I’m two months away from defending my dissertation and finishing up a twelve-year stint in higher education. But every time I get a call for an interview for a tenure-track position, I wince. I’ve worked my ass off for this—for the alphabet soup behind my name and the chance to get tenure and teach something more mentally stimulating than freshman comp. All the dissertation research killed something inside me, so I applied almost exclusively at small colleges with heavier teaching loads and smaller publishing expectations. I don’t want the pressure of publishing articles every semester—of finding something new to say in a field already crowded with voices. But after teaching for the last few years and confronting the reality of students caring more about grades than knowledge, even the classroom has begun to lose its appeal. And the hard truth is that I’ll probably need to move across the country if I want a good job in my field. The most promising jobs are in California, Maine, and Oklahoma.

Ugh.

My stomach hurts.

I’m growing more and more obsessed with the possibility that this degree was a giant waste of time. I’m either going to have to admit that I don’t actually want the prize that’s at the end of this finish line or strap myself to a job that might just be okay in a place that might make me miserable.

The sound of the rattling doorknob draws my attention away from my computer, and I look up to see Easton pushing into the apartment. “Hey, beautiful.”

“I should’ve locked the door,” I mutter.

He places two glasses on the table and a pitcher of beer, then flips around the chair opposite me and straddles it. “How’s your day been?”

I roll my eyes. “What do you want?”

“Jake said you need to take a break.” He lifts the pitcher and carefully pours. “Sent me to remind you.”

His long-sleeved T-shirt stretches tight across his chest, making it difficult to keep my eyes on my laptop, where they belong. “I’m fine, but thanks anyway.”

“What’s got you so tied up in knots?”

I frown. “Who says I’m tied in knots?”

He points to the space between his eyebrows. “Right here. It gives you away every time. You get this little indentation there when you’re trying to figure out a particularly vexing problem.”

I snort. “Maybe I’m just not as young as I used to be and need some Botox.”

“You don’t need shit.” He nods to my computer. “Is it your book? Do you need to brainstorm a plot problem?”

My eyes go wide, and I look over his shoulder to make sure no one has followed him up here. “Would you shut up?”

He folds his arms on the back of the chair, frowning. “Why?”

“I haven’t told anyone about the books.”