Nope.

My stomach churned, and not in the I-ate-a-bad-burrito-way, but in an ohmysweetgoodness-I-can't-do-this-way.

This was not happening. I totally didn't agree to do this when my shocked brain went into autopilot, must-be-polite mode.

I bounced a curled knuckle against my mouth as I glared at the Summit University dry erase calendar tacked up above my desk. A big, fat red X stared back, mocking me.

No way, José.

Not a single universe existed where I, Natasha Chabra, would take my butt out of this chair and go ask Tyler Sawyer to do the interview.

I swallowed, throat dry. After I procrastinated all day, I had to rip off the Band-aid and just do it.

A pro/con list wasn't even necessary, this was a no-brainer.

I made a commitment to the paper to get this article done, and in order to get the article done, I had to interview him.

But first, I had to convince him to do the interview.

I had to convince him, the star hockey player who Pablo couldn't persuade.

I had to convince him, the guy who made up one half of The Bathroom Incident™️.

I had to convince him, the person who lived two doors down from me that I barely talked to for the three whole weeks we'd been living in the dorms, despite running into him everywhere.

And, to squirt a dollop of Cheese Whiz on top of these stale nachos, I told Pablo I would send him the first draft by the weekend.

So, here I was, sitting at my desk on Thursday night, the deadline in two days.

With restless legs, I pushed my chair back and went straight for my closed door. I grabbed the handle, then drew back.

I blew out a series of short breaths to gain control of my spiralling thoughts.

Just do it, Nat, I played on a repeating loop in my head. Soon, Nike would be calling me for copyright infringement.

In one decisive motion, my sweaty hand wrapped around the metal handle. Before I knew it, I stood in their empty doorway, the door already open, like usual.

I poked my head in, eyes travelling from the patterned carpet with muted stains to the dings and scuff marks on the walls. On one side of the room, clothes were thrown in a clump bed and lying on the floor. The other side had a made bed with extra blankets and pillows folded on a shelf.

Across the windowsill sat an impressive collection of empty tequila bottles for only three weeks of being here.

But, there was one key thing missing. Or rather, one key person.

"Hello?" I called out.

A thud sounded, then a muted string of curses.

Pausing to examine the scene in front of me again, my gaze swept the room. I edged closer to the source of the thud and squatted.

My head tilted to the side, and I pursed my lips. "What're you doing under the desk?"

The last thing I expected to find was Will, Tyler Sawyer's roommate, crouched in the small space, rubbing the back of his head.

"Who are you?" he asked.

"Oh," I said, straightening. "I'm Nat from down the hall."

"Right," he trailed off, giving me a sidelong glance as his tall frame unfolded.

A flush crept across my cheeks. "I was looking for Tyler?"

"He'll be back in a sec, you can just chill here till he gets back."

I bobbed my head. We stared at each other.

"So, I—" "You can— " we both started. I shut my mouth.

"Go ahead," I laughed. The edges of Will's lips turned up.

"You can sit while you wait for Sawyer." He motioned to the messy bed.

I perched on the edge of the bed. This was presumably Will's side of the room, so Tyler Sawyer had the organized side.

It was nothing surprising—a nightstand with a bedside lamp, a desk with stationery and pens. He had a few pictures up and a Summit University pennant.

"Want something to drink?" Will went to the mini-fridge in front of the window.

"I'm good, thanks." I shifted to get comfortable on the lumpy mattress topper.

The suction of the fridge door giving into pressure as it opened echoed in the quiet room. Bottles clinked on the door. Will pulled out a reusable bottle filled with water and took a long sip.

"I was, uh, looking for my ring." He jerked his chin towards the desk.

"Oh, okay. Want help finding it?" I wanted anything to get my mind off asking about the interview.

"Nah, it's all good. I know it's around here somewhere, I—" Will stopped when I started looking anyways.

"Or why not, go for it," he finished.

First, I checked his desk, but it wasn't under the scattered pile of papers. Ignoring the itch to organize all the loose syllabuses, I got on my knees and scanned beneath the bed.

I took out my phone and turned on the flashlight. Gold metal glinted in the light.

Found it!

I grabbed the ring and passed it over to him. It had some sort of engraving on it, an emblem.

"Huh. I swear I checked there." He pocketed the ring.

"You're not wearing it?" I asked.

"Oh, no, I'm giving it to the girl I want to fu—" He cleared his throat. "Hook up with."

"What do you mean?" That made no sense, and I considered myself quite smart.

"This is my class ring. There's this whole thing around giving it to your girlfriend or whatever." He set down his water and sat in his desk chair.

