Unloved: Chapter 9

“And everything is going well with your friends? What about that bowling class you said you were taking?”

I take in a deep breath, shoving a hand through my hair as I spin around in my desk chair slowly.

It’s my weekly phone call with my mom, though I’ve called her twice this week. Tyler thinks I call her too much, that I’m “too attached to her” for my age.

“I ended up dropping it before summer, actually. I needed more time to focus on my research paper for Tinley.”

I hear my mom starting up her usual argument about balance and enjoying my time at school, but I cut her off quickly because this entire conversation will inevitably lead to a confession that I don’t want to make. Especially not at ten o’clock at night before the first day of school.

“I’m really tired,” I whisper, ignoring the ache in my chest that even the idea of ending the call with her brings.

She sighs into the phone, and I clench my eyes.

“All right, ,” she says softly. She’s called me —which is Turkish for “my little one” or “my darling”

since I was young. My dad always chides her lovingly for babying me—meanwhile, he called me jellybean until I started high school. Hearing the endearment over the phone when I’m so far away always feels like she’s wrapping me in a warm blanket. “Call me soon, please. I love hearing your voice.”

“I love you,” I say, hoping even a fraction of how I feel manages to come through. The words don’t feel like enough. “And tell dad I love him, too.”

“I will. We love you. And remember,” she says, her voice filled with deep love, “your father and I are so, so proud of you.”

“Good night, Mom,” I choke out before ending the call and tossing myself onto my twin bed, burying my teary eyes in the sleeves of my dad’s Waterfell hoodie.

It feels almost cathartic to let myself cry. I spent half the summer with my parents, but it’s never enough time to be with them. And knowing I won’t go home until Christmas is almost too overwhelming to think about now, so I don’t.

Instead, I wait for the tears to stop, wash my face, and braid my hair before setting my alarms and laying out my clothes for the first day of fall semester. I double- and triple-check my schedule, pack up my backpack—anything to distract from the pressure on my chest.

Eventually I manage to exhaust myself. I reach for my phone on the desk, where it’s currently playing “striptease” by carwash from one of Sadie’s playlists. As the singer croons softly from the speaker, I notice a text notification.

There’s an entire line of random emojis beneath it, with multiple fiery hearts and winky faces, as well as several stacks of books.

I type FREDDY into the New Contact name line—before biting my lip and erasing it. Texting my students isn’t something I do, choosing email to keep professionalism in an environment where I’m often the same age or younger than who I’m tutoring. If Sadie, or god forbid, Tyler, saw his name on my phone, they’d have more questions than I would ever have answers for.

Butterflies roar to life in my stomach, harder and more insistent. Texting with him doesn’t feel like part of my job, it feels like flirting. Like excitement and inside jokes.

I remind myself.

There’s a winky face and a kissy face tacked onto the end of that last message, but I dismiss it as quickly as I dismiss my overheated cheeks. I plug my phone into the charger and roll over to try to sleep, only to see Freddy winking and blowing me kisses in my dreams.

The room is tense as soon as I enter, all conversations halting.

It’s a weird feeling I’m mostly used to. Being the only girl in the department makes me wary, and I’m usually excluded by the prep boys who run the place, but Tyler is their ringleader and my sometimes-boyfriend, so I’ve always expected that maybe that would earn me some sort of place with them.

And yet…

“Good morning,” I say, stepping over to slide my backpack onto my desk chair and scoop my curls up into a bun off my neck, the walk across campus and the anxiety of how Tyler might behave, especially in front of his favorite audience, now churning in my gut making me sweat.

“Ro.” Tyler smiles, but it’s tight and strained. He ambles toward me, the entire group behind him walking carefully as if they want to eavesdrop but think they’re being subtle. “Can we talk, baby?”

My stomach drops. I want to say no, because I already feel a little nauseous and the way he’s looking at me ensures that feeling will probably only get worse.

Instead, I say, “Sure,” and smile, albeit uneasily.

We step into one of the small study rooms—there are only three of them in the offices, which we mostly use for teacher-student meetings or extra testing time, but right now they’re all empty.

The room has floor-to-ceiling windows, which makes me feel like I’m in a fish tank and our peers are all watching, ready to tap at the glass.

“The guys and I were talking about the cohort applications and I just…” He trails off, pushing a hand through his mussed auburn hair. “Maybe you should consider trying for one of the other tracks.”

My brow furrows, heart beating faster as I try to stay utterly calm.

“I haven’t even tried for this one yet. The application isn’t even due for two more months. I don’t— Why are you—”

“Hey,” he says. “Don’t get worked up about it. It’s just a suggestion.”

I think my reaction is perfectly normal, considering is on the selection committee with Tinley.

“I don’t understand. You said my thesis idea was perfect—”

“Forget I brought it up. Your idea is , Ro. You’re a genius,” he says, tucking me into his arms for a gentle hug. “I feel like it’s going to come down to you and Mark for the spot, and Mark plays dirty. I don’t want you to get your feelings hurt with that whole mess. I’m looking out for you.”

Mark play dirty. He deleted one of my papers sophomore year when we were both going for the same grant. As Tyler explained it, Mark was desperate to stay at Waterfell after his parents cut him off for “something ridiculous” he’d done over the summer.

I didn’t ask what at the time, because I didn’t feel the need to. Because Tyler looked out for me, defended me and threatened Mark to keep his distance. Since last summer, however, Mark and Tyler had grown closer.

“I think I can handle him. And you’re on my side, right?”

I hate how small my voice is as I ask, but I need that reassurance from him. Even if things are “casual” now, I do miss him. I miss how it was before, when we ate homemade lunches on my break at Brew Haven and debated uses for AI in the medical field, what we’d do as postgrads, where we’d go together.

“Right,” he sighs. His lips press a soft kiss to my forehead and I melt a little. “If you’re set on this program, then I’m on your side, RoRo.”