The days after that first research meeting feel different.
I go to my other classes, take notes, participate when called on, but part of my brain is always somewhere else. In that office. Replaying the conversation. The way he looked at me when he asked why I was really doing this. The way he said "Avery" instead of "Miss Lane" when we were alone. I catch myself staring at blank pages in my notebook, his words echoing in my head instead of whatever lecture is happening around me.
Thursday morning, Riley's up before me for once, already dressed in scrubs for her hospital volunteer shift. She's humming something under her breath, her hair pulled back in a neat bun that makes her look older, more put together than I feel.
"You were out late last night," she says, not looking up from tying her shoes.
"Research meeting. Went until nine."
"How was it?"
"Good. Intense. The other assistants are smart."
She straightens, gives me that look. The one that says she knows I'm not telling her everything. Her eyes are too knowing, too sharp.
"And the professor?"
"Professional."
"Avery."
"What?"
She crosses her arms. "You know what. Just be careful. That's all I'm saying."
"There's nothing to be careful about."
"Yet."
She leaves before I can argue, the door clicking shut with a finality that makes my stomach twist.
I check my phone. A notification from the research group chat Parker created last night. The group is called "Digital Identity Research - Fall 2024" and seeing his name at the top makes something flutter in my chest.
Parker: Reminder - progress updates due Monday. Come prepared to discuss your sections at Friday's meeting.
Marcus: got it
Rachel: Will have mine ready
Tara: 👍
I type: Same here
His response comes immediately: Good. See you in class this morning, Miss Lane.
Miss Lane. Not Avery. Back to formal in the group chat where others can see.
I stare at the message, trying to decode it. Creating distance on purpose. Professional boundaries for the others to witness. It's calculated, deliberate, and somehow that makes my pulse quicken.
My second Media Psych lecture is at ten. I take extra care getting ready, even though I tell myself it doesn't matter. Dark jeans, a cream sweater that's somehow both casual and elegant, hair pulled back in a low ponytail. I change my earrings twice before settling on simple gold hoops.
I grab my bag and head out into the crisp morning air.
Campus is alive with mid-morning energy. The October sun is watery and pale, casting long shadows across the quad. Groups sprawled on the grass, people rushing between classes with coffee cups clutched like lifelines, that particular buzz that only happens when everyone's still figuring out their rhythms. Someone's playing frisbee near the fountain. A professor argues with a student about an assignment deadline.
I'm halfway to Dodd Hall when I hear my name.
"Avery. Wait up."
I turn. Liam's jogging toward me, backpack bouncing. He's wearing that same UCLA hoodie from Monday, and seeing it makes my stomach clench with old memories I'd rather forget.
My stomach clenches. "I'm late for class."
"This'll take two seconds." He catches up, slightly out of breath. "We need to talk."
"No, we don't."
"Yes, we do." He steps in front of me, blocking my path. His jaw is set in that stubborn way I used to find endearing. "What are you doing with my dad?"
"Taking his class. Working as his research assistant. None of which is your business."
His jaw tightens. "It is my business when you're deliberately trying to get close to him."
"I'm not trying anything. He selected me for the assistantship based on merit."
"Bullshit. You're playing some kind of game."
I step around him. "Move, Liam."
"Avery." He grabs my wrist. Not hard, but firm enough to stop me. His hand is warm, familiar in a way that makes my skin crawl. "I know you. I know how you think. This is about revenge."
I yank free. "You really think I'm that pathetic? That I'd chase after your dad just to get back at you?"
"Yes."
The word stings more than it should. Like a slap.
"Then you don't know me at all," I say coldly. "And you definitely didn't three months ago."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"It means if you actually knew me, you wouldn't have fucked my sister in your dorm room while I was driving three hours to see you."
Students passing by slow down, curious. I can feel their eyes on us, hear the whispers starting. Liam's face goes red, splotchy with embarrassment and anger.
"Keep your voice down."
"Why? Embarrassed?" I step closer, voice dropping to something sharp and quiet. "You don't get to tell me who I work with or what classes I take. We're done. We've been done. So stay out of my life."
I walk away before he can respond, my boots striking the pavement hard enough to echo.
My hands are shaking by the time I reach Dodd Hall, adrenaline still coursing through me. The building smells like floor polish and old coffee. I duck into the bathroom, splash cold water on my face, take three deep breaths. The fluorescent lights make me look washed out, pale. I grip the edge of the sink until my knuckles turn white.
I will not let Liam ruin this.
When I walk into the lecture hall, Parker's already there, setting up his laptop. A few students are scattered in their seats, chatting quietly. The overhead projector hums softly. Someone laughs in the back row.
I take my usual spot. Third row, aisle.
He glances up as I sit, our eyes meeting for a brief second before he returns to his setup. His expression is neutral, but I swear I see something flicker there. Concern? Recognition?
Did he see me with Liam outside? The windows face the quad. He could have.
More students file in, bringing the smell of breakfast burritos and energy drinks. The room fills. Ten o'clock hits. The chatter dies down.
Parker steps to the center of the stage.
"Good morning. Today we're continuing our discussion of Goffman and the performance of self." He pauses, scanning the room. His eyes don't linger on me. Not yet. "But first, I want to address something about the upcoming reflection papers."
He clicks to a slide. White text on a dark blue background.
