. When he doesn’t so much as look at me again, I set the papers on the corner of his desk.

“Is there anything else?”

Hesitating in the doorway, I shift on my feet. In my head, this was a much more theatrical moment. “No. Thanks.”

“Heading out?” Hayes asks from the copier tucked in the back corner of the office as I brush past his empty desk, interrupting my derailed thoughts. When he notices my startled expression, he holds his hands out in front of him. “Sorry, I thought you heard me coming.”

“It’s okay. Yeah, I was about to go to my next class.”

“I’ll walk with you,” he offers, falling into step beside me.

I’m not great company for him this time, too caught up in my head about Professor Whitlock to offer him more than a few mumbles or shrugs in response to his feeble attempts at conversation. I feel horrible.

When I finally turn toward him and see the dejected look marring his face, I sigh. “I’m sorry. I’ve just got a lot on my mind.”

As we approach the doors leading to my next lecture, he looks down, biting his lip. “No worries, I get it. A group of us are meeting up at the clock tower on Friday to have a few drinks. You should come.”

I shake my head, the decline sitting at the tip of my tongue when he jogs in front of me and stops directly in my path, forcing me to look up at him. “Come for a few minutes, at least. You’ve been holed up in your dorm for the past week, and everyone misses you.”

Biting my cheek, I consider the offer. It might be nice to get some fresh air, anyway.

“Maybe,” I relent, earning a wide smile. Throwing my finger up, I add, “But only for a little bit. I have midterms next week.”

“Perfect. I’ll see you then.”

Each Friday night, the large clock tower outside of the student dorms and the courtyard swarms with students of every year, all scattered around in smaller groups. Different genres of music play from multiple speakers, blending together to create a cacophony of sounds that only adds to the chaos. It’s a rite that I’ve generally avoided for most of my time here, always too caught up in homework assignments or, more recently, the dining hall.

I prefer the solitude of the library or my own bedroom over the stimulation of being around my peers. Constantly wondering if I’m saying the right thing or acting the right way and overanalyzing people’s reactions. If I’m being honest, my fear of being seen and perceived likely stems from making sure I never stepped out of line with Aunt Divina. The threat of her taking everything away from Uncle Graysen still rings loudly in the back of my mind, reminding me of everything my mere presence puts at stake. It was always easier to slink around corners and hide in the shadows until she passed by.