Page 146 of Twisted Needs

The older man. The authority figure.

“I told you I didn’t want this one published.”

“I am so, so sorry,” Dr. Keir says immediately. “It was genuinely a mistake. I left it in my office and my wife found it and⁠—”

“Oh my God,” I repeat, squeezing my eyes shut so tightly it hurts. “This is actually my worst nightmare.”

Because it isn’t even accurate anymore. That’s the thing making this feel so horrible. Back then Parker was this impossible thing in my head…something I wanted so badly it curdled into resentment. Sometimes I genuinely believed he would never love me back the same way. So I twisted him into someone darker on the page. Meaner. More manipulative. Easier to survive emotionally.

And now he’s my boyfriend. A real person. A good person. A man who kisses my forehead before he leaves for morning skate and makes me tea when I’m anxious and listens to me ramble about niche political theory for an hour without interrupting once and a smile on his face.

“The man I wrote about,” I say hollowly, staring down at the packet, “is literally my boyfriend now.” Dr. Keir opens her mouth, but I keep talking because once I start spiraling it’s basically impossible to stop. “I live with him. I sleep next to him every night. What I wrote back then isn’t even remotely representative of what our relationship actually is, and if this got published people would absolutely psychoanalyze the fuck out of it and act like I’m secretly documenting some sort of grooming situation.”

“You don’t need to explain yourself,” she says gently. “It’s fiction.”

“People don’t care if something’s fiction anymore,” I argue immediately. “Everyone wants to turn everything into discourse. Especially anything involving age gaps or power dynamics or queer relationships. I’m not dealing with strangers on the internet trying to diagnose my personal life through a short story I wrote at nineteen while I was emotionally unstable and heartbroken.”

The blizzard. It’s all coming back to me and it’s making me sick. My chest feels tight. Humiliation crawls all the way up my neck. “I’m not publishing it,” I say firmly. “Tell your wife and your wife’s friend and whoever else that the answer is no.”

“Okay,” Dr. Keir says immediately. That catches me off guard enough that I stop pacing.

She’s quiet for a moment, watching me with that same thoughtful look she always gets during office hours whenever she thinks I’m about to accidentally say something insightful. Then she reaches for another folder. “For what it’s worth,” Dr. Keir says, “the reason she showed it to someone wasn’t because they wanted to publish it.”

I narrow my eyes. “Then why?”

“Because they liked your writing.”

“Okay…”

“Gaten Publishing is looking for a ghostwriter.”

I blink at her. “What?”

“My wife’s friend works there,” she explains carefully. “She said your prose—your voice, Anders—was completely enthralling.”

Who the fuck even says that?

“How many people have read this thing?”

“Just us three. And the Author.”

“Fantastic.” I laugh harshly. “Only four people on Earth have read the most psychologically concerning thing I’ve ever produced. That definitely makes me feel better.”

“I didn’t ask you here to pressure you into publishing the story,” Dr. Keir says. “I asked because opportunities like this don’t happen very often.” She slides the folder toward me. “It’s a paid internship. Three months in New York. You’d start in the fall. Mostly editorial assistance for an author on deadline.”

New York. Three months. My brain immediately starts spiraling in six directions at once.

I graduate in a week.

Dr. Markut already offered me the GTA position for Georgetown’s grad program. It’s the exact kind of academic path I’ve been working toward since freshman year. A future that makes sense. It’s predictable. I’m supposed to go to Georgetown. I’m supposed to become Dr. Markut’s insufferable little protégé and spend the next six years drowning in academia until somebody eventually lets me write think-pieces about political radicalization that no one asked for. That’s the plan. That’s always been the plan.

So why does this feel different?

The scary part isn’t that I want the publishing job. The scary part is that I don’t immediately know why I shouldn’t.

“I’m majoring in Political Science,” I mutter, rubbing my hand over my jaw. “I’m pursuing academia.” The words sound less convincing out loud than they do in my head.

Dr. Keir notices. “I know,” she says softly. “But wanting one thing at nineteen doesn’t mean you’re obligated to want it forever.”