Page 68 of The Romance Rivalry

“No,” Aiden says.

“Yes,” I say at the same time.

Aiden’s foot gently presses against mine. He doesn’t wantto take the credit and get me into further trouble. But I can’t let him lie.

“Aiden did all the work,” I admit, eyes down. I make a mental note to apologize to Aiden later. Where has my head been? Why have I been such a slacker? What is wrong with me? I can’t look up to see the disappointment in Dr. Kingston’s or Aiden’s faces.

“Thank you, Irene. And truthfully, it wouldn’t be such an issue if, well, it still felt like an equal distribution of the work for the project. So here’s what I have to offer. I’d like you two to select a new piece of fiction you have not read yet. And before you ask, yes, it can be a romance novel.”

I let out a sigh of relief.

“This is still a team project, but Irene, I’d like you to be the one to write up the edit letter. Here’s the catch: This is not a book review. I’d like you to research what you can find about the author as well. Tell me, from the information about the author’s life, motivations, inspirations, etc., what you find in this book that reflects these pieces of research. How has the author put themself into this book? And were they successful, in the eyes of you, the reader, in creating a work that resonates with you in an intimate way? It’s a comparison, of sorts, between the creator and their art. My hope is that through this project, you’ll find books to be more than just stories on a page, but reflections of humanity.”

My heart starts to race. I can do this. I love doing this. I lovefinding the humanity in the books I read. I love seeing the nuggets of themselves that authors leave in stories. So why does this feel like punishment? Why, the moment it becomes an expectation, does something I love doing turn into something I dread?

“Yes, I can do it. I’ll work with Aiden on the research, but I’ll do the write-up,” I say. There is no excitement in my voice.

“It shouldn’t be too hard,” Aiden says to me. “We do this all the time. It’s what you’re great at.”

“I’m sorry we have to do it at all,” I whisper.

“This is not meant to be punishment or a death sentence,” Dr. Kingston says, voice lighter than before. “If I didn’t fully believe you could do this, and completely want for you both to excel in this class, I wouldn’t have given you this opportunity. And Irene, we should discuss at some point your path, both here at Brighton and beyond, to becoming an editor. I’ll admit, I found it surprising when your mother told me how passionately you felt about this career choice. But now that I know, maybe we can help you in the areas you’re struggling with to start. However”—he draws out the word, ensuring I’m paying attention—“if that passion is more your mother’s than your own, I’d love to discuss how to channel your love for books into other options for your future.”

I want to crawl under my chair. Or better yet, hightail it out of the office and never look back. Maybe it’s not too lateto change my mind and start all over, with something new, somewhere new. My mom’s and dad’s faces cross my mind, the disappointment painted all over them.

“Sure, sounds great.” It sounds anything but great.

“And Aiden, I don’t have to tell you how particular the scholarship committee can be when reviewing the progress and academic achievement of their students. As we discussed in our previous meeting, they’ve shown keen interest in you and your talent. So, as your sponsor, I made sure to report back the massive amount of potential you’ve displayed up to this point. Let’s meet again after Thanksgiving to discuss what work of writing you’ll submit for review.”

Aiden’s on a scholarship? And Dr. Kingston is his sponsor?

My lack of contribution not only impacts his grade, but also his scholarship?

He didn’t tell me any of this. He carried this burden around himself and didn’t let me know.

We excuse ourselves from the office and head to the elevator.

“You okay?” Aiden asks as we wait for the doors to open. We both face forward, as if doing so will make the elevator move faster to us and lead us to our escape.

“I fucked up. I’m fucking up.” I can’t look at him.

“You’re not. You haven’t. Not yet. We have a chance to make it right. He’s not asking for anything too hard from us.” Aiden, ever the hero, making it clear we’re in this together.But it’s not fair for him to take on more work, more burden.

Something’s shifted. Whether it’s me or him. The deep, burning embarrassment and guilt fester inside me, and all I want to do is escape Aiden, his kindness and understanding masking all the things he’s not saying. His disappointment in me.

Bile rises in my throat and I double over, turning to the trash can by the elevator, certain I’m going to lose the matcha latte I had earlier and anything else in my stomach.

Aiden’s warm touch rubs my back in gentle circles. The contact burns through my clothes, my skin, adding agony to my shame.

I step away from his touch. “I’m fine,” I say.

“C’mon, let’s forget the elevator and take the stairs. I need to get you outside to some fresh air.” Aiden grabs my hands and leads me toward the stairwell, then down the stairs, outside, and around the corner, to a private bench under a tree.

I sit there and take in a few deep breaths.

Aiden remains standing, watching me warily like I’m an animal about to bolt.

“I’m sorry,” I say again. I don’t know what else to say.

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