I didn’t want to send my essay to Gideon at all, but he insisted on reading it before helping me start over. He also warned me ahead of time that he wasn’t good at sugarcoating his thoughts, but that was a massive understatement. There’s part of me that wants to read every word of his email to Gabriela, so that she can cheer me up by telling me he’s a pompous asshole. But the other part of me doesn’t want her to think he’s a pompous asshole.

So, instead, I wipe away my tears, find a better angle on my phone that makes me look less like heartbreak personified, and change the subject to her afternoon with Wes—which I already know about, because he texted me about it the second after it happened. It turns out the only thing worse than being a third wheel is not being a wheel at all. Gabriela hems and haws and claims they’re just friends, and I try to listen, but my mind keeps wandering back to Gideon’s email.

Like I said, I think constructive criticism is for pussies, and it’s a time suck for all parties involved. It takes way longer for me to figure out a way to say something is shit without actually saying it’s shit. And it takes way longer for you to decipher a note because you have to read between the lines of all my fake niceties. So, if your essay is shit, I’m going to tell you it’s shit. So, Parisa: Your essay is shit.

Even Neda had warned me that Gideon could be blunt and harsh with his feedback, and that I shouldn’t take it personally.

“He believes in radical honesty,” she explained.

I want to reply to Gideon’s email that I think putting the word “radical” in front of any noun is shit.

Cleary, I am thin-skinned, and I know that if I ever build up enough courage to actually pursue a writing career, I have to get used to rejection and bad reviews and the unbearable embarrassment that comes from someone telling you that they hate your work. Gideon’s dickhead notes are good for me, I tell myself. They will make me more resilient.

“Earth to Parisa? Are you even listening?” Gabriela asks, yanking me out of my grief pit.

“Yeah, I’m totally listening.”

“Really? ’Cause I just told you that Wes and I had sex in the middle of a parking lot. For the record, we did not—but I thought that it would at least get a reaction from you.”