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“We’re not worried, honey. We know you’ll be responsible and do well,” my mom says. Her voice is kind and assured. My insides turn.

“Good, good. Well, Irene, we are so excited for Parents Day and coming up to see you, to meet your professors, to interact with other parents. We’ll leave extra early to avoid traffic. And don’t forget that we want to buy Brighton hoodies for everyone in the family,” Dad says.

“I won’t. Call me when you guys get close next weekend. I’ll see you then.” I wave at the screen and cut off my parents who are both trying to figure out which button to press to end the call. Their faces disappear, just the afterimage left in my brain. Happy. Proud. Totally deceived.

I fall back on my bed, playing back all the life choices that have led me to this impossible situation. Why can’t I just talk to my parents and be honest with them?

Just thinking it silently in my brain makes me shiver. If I can’t handle trying to imagine it, how will I ever really do it?

I jump as my phone buzzes with a new message.

Aiden:wanna make out??

I didn’t know it, but he’s exactly who I need right now. Someone to bring me back to my happy place. Someone who I don’t even need to discuss this with, but who understands how important what I do online is to me. His message just saved me from the rabbit hole of despair I was about to go down.

I hug my phone and let out a squeal before typing my reply. Because, duh, I absolutely want to make out.

Irene:sorry, I’m currently busy playing hard to get with my biology textbook. But who are we kidding, I have it bad for digestive systems.

Aiden:Ooh... talk dirty to me. Can I watch?

I laugh, and my insides tingle at our easy banter.

Irene:I love an audience.

I don’t get an immediate response. I don’t even see three dots. I wait. My mind does not like this. I was too forward. Too flirty. I turned him off. He’s disgusted. He changed his mind.

I pull my pillow over my head and scream.

Do I keep waiting? Or can I send him another text? Maybe I just message him but remove the innuendo. I start. I stop. I backspace. I start again.

Irene:Jeannette and I are both studying. She’s getting snacks. Wanna come by?

It’s a tiny lie, but I could and shouldbe studying. Maybe Aiden will be just the inspiration I need to start.

Aiden:On my way... do I need to put on pants? j/k.

Aiden:I was actually overeager. I’m already downstairs.

I hold my phone to my heart, smiling wide. A memory of soft but firm lips, harsh breaths, tongues clashing crosses my mind.

Inspiration? More like a very fun distraction.

And I don’t let myself think about how another distraction is the last thing I need right now.

Epigraph

Why do I put myself through this when I know how much it’s going to hurt? I know why... because I’m a masochist. (Umm... a book masochist, okay?) Two hundred fifty pages of Sebastian loving Annabelle with all his heart while she stomps on it, his feelings unrequited. And only fifty pages of her finally coming to her senses and loving him to healing. And yet... it hurts so freaking good. I am a sucker for the angst, apparently.

—@irene.loves.love.books

Real life beats me down enough. I don’t need to read this kind of emotional torture in my books.

—@aidentheguyreadsromance

Thirteen

unrequited love