Page 133 of Twisted Needs

I snort softly, tucking my head beneath his chin. “I think I’m just nervous about my meeting with my advisor.” There’s a pause but Parker nudges me to keep going. “And also the fact that I graduate college in two weeks,” I add.

“Tell you what,” Parker whispers in his sleep-drawn voice. “Let’s go back to sleep. We’ll wake up and have sex.”

“Oh my God,” I laugh.

The advising building always smells like somebody’s dead grandmother’s attic. The air is stale in a way that feels institutional, trapped inside walls older than half the country’s infrastructure. Every hallway twists into another with no logical pattern whatsoever, like it’s the backrooms.

The ugly olive-green carpet definitely hasn’t changed since then either. Neither has the dark wood trim lining the walls, scratched up by decades of students pacing before meetings they’re terrified to attend. I pass the bulletin board outside the advising offices, layered with faded internship flyers and graduate program announcements. Half the papers are curling at the corners.

Dr. Plaid’s office sits all the way in the back of the building, bigger than most administrators’ offices combined. I swear the man has somehow annexed part of the hallway over the years. His door is cracked open already, warm yellow light spilling through the gap.

I knock twice against the wood.

“Mr. de Sousa,” Plaid calls dramatically. “So nice of you to finally bless me with your presence.”

I snort under my breath and step inside.

The office looks exactly the same as always. Towering bookshelves stuffed with political theory texts. Two absurdly large computer monitors that completely block Plaid whenever he sits behind them. A Washington Commanders mug parked beside his keyboard like a permanent fixture. The smell of expensive coffee hangs thick in the air.

“You lied to me,” I tell him immediately, dropping into the chair across from his desk and sparing the formalities. “At the beginning of the semester.”

Plaid looks up over the rims of his glasses. “About?”

“That political ideologies class.”

He gasps dramatically. “How dare you.”

“You said it was easy.”

“It is easy.”

“It is not easy,” I argue. “Dr. Markut grades essays like I’m personally rewriting the Constitution.”

Plaid hums thoughtfully while clicking around on his computer. “Interesting.” I narrow my eyes. He turns one monitor slightly toward himself. “Because according to your grades, I’m not seeing anything lower than an A.”

I press my lips into a hard line. “That’s…beside the point.”

“Mm.” He hides a smile behind his coffee mug. “Skill issue, perhaps.”

“Oh my God. You’re up to date on your slang.”

Plaid chuckles to himself before finally pushing his glasses up onto the top of his head. He leans back in his chair, folding his hands over his stomach. “So,” he says. “Graduation. Let’s talk about it.”

The word hits me weird every single time I hear it.

“It’s coming up,” I tell him. “Pretty exciting.”

“Excellent.” He nods approvingly. “And we’re still considering grad school?”

I shrug one shoulder. “Depends who gives me more money. Still waiting to hear back from a few.” That’s only partially a joke.

Plaid’s expression changes slightly then. Subtle enough I almost miss it. Without saying anything, he lifts one hand and points directly at himself. “We are.”

I blink at him. “…What?”

“We,” he repeats slowly, amused now. “Are giving you more money.”

My stomach drops. I sit up straighter in the chair before I even realize I’m doing it.