Page 25 of Prey Tell
I sit back and study Cara, my favorite student. “Is that right? And what will I be famous for?”
She begins to pack up. Narrowing her eyes as if it’s an obvious answer, she stands up and holds her computer against her chest.
“Your academic work, of course. People will be citing you for hundreds of years.”
She meant well.
I’d smiled and waved her out, and then I’d slunk back into my desk chair, feeling uncomfortable, perplexed, and unsatisfied.
My academic work? That’sit?
Which, in hindsight, is a silly question. Iwantedto go into academia. Of course it should be a compliment that I would be remembered in that way. My chest starts to tighten, and I stand up, shaking off the impending panic attack.Inhale, exhale…
My academic work.
What if I wanted to be remembered for more than that? What if I wanted a fulfilling personal life, too?
After pulling on my running shorts, I throw a sports bra and t-shirt on before tugging my long hair back into a ponytail.
And then there was Dylan. Evenheseemed like he was a part of some grand plan. It had all gone so smoothly—a first date, a third date, exclusively dating, moving in together, getting engaged… nary a disagreement or a fight. We always got along splendidly.
I rub my chest and sit down on the floor, massaging the dull ache that’s settled just below my throat. With shaking hands, I pull my running shoes on, and then I glance at my watch. Half past four in the morning.All right, so it’s early. Who cares?
I close my eyes.
Everything feels like it’s unraveling. The control I’ve held on to when it comes to my life is unspooling slowly.
This is the trajectory I worked so hard for.
This life is the one I dreamed about for years.
So then, why do I feel so unsettled?
I’ve made more lists in the last week than I ever have in my life—scribbling furiously between classes, pulling over on the side of the road, sending myself voice memos. I was trying to crunch data that wasn’t there—trying to prove some hypothesis or formula that didn’t exist.
Because no matter how many times I wrote and rewrote thefuckinglist, I always came to the same conclusion.
Dylan made complete sense on paper.My lifemade complete sense.
But I could never quite figure out why it always felt like the wrong conclusion.
Dylan stirs in bed.
“Jules? You’re going runningnow?” he says, his voice croaky.
I bite my lower lip. “Want to have sex?” I ask.
What the hell is wrong with me?
He shifts. “Yeah, okay.” He pulls the covers off him, showing off morning wood. “Come lie down.”
You weren’t the right fit for me. There are things I like to do… You couldn’t handle it.
“Can you just, like, bend me over and fuck me?” I ask, my voice squeaky. God, why is this so awkward?
Dylan snorts. “Right. Because that’s respectful.”
Pressing my lips together, I let out an angry huff. “Maybe I don’t want you to be respectful,” I say defiantly.
