"Medieval History or Dead Languages—which section screams 'drug drop' more to you?" I mutter to myself, standing on the third floor of the university library with a backpack full of pharmaceutical felonies.
The textbooks in my bag aren't actually textbooks. They're hollowed-out classics—Canterbury Tales and Beowulf—stuffed with enough Adderall, Xanax, and Oxy to make the DEA weep. Sunday morning in the library, and I'm wearing my student ID like a medal of irony while committing crimes that could get me expelled in six different languages, including the dead ones surrounding me.
My hands shake as I slide the first book onto the shelf between Germanic Phonology and Latin Syntax for Masochists. The pills rattle inside their literary coffin, and I pray nobody's actually desperate enough to check out Chaucer on a Sunday.
"Drug dealer" isn't exactly the career progression I imagined when I got my scholarship, but here we are—Elisa Valenti, honor student by day, Kilian's campus pharmacy by weekend.
"Elisa? Is that you?"
I spin around so fast I nearly drop the second book. Connor stands there with Ashley grafted to his arm like she's been surgically attached. She's glowing with that specific radiance that comes from getting properly fucked for the first time by someone who'll definitely text back.
"Connor," I manage, my voice hitting registers only dogs should hear. "Hi."
"I wanted to thank you," he says, studying his shoes like they hold the secrets of the universe. "For last night. For... you know."
"Oh my God, we're together now!" Ashley announces, bouncing on her designer sneakers. "Can you believe it? Connor and me! It's like fate but better because it actually happened! Connor was so sweet, he even asked if I wanted to stay for breakfast. Actual breakfast! With eggs and everything!"
She's radiating the kind of happiness that makes me want to simultaneously protect it and destroy it. Like watching a butterfly land on a bear trap—beautiful and doomed.
"That's amazing," I tell them, sliding the second book onto the shelf with the casual air of someone definitely not committing federal crimes. "You two are perfect for each other."
"Connor was just telling me about this cryptocurrency investment opportunity," Ashley gushes. "Apparently, if we get in now, we could make enough to buy a Tesla by graduation!"
"A Tesla," I repeat, tasting the word like expired milk. "How revolutionary."
Connor shifts uncomfortably, clearly remembering our conversation about water slides and trust funds.
"We should go, Ash. Brunch reservations."
"Oh right! The place with the bottomless mimosas!" Ashley practically vibrates with enthusiasm. "Elisa, you should come! Connor says you're like, super smart about philosophy and stuff."
"Can't. I have to finish some research," I gesture vaguely at the shelves of dead languages, each one a metaphor for my current life choices.
They leave in a cloud of new relationship energy and excessive cologne, and I finally exhale. Two books down, one to go.
I pull out my phone, my fingers moving before my brain can stop them.
Need you. Now.
The message to Victor sends, those three words carrying more desperation than a Victorian lady's diary. I wait. Nothing. Not even the three dots of typing that would mean he's crafting some professorial excuse.
I call. It rings four times before going to voicemail. His recorded voice telling me to leave a message for Professor Larsen, like I'm just another student with questions about Rousseau instead of the girl he fucked so hard Thursday that I still feel him with every step.
"Playing house while I'm playing drug dealer," I mutter, shoving the last book between Proto-Indo-European Roots and Why Latin Died: A Linguistic Tragedy.
The irony isn't lost on me—I'm literally hiding crimes between dead things, like my entire life is one big metaphor for terrible decisions wrapped in academic packaging.
I'm halfway to the exit when Jess materializes like she's been summoned by the patron saint of ruined lives. She's leaning against the wall near the emergency exit, examining her manicure with the kind of studied casualness that means she's about to destroy someone.
"Well, well. The library on a Sunday. How studious of you, scholarship."
"I'm leaving," I tell her, trying to sidestep, but she moves to block me.
"I know what you're doing," she says, and her smile could freeze hell and charge admission for ice skating.
My blood turns to slush. "I don't know what you're talking about."
"Connor's not as dumb as he looks. He told Ashley about seeing you leave someone's office late. Very late. Want to guess whose?"
The threat hangs between us like a guillotine blade, sharp and inevitable.
"What do you want?" I ask, because with girls like Jess, there's always a price.
"For you to stay away from Liv," she says simply. "You're toxic. Whatever game you're playing, whatever daddy issues you're working through, Liv doesn't deserve to be collateral damage."
The worst part is I can't even argue. She's right. I'm toxic waste in a designer education, contaminating everything I touch. Liv trusts me while I'm fucking her father. She calls me sister while I'm keeping enough secrets to destroy her entire family.
"You don't know anything," I try, but it sounds weak even to me.
"I know enough. I know you're the kind of girl who destroys things because you don't believe you deserve them whole." Jess steps closer, and I smell her perfume—something expensive that probably has a French name I can't pronounce. "I know you're playing with fire and Liv's the one who's going to get burned. I know you think you're special. But you're not. You're just another girl making the same mistakes we've all seen before, except you're making them with someone who could destroy Liv's entire world."
"You care about Liv?"
"More than you do, apparently." She adjusts her bag. "Here's what's going to happen. You're going to gradually distance yourself from Liv. Busy schedule, conflicting classes, whatever excuse works. You're going to stop attending family dinners, stop accepting invitations to their house, stop existing in their orbit entirely."
"And if I don't?"
"Then I make sure everyone knows exactly what kind of person you are." She examines her nails again, casual as discussing weather. "Did you know the university has a whole committee just for academic misconduct? They love a good professor-student scandal. Makes them feel useful."
"Consider this your warning. End whatever you're doing, or I'll end it for you. And trust me, my version comes with screenshots and academic reviews."
She walks away, her heels clicking against the library floor like a countdown to my destruction.
I stand there, surrounded by dead languages and dying dreams, my phone silent in my hand. Victor's not coming. He's probably at that faculty retreat, playing married professor while I'm here playing drug mule and home wrecker simultaneously.
The pills hidden in ancient literature feel heavier now, weighted with more than just their pharmaceutical value. They're evidence of what I've become—someone who can't tell the difference between survival and self-destruction anymore.
My phone finally buzzes, but it's not Victor.
It's Kilian: Good girl. Same time next week.