"Holy shit, did you guys hear about Professor Williams?"
Sophia's text lights up the group chat like a flare. I'm on my bed, pretending to read Rousseau while contemplating whether my life choices qualify as performance art or just regular destruction.
"The Economics professor? What about him?" Mia responds immediately, probably already sensing scandal like a truffle pig finding expensive fungi.
"Got caught fucking a student on his desk last year. BY THE JANITOR," Sophia texts, followed by seventeen different emoji.
"Dick still out," Mia adds. "Just standing there like he was presenting his thesis defense to the cleaning staff."
"The janitor quit the next day," Sophia continues. "Said he'd seen enough academic rigor for one lifetime."
"At least it wasn't as bad as Professor Larsen's greatest hits," Mia chimes in, and my entire body goes rigid.
"Liv's dad has game though," Sophia adds. "You've got to respect the consistency. Man's got a type: young, brilliant, and daddy issues for days."
"Some girls have no self-respect," Jess texts, and I know that missile is aimed directly at my head before her next message even loads. "Right, scholarship?"
The tag notification makes my phone feel radioactive in my hands. She's not even trying to be subtle anymore—it's a warning wrapped in sorority-girl passive aggression, delivered with the precision of a sniper who shops at Nordstrom.
"Why are you tagging me in this mess?" I type back, trying for casual indifference while my insides perform cirque du soleil.
"Just making sure everyone's on the same page about appropriate professor-student relationships," Jess responds, adding a smiley face that definitely means she wants me dead. "Some of us need more reminders than others."
My phone buzzes with a separate text from Liv: "Parents are gone for the weekend! Some faculty retreat thing. They actually looked... peaceful? Like maybe they're trying to work things out? Mom even smiled at Dad this morning. Real smile, not the one she uses at department parties. Maybe there's hope after all???"
Oh honey, your dad's only peaceful because he spent Thursday afternoon with his face between my thighs. But sure, let's call it marital progress.
Before I can spiral further into my guilt, someone knocks on my door—not pounding, just this tentative tap that screams 'drunk but trying to be respectful.'
Connor Mitchell stands in my doorway, swaying slightly, smelling like the bottom shelf of a liquor store that's given up on its dreams.
"Elisa! Hi. Hello. Greetings." He leans against the doorframe like it's the only thing keeping him earthbound. "Can I come in? The guys are being loud in my room and I needed to escape the testosterone poisoning."
"You left your own party to come to my room?"
"It wasn't really a party. More like five dudes arguing about whether cryptocurrency is a valid personality trait." He stumbles inside without waiting for permission. "Plus, I wanted to see you. You're like, the only real person at this whole university."
"Real is a generous interpretation of what I am," I tell him, but I let him collapse onto my desk chair because drunk boys in hallways attract RAs like blood attracts sharks.
"You look pretty tonight," he slurs, with the kind of confidence that only comes from consuming your body weight in cheap beer. "Have you been working out?"
"Connor, you're drunk."
"Drunk on possibility," he says, then laughs at his own joke like he's just invented comedy. "But seriously, Elisa. You and me. We could be something. I've been thinking about it since that day in Larsen's class when you touched my arm. That meant something, right?"
Oh honey, that was me using you as a prop to make your professor jealous. The same professor I was fucking in his Volvo three hours later. But sure, let's call it something.
"Connor, what do you want to be when you grow up?" I ask, watching his face scrunch in confusion at the subject change.
"What? I am grown up. I'm twenty."
"No, I mean really grown up. What's the plan? After the lacrosse and the keg stands and the cryptocurrency debates?"
"I don't know, business probably? My dad owns a firm. I'll probably just, you know, slide into that." He shrugs, the movement making him stumble slightly. "Why are you asking me this like it's a job interview?"
"Because that's exactly the problem," I tell him, and maybe it's cruel but boys like Connor need to understand why they'll never be enough for girls like me. "You're going to slide into your father's life like it's a suit that's already been tailored for you. No friction, no fight, just one long water slide from your trust fund to your corner office."
"That's harsh, Elisa. I have dreams and stuff."
"Name one dream that doesn't involve your father's money making it possible."
He opens his mouth, closes it, looking genuinely hurt. "Why are you being mean? I really like you. I think about you all the time. The way you sit in class like you're solving puzzles the rest of us can't even see. You're different from other girls."
"Every guy says that, Connor. You know what they mean? They mean 'you're different until I figure you out, then you'll be just like the others.'"
"That's not what I mean—"
"You want to know why I could never be with you?" I interrupt, the truth making me meaner than necessary but also more honest. "Because you've never had to fight for anything real. You've never had to wonder if the lights will stay on or if your mother's new boyfriend might be the one who finally sticks around long enough to really fuck things up. You think struggle is choosing between Cancun and Cabo for spring break."
"That's not fair. You don't know me."
"I know that when you kiss a girl, you're thinking about whether your friends will think she's hot. When you fuck, you're performing for an audience that isn't even there, trying to hit marks you learned from porn and locker room talk." I watch his face fall, knowing I'm destroying something but unable to stop. "You don't know what it's like to be touched by someone who's already destroyed themselves enough times to know exactly how to break you properly."
Connor stares at me, his drunk brain trying to process why his crush is systematically dissecting him. "You're talking about someone specific, aren't you? Someone older? Someone like... Professor Larsen?"
My blood freezes. "What?"
"I'm not stupid, Elisa. The way you two avoid looking at each other in class? It's like watching magnets pretend they don't have poles."
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
"You know what?" I grab my phone, texting my classmate Ashley with fingers that definitely aren't shaking: "Connor Mitchell is in my room. Drunk. Vulnerable. Talking about his feelings. Room 247. Hurry."
"Who are you texting?" Connor asks, still processing his own accusation.
"Your future girlfriend." I stand, grabbing my backpack. "Ashley from Chen's class is about to arrive and rock your world with her virginity and genuine enthusiasm for your cryptocurrency opinions."
"Ashley? Wait, what?"
"She'll be here in five minutes. You two are perfect for each other. She thinks struggle is when the campus Starbucks runs out of oat milk." I head for the door. "Try not to break anything that can't be replaced."
"Elisa, wait—about Larsen—"
"Connor, you're drunk and imagining things. When Ashley gets here, you're going to forget all about your conspiracy theories and remember that age-appropriate relationships exist for a reason."
I leave him there, confused and swaying, about to have his world rocked by someone who'll never make him question whether he's enough.
At least someone's getting laid in my bed tonight without destroying multiple lives.