Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Sixteen
L
ooking out the window of the engineering library was a great way to alleviate screen fatigue. After working on problem sets for two straight hours, gazing at the oak and maple trees shedding their golden and blood-orange leaves onto the cobblestone provided a much-needed visual and mental reprieve.
A guy wearing a forest-green beanie chaining his bike to the metal railing caught my eye. After locking his wheel, he glanced toward the sky as snowflakes fluttered from the gray clouds. With his full face in view, I could see it was none other than Jake Cho, looking as handsome as ever in his knit beanie and down vest. Despite the near-freezing temperatures, he had on long olive-green shorts. To his defense though, snowfall wasn’t typical this time of year. I would need to dig out my winter coat if drastic drops in temperature were going to be a regular occurrence.
As if Jake could sense me, he looked over at my window and I gasped. My body slithered down the back of my chair
and I stared up at the ceiling.
Please God, don’t let him know that was me.
For a good minute, I studied the shape of the brown water stains on the textured ceiling panels above my head, then sat upright and looked out the window again. No Jake. His bike was still there. Which meant he was somewhere near—
“Hey.”
I whipped around. Jake took a few steps forward and looked at my assortment of textbooks. “Studying for midterms?”
“Yes.” I slammed my laptop closed so he couldn’t peek at my job research and my sad attempts at writing the first chapter of my book. That meeting with the O’Haras had been a swift kick in the ass: a good reminder that I was here only to finish my degree, and that everything else was a distraction. Frat parties, office hours, socializing—all interferences. The biggest time waster? My stalking victim standing before me, who looked really adorable in his above-the-waist cold weather attire.
Go away, Jake.
He bit his lip. “Could I be honest about something, and can you keep it just between us?” Jake pulled off his knit cap, revealing a staticky mess of black and silver hair. I wanted to smooth it out so badly but stayed put in my chair.
What did he want to tell me? We had so much history . . . it could be anything. Was it about our dating past? The weirdness between us the night of the frat party? My stomach clenched and my hands turned cold while my mind cycled through more possibilities.
He dragged a chair from a desk nearby. “I’m telling you this as someone who cares about you.”
I gulped. Suddenly my ears began to ring, and the drumbeat of my heart made it hard to hear his next words.
“As your TA, I have to let you know that your overall grade dropped to an A minus because of the last few homework assignments. An A minus is great, don’t get me wrong. But you won’t be eligible for the internship consideration if you’re not at least ranked in the top ten in the class.” He hesitated before continuing. “And I know you could get there.”
My lips parted with the intention of responding to him, but I didn’t know what to say. Just a few minutes earlier I had been applying to dozens of high-level positions, and this internship opportunity at Solv was for college seniors. So why was I so disappointed in myself?
I had to admit, the last few homework assignments I’d submitted were not my best work, and judging by this conversation, we both knew it. If I wanted a shot at getting my foot in the door at Solv, a bona fide dream company that I would never have been considered for before, one that had high employee retention and always made the top of any “best company to work for” list, I had to try harder. Maybe my ideal job had been dangling in my peripheral vision all along.
There was still time to raise my overall grade. His warning was like lit kindling igniting an intense fire deep within me. “Okay, I’ll take that into consideration when I turn in my homework and prepare for exams. Thanks for looking out for me.”
“Would you like any help? I have some time before I have to go and I know the last lecture was a lot to take in, I could see it in everyone’s faces.” His doelike, earnest eyes got me every time. Bambi had nothing on this guy.
Ten-years-ago me would have said, “Hell no, I can do this myself,” but I had literally written a book about how women in the workplace were always trying to do everything themselves, taking on too much, and were reluctant to ask for assistance, thinking it would show weakness. I couldn’t fall into that trap, not again. It was against everything I stood for now.
Opening my laptop, I closed out the Word document of my book outline and pulled up the latest homework assignment and my notes from the last lecture. “Would you mind going over De Morgan’s Laws with me? They’re not as easy for me to grasp as I thought they would be.”
Jake scooted his chair to my desk. His knees barely grazed mine and my skin tingled from making contact. “As your dedicated teaching assistant, I’d be honored to help you.” He ran his fingers through the front of his hair, taming his magnificent mane in the process.
Focus on the lesson, Lily. Stop dreaming about running your own fingers through his hair too.
He went over short-circuit evaluations and Boolean expressions, and I focused intently on his words. Jake was a talented teacher, and he taught the material in a slightly different way than the professor had, with examples I could relate to better. But despite his excellent teaching, I found myself distracted when he took off his coat and rolled up
his sleeves before typing on his keyboard. And holy . . . when he stuck his pen in his mouth while looking for a specific reference in the textbook, or leaned back in his chair to stretch, his shirt pulling up just enough to see—
“Anything else before we wrap up here?” he asked while putting his books and laptop into his backpack. “I’m packing up, but it’s only because I managed to take over your entire table with all of my shit.”
My cheeks lit on fire. “No. Thank you for, um . . . assisting with the teaching.”
Jake chuckled. “Anytime. That’s what I’m here for. My job is literally teaching assistant.”
His departure allowed me to turn my attention back to writing the preface of my long-overdue book. The opening was the only part that didn’t require any research, observations, or insights. I hadn’t written much in weeks, but with the O’Haras’ book out in the world, the pressure to release my next one increased exponentially.
An hour later, I wrote a few sentences, then quickly deleted them, over and over ad nauseam. Two hours passed and I was back to staring at a completely blank page.
This was going nowhere.
And it would continue going nowhere if I didn’t do something about it.
I went into the draft folder of my email and found a note I’d written to my editor the last time I felt stuck, while in the middle of writing my last book. I was minutes away from sending it to Katherine, but thanks to her editor ESP, she called me just before I was at my wit’s end, ready to call it
quits. She worked with me to shape my book and I managed to finish the project a month after the deadline. I never sent the email, but I had saved it. Maybe to repurpose it one day. For a day like today.
Katherine,
I owe it to you to let you know how things are progressing. So here’s the truth. I’m in a rut. I honestly think I’ve deluded myself and others into thinking I have something unique or important to say, but as I continue writing, I’m feeling like maybe I don’t. Or maybe someone else can do a much better job, and they should write this book instead of me.
Maybe I just don’t know how to write at all, or I’m not expressing myself well in book form. How can I be a writer if I can’t write any good words?
I’ve been able to draft only the first half of the book but it feels like a disjointed, blathering mess, kind of like this email. I’m too embarrassed to share anything with you because it’s not in good shape. I’m sorry I wasted your time.
Sincerely,
Lily
The difference between then and now was that at the time I’d written that email, half of the book had been drafted. For this new one, I had nothing. It was understandable, of
course, since I’d focused so much of my time on my college classes. But now as we were approaching midterm season, the time trade-off was evident. Was it time to give my editor an update, a full disclosure of what I’d been up to the past weeks? Would she understand why the book proposal I’d turned in two years ago wasn’t exactly clicking with me now? Or would she give up on me and ask me for the advance back?
How could someone like me write a book about career success? Maybe I needed to write about something I was an actual expert in.
Failure.
That idea made me laugh but it wasn’t the worst I’d ever had. Maybe I could work with that. I opened a new file and jotted down a few new ideas, feeling my passion for writing return.
Perhaps I could do this after all, but it might need to be an entirely different book.