Page 1 of The Dating Coach
Chapter 1: Gemma
The red F glared at me like an accusation, bleeding across the top of my organic chemistry midterm like a wound I couldn't heal. I sat frozen in Professor Hartley's office, the leather chair creaking beneath me as I stared at the paper in my trembling hands. The fluorescent lights hummed overhead, casting harsh shadows across the cluttered desk between us, and I fought the urge to crumple the paper into a ball and throw it at the wall lined with his precious chemistry journals.
"Miss Spears," Professor Hartley said, his voice carrying that particular blend of disappointment and detachment that only tenured professors could master. He leaned back in his chair, fingers steepled beneath his chin. "I must admit, this is not what I expected from someone with your academic record."
My throat constricted. In twenty-one years of life, I had never failed anything. Not a test, not a class, not even a driver's exam. My GPA sat at a comfortable 3.9, high enough to keep my pre-med advisor happy and my swimming scholarship secure. This single letter threatened to topple everything I'd built, like pulling a keystone from an arch.
"Seventy percent of the class failed," he continued, as if that should make me feel better. "Organic chemistry is designed to weed out those who aren't serious about medicine."
"I am serious," I said, my voice coming out sharper than intended. "I've never been more serious about anything in my life."
He studied me over his wire-rimmed glasses, taking in what I knew he saw – the dark circles under my eyes that concealer couldn't quite hide, the way my Pinewood Universityswim team jacket hung looser on my frame than it had a month ago, the slight tremor in my hands that spoke of too much caffeine and not enough sleep.
"Then perhaps you can explain why someone who aced general chemistry suddenly can't differentiate between SN1 and SN2 reactions?"
The truth sat heavy on my tongue. I'd been up all night before the exam, not studying, but talking my seventeen-year-old sister through another crisis. Mia had called at midnight, sobbing so hard I could barely understand her words. Our fundamentalist Christian parents had started suspecting Mia's close friendship with women, especially with her best friend Sophia, calling it "unnatural" and "sinful."
I'd spent hours on the phone with her, whispering reassurances while she hid in her closet, terrified of what morning would bring. By the time she'd finally fallen asleep, exhausted from crying, my alarm was going off for my 8 AM exam. I'd stumbled into the lecture hall running on fumes and fear, my mind still echoing with my sister's broken voice asking why God made her wrong.
But I couldn't tell Professor Hartley any of that. My family's shame wasn't his concern, and excuses wouldn't change the grade bleeding red across my exam paper.
"I had a family emergency," I said instead, the words tasting like ash. "It won't happen again."
His expression softened marginally. "I'm willing to give you a chance to redeem yourself. There's a makeup exam in six weeks. Score an A, and I'll average it with this grade. You'll pass the class, keep your spot in the pre-med program, and maintain your swimming scholarship eligibility."
Six weeks. I did the math quickly– that wasn’t much time to prepare. But what choice did I have?
"However," he added, and my stomach dropped at his tone, "fail the makeup exam, and you'll have to retake the entire course next semester. That would put you a full year behind in the pre-med sequence."
A year behind meant graduating late, meant explaining to medical school admissions committees why I'd stumbled, meant potentially losing my swimming scholarship if my GPA dropped too low. The walls of his office seemed to close in, the chemical structures on his posters dancing mockingly in my peripheral vision.
"I understand," I managed to say, standing on legs that felt like water. "Thank you for the opportunity."
He nodded, already turning back to his computer. "I suggest you find a tutor, Miss Spears. Pride is a luxury you can't afford right now."
I left his office with my failed exam clutched in my fist, the paper crinkling with each step. The hallway of the science building stretched before me, filled with students who probably hadn't just had their futures threatened by a single test. I ducked into the nearest bathroom, locked myself in a stall, and finally let the tears fall.
My phone buzzed – a text from Mia:Mom says I have to go to youth group tonight. They're doing a special session on 'resisting temptation.' I'm scared, Gem.
I wiped my eyes, typed back with shaking fingers:Just get through it. We'll figure something out. I love you.
Walking back to my apartment, I tried to compartmentalize. One crisis at a time. First, I needed to passorganic chemistry. Then I could worry about saving my sister from our parents' version of love.
As I walked toward my apartment, the cold air bit at my cheeks, and I pulled my swim team jacket tighter. The building loomed ahead—a converted Victorian that had seen better days but offered cheap rent close to campus. I climbed the stairs to the third floor, each step feeling like a small defeat.
The smell hit me as soon as I opened the door – something acrid and vaguely chemical that definitely wasn't coming from any textbook experiment.
"Karen?" I called, dropping my backpack by the door. "Please tell me you're not trying to cook again."
My roommate's head popped out of the kitchen, her wild red curls escaping from a ponytail and her face smudged with what looked like soot. "It's just a small fire! Barely even counts. I had it under control."
I surveyed the damage – a smoking pan in the sink, every window thrown open despite the cold, and what might have once been eggs now resembling a chemistry experiment gone wrong.
"Were you trying to make scrambled eggs or discover a new element?" I asked, unable to stop the small smile tugging at my lips despite everything.
"Both?" She grinned sheepishly, then her expression shifted as she took in my face. "Oh honey, what happened? You look like someone killed your goldfish."
"Worse." I slumped onto our secondhand couch, tossing the crumpled exam onto the coffee table. "I failed organic chemistry."
