Page 48 of The KING Review

“It’s changeover day,” I say with a shrug. “Changeover day sucks.”

Cade gives a sympathetic smile. “Sorry, man.”

Fia studies me, then clears her throat quietly. “So, I’ve been listening to the recordings from your sessions with Neve.”

There it is.

My stomach drops through the floor. How do I explain I intentionally corrupted the recording because that session got way too close to my own personal shit, and then I openly flirted with a student?

“Oh?” I keep it deliberately innocuous. “You were that worried about her saying something inappropriate?”

She arches a brow. “I pulled a couple of her sessions in the half-semester audit. She’s good. Very engaged.” She shrugs. “I only got to hear one, though. The last file was corrupted.”

I keep my face very carefully impassive. “Really? That’s weird.”

Fia gives a small, precise shrug, but the weight behind her gaze is anything but neutral. She’s reading for context, for the story under the story. It’s what she does, and for a split second, I’m hyperaware of every microexpression passing through my entire body, every eyelid twitch and swallow, the way my hands rest on the counter, the way my shoulders begin to creep up until I forcibly relax.

You’re fine. Just be normal.

She tips her glass, but continues watching me over the rim. “Corrupted files aren’t uncommon, but you should double-check next time, or we won’t have enough to grade her.” The words are even, but the edge glints underneath, a scalpel hidden in loose velvet.

Cade, happily oblivious, polishes off his cocktail and thunks the glass down. “You say ‘corrupted’ like it’s a conspiracy.” He laughs, but Fia doesn’t quite smile.

I force a snort. “If Neve’s conspiring, she’s playing it close to the vest. She’s been nothing but professional.” But I haven’t, I don’t say. “Thanks for the heads-up. I’ll check my setup.”

Fia’s mouth quirks, but her eyes never leave mine. “Might be nothing, but it’s worth a look.” Her tone is dry as gin, but there’s something almost gentle in it, if you know where to look.

I definitely know where to look. Every muscle in my body feels like it’s been wired for overclock.

Conversation flits off in another direction. Cade launches into another lighthearted rant, this time about floral arrangements. Every so often, Fia’s gaze lands on me, brief and analytic, as if she knows she didn’t get the whole story.

I lock down my reactions and ride out the rest of the evening, letting the alcohol and the background noise buffer me from the undertow. But underneath, I’m replaying the tiny, silent calculus of how much they do or don’t know about me and Neve.

I’m not an idiot. I know how it looks. I know the way my chest goes tight anytime someone mentions her, and how my pulse spikes if I so much as think about the last session. The real reason I tanked that file isn’t a mystery—I was reckless. I let it get too real when I was supposed to just follow the script. I let her see too much, let myself say things I shouldn’t have even said out loud, least of all to a student.

Least of all to her.

I wonder if she thinks about it, and if she knows just how close I came to telling her everything—the worst parts, the underbelly, all the things I can’t say to anyone else. What Marie did, the garbage she pumped into my head, the things about myself that she picked apart when I’ve only ever wished someone would just accept them.

I let myself back into my apartment, skin chilled from the cold outside. The click of the lock and the hush of the thick hallway carpet make the silent totalizing. You could lay a stethoscope to the walls and hear nothing but the faint electric sigh of the refrigerator and my pulse, ratcheting up when I think of the woman with the golden hair and the feline eyes.

I clock my reflection in the oven glass as I drop my keys back in the drawer, face a little flushed. I’m not drunk—it takes a lot more to take me down, and I only had a couple of cocktails—but there’s a pleasant, slow-motion disinhibition in my limbs that makes the whole world feel a degree warmer. My brain is too loud, the aftershocks of that maybe-knowing look from Fia and, underneath it, the restless, hungry flicker of Neve, Neve, Neve in my veins.

I go through the usual motions, almost on autopilot. I check the mail (junk), drink a glass of water, scan the living room for evidence of entropy. Everything is in its place, which is somehow worse. There’s no Sera to mess up the couch pillows building a fort, or leave a scatter of picture books on the floor. No noise. No life at all.

I pull out my phone, preparing to give in to a moment of weakness—but what I want is already there, a notification lighting up the lock screen. I open the message before I can think better of it, brows flying up when I see what she’s written.

Don’t:

I didn’t take you for a coward, Grant King

Me:

Meaning?

Don’t:

I’m still a little insulted that you saw me fully NAKED and didn’t even attempt a photo