Page 70 of Office Hours
“This is wrong,” I whisper, so low I barely hear it. “I could go to the Academic Committee with this and get you fired.”
He nods, just once. “Yes, you could. But you won’t.”
I want to hit him, or maybe myself, for ever believing he was different. But there’s no room for that now. There’s only thehard, cold reality of the contract, and the way the world suddenly feels like a box getting smaller and smaller.
I say, “You think I’d do this for a good grade? Or is it because surrogates can’t get paid money by law?”
He looks me dead in the eye, and there’s something in his face—something desperate, and raw, and so lonely I almost want to cry for him.
“No,” he says. “I think you’d do it because you want to matter to someone. I think you’d do it because you want to win, even when the deck’s stacked against you. I think you’d do it because you like being in control.”
The rain outside is louder now, the windows running with water. I want to get up, throw the envelope at his head, run until I can’t hear the hiss of his voice in my ears. Instead, I sit, hands trembling, and force myself to meet him glare for glare.
“I’m not a lab rat,” I say.
He leans forward, hands flat on the table. “You’re not. But you’re also not a victim, Simone. You’ve never been.”
I almost laugh, but the sound sticks in my throat.
He says, “I’m not in a rush. We could wait a year, or five, or never. But I wanted you to know the truth. I want you to decide.”
I look down at the contract, then back at him. “You want to own me.”
He shakes his head. “I want a family. And I want you to help me get it.”
I stare at the pages, at the neat signature line at the bottom. There’s a spot for my name, written in his precise hand: SIMONE MARIE MCCALL.
I want to say, “You’re insane.” But what I say is, “What if I say no?”
He shrugs, but his jaw tightens. “Then you walk away. And you never hear about this again. It'll be like it never happened. Like we never happened.”
The words are a slap. There’s nothing else to do but stare at the table, at the mug of untouched tea, at the tiny orange tulip nodding in its glass.
He’s silent for a minute, letting the words hang. Then he stands, shrugs on his coat, and says, “You can keep the contract. Think about it.”
He pauses at the door, then looks back. His eyes are so blue they could freeze water.
“You’re not powerless, Simone,” he says. “You never were.”
Then he’s gone, the door swinging shut behind him. The barista glances over, sees me sitting there with the envelope and the mugs, and offers a shy, uncertain smile.
I sit for a long time, reading the contract, over and over, as if the words might rearrange themselves into something less monstrous.
Outside, the rain keeps falling, filling the gutters and pounding the roof. I watch the water run in frantic little rivers down the glass, and I think: maybe he’s right. Maybe I like being in control.
But right now, all I want is to be anywhere but here.
The thingabout being gutted in public is you have to make an exit. I stand so fast the chair skids out behind me, a bark of wood against tile. The contract is stuffed in my bag, and then I drag my coat from the banquette and stuff my arms through it. The zipper jams halfway and I don’t bother fixing it. I don’t make eye contact with anyone on my way out. I just push out into the night, letting the café door bang shut behind me.
The rain hits me like a slap. The sky’s opened up, sheets of water pouring down so hard the gutters spit it right back onto the sidewalk. I start walking with no plan, eyes down, feet splashing through puddles until the cold has soaked through my socks and turned my toes to ice. My hair goes from wavy to drenched in seconds. Mascara bleeds into the corners of my eyes.
Every step feels like it happens underwater. My brain won’t quiet down. There’s a voice inside me looping on repeat:he never loved you. Liam never cared about you. It was all a lie.
I cross the street without looking. Headlights flare, a car horn shrieks, but I keep walking. If the driver hits me, it’s probably less painful than what’s already happened.
Campus is empty—no surprise, given the weather. The world is just slick black pavement and orange cones of streetlight. I wind around the admin building, then past the shuttered library, not even thinking about where I’m headed. My arms wrap tight around my ribs to keep the cold from shattering me apart.
There’s a sharp ache building in my stomach. I think it might be actual heartbreak, or maybe just hunger, but either way I double over in the shadow of a tree and try to breathe. The air smells like mud and worms and the sick sweetness of rotting leaves.
