The weeks go by in a blur. Every Friday, I meet Cain under the staircase in the library. It feels like my reward for putting in a good week of work at school, studying, acing tests, getting the grades I have to get for med school. Once all that is done, I can put away the books, let my hair down, and just be free.

I’ve gotten better at my assignments, so much so that, though I’m not the A-student my mother expects me to be, we start to wonder if she’s even going to go through with the meeting. It’s been weeks since we’ve heard anything from the Dean about the “meeting”, and over a month since my mother laid a hand on me. Things are, generally, good.

No, they’re better than that, I think as I straddle him, still impaled on his cock after we’ve both come. He’s slumped back in the chair, absently stroking his hands up and down my spine, my hair veiling his face as our breathing returns to normal. I rest my forehead on his shoulder. Things are perfect.

Then we return to the real world and I remember that if I don’t get home before ten, my mother will call out the guards. I tense, but he senses it and holds me there, tighter. “Just wait,” he says, and for the first time, I notice he seems upset. I’d thought it’d just been lust when he’d ripped at my clothes and pulled me atop him. But no, there’s something wrong.

I blink, surprised. “What?”

“Got a message from Anna. If I don’t get the book to her by next Monday, they’re pulling the plug. Game over.” He sighs, laces his hands around my backside, and settles me deeper on his cock, so that I can almost feel it hardening inside me again. “No problem. I just have to whip out the next two-hundred pages in, what? Nine days?”

“Can’t you ask for another extension?” The question is out before I remember what his agent’s extensions usually entail. Why did I ask it? No, I don’t think he’s being exclusive with me—after all, we’re just fucking— but something about him sleeping with Anna again makes me cold inside.

To my relief, he shakes his head glumly.

“Well, why don’t you show them what you have already?” I fight the urge to tell him how amazing it is, since he always seems uncomfortable when I gush. “They can’t possibly pull the plug after they read it.”

He glowers. “No. I’ve fucked them around too long. They’re livid. They need to clear the way for the Next Big Thing, and apparently, I’m no longer it.”

I know he needs the encouragement, so I give him the bright cheerleader act. “But you could be. Just write it! You still have nine days. How many words a day would you have to write?”

He doesn’t even pause before answering. It’s likely he’s been running over the figures all day long. “Twelve thousand, at least.”

I wince. That sounds terrible. But I try to keep the cheer in my voice. “You shouldn’t be here with me,” I say, lifting myself off him. “You have words to write.”

He nods and takes the briefcase I hand to him, his head still down. He looks anything but motivated.

I give him a little punch on the shoulder. “Come on, up and at em. I provided the inspiration. Go write up a storm. You have all weekend.”

A small smile breaks on his face like the sun after a storm. Then he starts to stand and pull up his pants. “All right.” He checks his watch as I push him toward the door. “It’s only eight-thirty. What will you do?”

I smile. “I don’t know. Maybe I’ll actually get some studying done.”

After he leaves, only a minute passes before I want him back. For some reason, though this place had been my refuge alone for the first three years of college, without him, it doesn’t feel comfortable anymore.

After about fifteen minutes of struggling through my Statistics homework, I pack everything up and drive home, still thinking about Cain. What’s wrong with me? All the things that I normally do so well alone, I can’t seem to handle without him there. I’d told him that once things were over between us, likely at the end of the year when I went to med school, or even before that, when class ended this December, I’d go off and find other men.

But I don’t want to find anyone else.

When I step inside, the house is dark. Carol is always off on the weekends, and my mother is probably on another date with Saul. I haven’t been invited to dinner with them since I missed the last one, not that I mind. I drop my backpack in the foyer, turning on lights as I go, since I hate being alone in this creepy giant house by myself. At the kitchen, I grab a bottle of spring water from the refrigerator and turn to see an envelope on the granite center island counter. I’m not sure why Carol would leave that there; there’s a sorting tray in the coat room for her mail, and my mother absolutely hates for anything to be left on the counters.

Then it hits me.

I walk, very cautiously, toward it, squinting to make out the name in the upper left hand corner. When I get close enough, one word in delicate block print comes into view: HARVARD.

Oh, my god.

I lunge for it at once, stopping before I come into actual contact with it, as if I’m afraid it’ll burst into flames or go poof into the air. When I do touch the stiff, creamy white envelope, I lift it up, hearing my pulse in my ears. I don’t know why I’m so nervous. Mother said the application was just a formality. I’m in.

But something doesn’t seem right, and when I slide a finger underneath the flap, I know what it is.

The envelope is far too light. There’s probably only one sheet of paper inside.

It’s a rejection, a voice inside whispers as I unfold the paper. I read:

Dear Ms. McBride:

Thank you for submitting your online application to Harvard Medical School.

However, as we have not received all the items to complete your submission package, your application has been closed. Missing items are listed below.

Should you have any questions, please contact us at the number above.

What? That can’t be right. I’d submitted everything—terrible MCAT scores, twice. College transcripts, twice. Statement of intent. I’d gone over the checklist until I could recite it from memory.

I read the letter again, my eyes trailing down the list. There is a check next to the line that says Three professional letters of recommendation from professors or employers.

No. That’s wrong. I’d contacted four professors from last year, and they’d all agreed to send in recommendations for me. My mother was upset when she found out that I’d told all of them where to send the letter. She thought I should collect them from the professors and mail them myself, to ensure that they arrived. But I told her it was fine; I only needed three recommendations, so if one failed to act, it would be okay.

Now, though? It’s not okay.

Frantic, I check my phone. No one will be at the administration office in Harvard at nine on a Friday night.

But I can make this right. I know I can.

Before my mother finds out.

I have to.

Quickly, I rush up to my room and log onto my computer. Sure enough, the deadline for applying for next year’s medical school class at Harvard has passed. I open an email to my professors helplessly, wondering what I should say. Did you fuck up my chances of getting into med school? This seems ungrateful. And what if they don’t respond right away?

I need answers. Now.

Fingers trembling, I open up a chat window to Cain. I know he’s likely at his computer, but I only pray he’s not too involved in his book to answer me. I type in: Dr. Hill? Are you there?

A second later: Yes, Addison. What do you need?

Him. I just need him, here, holding me. Could you wrte me a lettr of recomendation? Quilcky?

I don’t even notice the typos in my sentence until he replies with: What’s wrong? Are you ok?

What can I say? My heart is in my throat. If my mother sees this letter, she will kill me. Not in a figurative sense, either. Really, really kill me. She warned me that this would happen, and she’s right. I’m stupid, pathetic, unable to do anything right. I can’t breathe.

I just type in: Please.

I copy down the number for administration, then take the letter and envelope and rip them into the smallest of pieces, until they’re just confetti. I place them into a sheet of graph paper, fold it into a package, and slide it under my mattress. After I do, I look up and realize he’s written back: Of course. I can have it for you on Monday.

It doesn’t make me feel any better. Even if I can send them the missing letter, the application period is over. They have thousands of applicants and only a few openings. One of those openings had been reserved for me, according to my mother. But what are the chances that they’d hold it for me now?

Oh, god. Oh, my fucking god, I’ve ruined everything.

I’m staring into space, fighting back tears when a new message pops up on the screen: Addison? You okay?

No, I think. No, I’m not.

But I have nowhere to go. I’m trapped.