"I want you to analyze your social media presence with critical distance. Not as a personal essay, but as an academic exercise. Look at your own performance the way you'd analyze anyone else's."
He walks across the stage, hands in his pockets. The movement is casual but purposeful, like everything he does.
"Most of you will struggle with this because you're too close to your own performance. You believe your own narrative. But that's exactly what makes this assignment valuable."
His eyes find mine. Linger just a fraction too long.
"Because once you're conscious of the performance, everything changes. You can't unsee it. Can't go back to believing there's some pure, authentic self underneath all the masks."
I should look away. Should write this down. Should do anything other than hold his gaze.
But I don't.
"So the question becomes," he continues, still looking at me, "how do we live authentically when authenticity itself is a performance? How do we move forward when we're always aware we're being watched?"
Someone in the back answers, breaking the moment. Parker turns, continues the lecture. But the air feels different now, charged with something electric.
But my heart is racing.
He wasn't just talking to the class. He was talking to me. About what I said last night in his office. About moving forward.
The rest of the lecture passes in a haze. I take notes mechanically, my handwriting sloppier than usual. Words like "performance," "authenticity," "conscious construction" blur together. But my mind is spinning, replaying that look, that moment, those words that felt like they were meant only for me.
When class ends, I pack up slowly, watching him from the corner of my eye. A few students approach with questions. He's patient with them, answering thoroughly, giving each one his full attention.
I should leave. Should head to my next class.
Instead, I linger, pretending to search for something in my bag.
The last student finishes, walks away. Parker starts gathering his things, unplugging his laptop, stacking his notes.
I approach the podium.
"Professor Parker."
He looks up. "Miss Lane."
Back to formality. Back to distance. But something flickers in his eyes. Recognition. Warmth.
"I wanted to ask about the research project. The interview questions I'm drafting, should they focus more on self-perception or audience perception?"
It's a legitimate question. But we both know I could have asked this in the group chat.
"Both," he says. "We need to understand how influencers see themselves and how they think their audience sees them. The gap between those two perceptions is where it gets interesting."
"Makes sense."
He watches me, expression unreadable. "Was that all?"
No. I want to ask if he saw me with Liam. Want to ask what he meant by that look during lecture. Want to ask if I'm imagining all of this.
"Yes. That's all."
"Good. I'll see you tomorrow at seven."
I nod, turn to leave.
"Avery."
My name. Not Miss Lane.
I look back.
"Don't let him get in your head," Parker says quietly.
My breath catches. "Who?"
"You know who." His voice is careful, measured. "Whatever happened between you two, it's in the past. Focus on the work."
"I am focused."
"Good. Keep it that way."
It's not quite a warning. Not quite advice. Something in between.
"He thinks I'm doing this for revenge," I say before I can stop myself. "That I'm trying to get close to you to hurt him."
Parker's expression hardens slightly. "Are you?"
The question hangs between us.
I could lie. Should lie.
"No," I say quietly. "Not anymore."
Something shifts in his face. "Not anymore?"
"Maybe at first. Maybe that's how it started." I hold his gaze. "But that's not why I'm here now."
He's quiet for a long moment, studying me with those impossibly blue eyes. They're lighter in the lecture hall lighting, almost gray.
"Then why are you here, Avery?"
"Because when you talk about narrative and identity and performance, it's the first time anything has made sense since my life fell apart. Because you don't treat me like I'm just some kid with a camera. Because..." I stop myself.
"Because?"
I can't finish. Can't say what I'm actually thinking.
"Because I want to understand what I've been doing for the last three years," I say instead. "I want to know if any of it was real."
He nods slowly, like that's the answer he expected. Or hoped for.
"Then focus on that," he says. "Not on him. Not on revenge. On understanding yourself."
"I'm trying."
"I know." His voice drops lower. "I can see it."
The air between us feels thick. Charged. The lecture hall suddenly feels very small, very quiet.
"I should go," I say. "I have another class."
"Of course."
But neither of us moves.
Finally, he steps back, creating distance. The space between us feels deliberate, careful. "See you tomorrow. Seven PM."
"I'll be there."
I leave before I can say anything else, before I can do something stupid like ask him what he really meant. The hallway feels cooler after the warmth of the lecture hall. My cheeks are burning.
The rest of Thursday crawls by. I attend my other classes, respond to DMs, edit content for tomorrow's post. Normal things. Surface things. I sit through an economics lecture without hearing a single word. In the dining hall, I push food around my plate while Riley talks about her hospital shift.
But underneath, I'm counting down to Friday at seven.
That night, I work on my research section until midnight. Interview questions about authenticity, performance, the pressure to maintain a persona. I make them sharp, insightful, the kind of questions that would force real answers. Questions like: "When did you first become aware you were performing?" and "Can you identify a moment when the performance became more real than your actual self?"
When I finally climb into bed, Riley's already asleep, her breathing deep and even. The room is dark except for the glow of the streetlight outside, casting patterns on the ceiling.
I check my phone one last time.
A text from Parker.
Your draft looks good. See you tomorrow.
He's read my work. At midnight. And texted me about it.
I stare at the message, then type back: Thank you. Looking forward to discussing it.
Three dots appear immediately.
Me too.
Two words. That's all. But they're enough to keep me awake for another hour, staring at the ceiling, replaying every conversation, every look, every moment that feels like it means something more than it should.
Tomorrow can't come fast enough.