Part 2My Dead Ex Is Grading My Thesis

I was completely bewildered.

Was that the point?!

Of that entire rambling block of text, the only true parts were that I hadn’t been paid and the Professor had forgotten! The rest was pure fiction!

He was sharp as a tack when it came to critiquing my work, but now he was taking this one bizarre detail literally?

I wanted cash. Why was he sending me a boyfriend? Could I eat a boyfriend?

I collapsed onto my bed, convinced that life was one gray, endless spiral. I texted back resignedly: Okay, thanks, Professor.

A boyfriend was unnecessary baggage. I was too broke to feed myself, let alone another person.

A massive plate of greasy Chinese takeout for lunch—a complete carb overload—had put me into a deep, food-induced coma. I slept through the early afternoon, only waking up as the sky darkened, jolted awake by my phone vibrating.

It was the Professor.

I assumed he’d invented some new, truly horrifying epithet for me, so I took a deep, steadying breath before answering.

“Hello, Piper? What are you doing? Why aren’t you answering?”

“Um… Professor, I was revising the thesis…”

“Stop revising and get down to that trendy Sichuan Hot Pot place downtown.”

I assumed he needed me to pick up a package or run an errand, yawning as I said, “Professor, Natalie has the external hard drive.”

He sounded impatient. “I know! Just get down here. Someone’s offering a free meal, and you’re going to pass that up?”

I froze. A free meal?

I absolutely had to go! Professor Stanford always paid well when he hosted. I needed to eat back all the stipend he owed me.

I rocketed off the bed, threw on a random puffy coat over my pajamas, didn't bother fixing my rat's nest of hair, grabbed my fuzzy Crocs, and pedaled a shared bike straight to the restaurant.

I looked a little rough, but who cares when it’s hot pot? If my thesis was good, he’d be happy even if I wore a burlap sack.

As soon as I walked in, I heard the Professor’s signature booming laugh.

The steam from the bubbling chili oil immediately fogged up my glasses. I squinted, navigating my way toward the sound. I could vaguely make out that he wasn't alone.

The Professor spotted me and waved me over, telling me to sit across from him.

As the fog cleared from my lenses, I saw Mrs. Stanford sitting next to him. I’d been to their house several times, so we were friendly.

I squeezed out a sweet smile. “Mrs. Stanford! So good to see you.”

She smiled back warmly. “June! Come on, sweetheart, sit down, sit down.”

Looking at the couple, I couldn’t help but ask the question burning in my mind. “Professor, I thought this was a group dinner. Why did you just call me?”

He huffed, took a sip of tea, and gave me a look that was needlessly cryptic, clearly too important to bother with an answer. He always had to be the mysterious one—just like my ex.

I turned to Mrs. Stanford instead.

Before she could speak, someone sat down next to me.

A clean, expensive note of cedar and leather hit my nose—one of those high-end, bespoke scents. This guy was seriously dressed up. Wasn't he worried about ruining his clothes in a hot pot joint?

I hadn’t even turned my head yet.

Mrs. Stanford pointed a chopstick at the person next to me, chuckling. “Well, here he is! The replacement boyfriend, delivered as promised. Go on, check the merchandise.”