I take a seat, even though he hasn’t offered one. “It’s Saturday. I must have missed the email. Thank you for letting me stop by instead.”

“You could have joined us online. Most of your cohorts did just that.”

“I’m sorry.” I’m really not. Frankly, it’s inconsiderate of him to expect us to be available for an online meeting in the summer—on the weekend.

He glowers at me.

I frown. “Dr. Blanton, look, my apartment burned down this week, and I’ve been helping a friend, and things are a bit scattered.” I cross my legs, regretting that I still haven’t had time to pick up real clothes and wore skinny jeans and one of Devon’s shirts tied in a knot. There hasn’t been time to upgrade my wardrobe to nice slacks and silk blouses.

Earlier this morning, while Devon went to the stadium, John and I moved Myrtle into a somewhat furnished lower-level apartment near our old place. After that, we got the call that we were cleared to go inside the burned building, as long as we avoided the basement. I raced upstairs and found my pearls under the coffee table, then left my apartment to help clean out hers, planning on going back later this week to retrieve other items of mine. All my clothes reek of smoke, but I’m praying a dry cleaner can remedy that.

Myrtle’s place was less fortunate than mine—nothing burned, but she was upset at the wreckage on the first floor. She found her journals, books, and special mementos, and we left for her new place. She cried some and cursed a lot, muttering about insurance and renovations.

But for now, things are shaping up. I have a place to stay, Myrtle is situated, and John’s new place is in the same building as Myrtle’s, and he’s offered to check on her every day. It won’t be a hardship, he told me with a glint in his eyes. Now, it’s time to deal with my professional life. Hence, the visit with Dr. Blanton.

The room swells with silence, and I shift around in my seat, touching my hair, then dropping my hands. I clench my fist.

“I’d like to have a new advisor,” I announce, straightening my spine and meeting his gaze.

He grinds his jaw. I’m sure it’s a cut to his ego. He is the head of the physics department; that’s why I chose him. “I agree. You’re not the caliber of student I usually mentor, your grades are mediocre, your attitude is shockingly lax with underclassmen, and your appearance is less than desired. I will put in a request immediately and see who’s available to take you on. I’m not sure anyone will.”

And . . . I stand up. Dick. “No, you will not put in a request. I will find my own advisor so I can make sure we have the same goals and outlook for my future.”

I snatch my computer bag up and head to the door, but his voice stops me.

“Ms. Riley, the only assignment you had this summer besides teaching was to write a paper. It was due yesterday. You never sent it.”

I turn and face him.

“I sent it Thursday.” Right as Devon was going out the door, I pushed send, giddy by the topic of researching dark matter with the Large Hadron Collider.

He slaps down a thick set of papers. “No, you sent me Sexy Alien Warrior and His Captive Earth Girl.”

The world spins and my mouth dries as I dart my eyes from my manuscript, then back to his tight face. My hands clutch the back of the chair, and I inhale a deep breath. “Now that I hear it out loud, the title is a bit too on the nose.”

He flushes. “Ms. Riley! You are not a serious student! You’ve spent your summer writing science fiction, not science fact. This”—he picks up the papers and tosses them in the trash—“is utter nonsense.”

“Obviously you didn’t read the chapter about Vureck repairing his laser beam using my fundamental knowledge of quantum theory, Dr. Blanton, so I beg to differ. My book isn’t just fiction. It’s written for people who appreciate science facts with their romance.”

“Ah!” He points down at the trash. “Romance? That’s what you call this drivel? It’s the most ridiculous application of a student’s bright mind that I’ve encountered. You’re blowing your chance at a doctorate with this hogwash. Do you think your work will ever see the light of day in a serious publishing house?” he huffs.

“How do you know?”

He crosses his arms. “I can read, Ms. Riley. I thought your story was your paper. I read the first page and thumbed through the rest. Well, after that, it all made sense—your lack of motivation, your increasing distractedness, your horrible attitude. You don’t have the focus it takes to be part of this esteemed program.”

My heart drops at his criticism, part of me agreeing with him about my lack of motivation, the other part thinking back to all the diaries and journals of my childhood, dreams I wrote and drew squiggly hearts around, then to the more developed notebooks of my teens, where I first combined my love for Einstein with my thirst for books. My writing kept me sane through high school and my undergrad, little scenarios and science-type meet-cutes that made me giggle, and now, now, he wants to throw it all back in my face and say it’s pointless? My story kept me from being lonely. My story encouraged me to get up every day and try again to be a better person, to take another stab at this degree I’m starting to think I’ll never get.

I take another step and put my hands on his desk as I face him.

“You may be a physicist, but you are not my reader. My story is empowering for women—or men! It’s a journey of one woman who starts out scared and afraid but learns to pilot her own ship and earns the love of a tough man. She realizes she deserves love and respect and happiness. And she’s more intelligent than you are, but I digress. It’s inspiring. It gives hope and healing with a side of entertainment, something you know nothing about.” I rack my brain, looking for something to get through the holier-than-thou smirk he’s wearing. “You can’t put me in a box and give me a label and say what I write isn’t important. Writers and readers come from all ethnicities, religions, genders, sexualities, languages, backgrounds, and, most of all, different fields of study. If I want to write a book, you can guarantee the science side of me is leading the way, because that’s the part of me that needs fiction; it craves to mix the two and produce something wonderful. You don’t get it, and it’s your opinion. You lead with your head. I don’t. But I refuse to let you belittle me for what I write.” I dip down, jerk out the papers, and clutch them to me.

My chest rises as I grapple for control. I suck in air. “I wrote your paper. I accidentally sent you the wrong document. I will send the correct one immediately, sir.”

He gapes at me, and I dash for the door.

Better to leave before he can tell me he’s calling me before the committee and throwing me out on my ear.

I’d fight the chauvinistic jerk all the way.

I run down the hall and take the stairwell, my brain racing, hands shaking with adrenaline. I’ve never stood up for myself like that, and Jesus, it felt good. I fling open the door and jog out of the building and into the sunshine.

Half an hour later, I realize I’ve walked past the parking lot where Red is and ended up in a shopping center. I walk into one of the boutiques.

Shoving thoughts of Dr. Blanton and everything else to the side, I browse the aisles, and when the salesgirl asks me what I’m looking for, I almost say a tweed blazer and slacks but shut my mouth and ask her what she thinks might go with my hair. She grins, grabs clothes “to contrast,” and tosses them at me as I hang out in the dressing room. She’s young, hip, and full of commentary about my hair. “It’s not that bad,” she assures me and points me in the direction of a salon across the street.