"Your high school class ring?" My brows squished together.

"Yeah. Some people take it pretty seriously, I couldn't care less." He shrugged, opening his laptop. "But, the girl I wanna hook up with cares, and I now have it to give to her. So thanks," he said, eyes scanning his screen.

I nodded like I understood what the point of his ring thing was. "No problem." Weird, but okay.

"Do you know when Tyl—" I started.

"Talking about me?" a deep voice said behind me.

I whirled around, pulling my phone tight against my chest. My breath hitched as I took in the familiar sight.

Dripping hair. Abs. The same white towel that led me down to— I forced my eyes away.

You know, until that very moment, I'd never found a thermostat more interesting. I stared at it on the wall behind his head and shivered from the light breeze from the window.

I cleared my throat noisily. "So, Tyler—" I said, but he cut in.

"Sawyer."

"What?" I frowned.

"It's Sawyer." He leaned against the door frame.

"Right, ah, sorry, Sawyer," I said, emphasizing his name.

"How was your shower?" I blurted out. "I mean, I heard they were having issues with the water pressure, and that's a very important thing. Water pressure can make or break a shower, believe me. I'm sure you know, having taken showers yourself, as a person. I hope you've taken showers. But who am I to judge? You don't have—"

Ty raised a single, dark brow. I paused. Had his eyes always been that blue? 'Cause damn, those baby blues could rival the walls of my room when I went through that neon phase in middle school.

"Sunshine, get to your point," he said, eyes on mine. I bit the inside of my cheek to fight a scowl. Who was he calling Sunshine?

"Well, you see." I gestured with my hands, stalling. I took a deep breath and staring at those piercing eyes, everything tumbled out.

"So, really, this all started with my Mom who quit her job working for me to move to New York City with her fiancé who I've never met, which dumped a buttload of work into my lap so then I needed an article that would be quick, and there was a student-athlete interview, and my options were dwindling and long story short, I need to interview you for the Summit Post preferably sooner rather than later because my deadline is this weekend and I kind of put off asking you, which I'm sorry about, but I promise I'll take up the littlest, teeniest amount of your time," I said in one breath.

"So, you're telling me that writing an article about me was your last resort, and you actually have no interest in this at all?" he said.

"Yes!" I nodded.

His face was unreadable.

"Wait, no." I froze as my brain caught up. "That came out wrong." I cringed.

Will leaned back in his chair and stuck his head out. "You're shit outta luck, Nat. Sawyer here doesn't do inte—"

"I'll do it, meet me after the game tomorrow," he said, shooting Will a look.

"Oh, thank you, thank you, thank you!" I beamed.

"Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to get changed, unless you'd like to stay? I won't object," he said with a hard smile. He moved closer, invading my personal space.

"Nope, I'm leaving. Thanks!" I backed away.

"Bye, Will!" I looked over Tyler Sawyer's shoulder pointedly, then darted back to my room.

Slamming the door to my room shut behind me, I swallowed a shout of glee, fit pumping the air. Success!

I rested my head against the door.

But, as my racing heart slowed, I slid down the door till my butt hit the floor.

I just made a total fool of myself for fifteen minutes straight, and now I had the interview itself to do. With Tyler Sawyer.

Great.

Was Tyler Sawyer in Witness Protection? A CIA agent? An X-Files alien dropped on earth?

Finding information about him online was a major struggle.

I considered myself quite the stalking sleuth, but other than an Instagram he rarely posted on, I couldn't find any other social media. And, as for other recent articles, nada.

Was it even possible to have such a small digital footprint in the 21st century?

I leaned forward in my chair and uncrossed my legs, ignoring the squeak and dab of a marker against the whiteboard at the front of the class. My tutorial could wait.

Pushing back my sleeves, I squinted at the screen and clicked on a new little blue link.

Aha!

An article in his high school's archives from Grade 10 about the up and coming hockey star, Tyler Sawyer. Even at sixteen, he was a "young phenom."

I switched tabs to the Google Doc titled, "He Who Must Not Be Named's Interrogation Questioning."

The whir of the fan inside my laptop and chairs creaking faded away as my fingers flew across smooth keys.

Thank God this was a personal interview, and I didn't need to know anything hockey related. I threw in a couple of questions about his thoughts on the mass media portrayals of hockey and his attitudes on safety, but otherwise, focused on the influence of teammates, parents, coaches, and his journey.

I paused, rolling my neck to loosen a kink. I looked around the class, then froze.

A bout of dizziness hit me as I looked around the empty class. I gave the clock on the wall an incredulous stare.

Fudge berries! Lit class!

I hightailed my ass out of there, not bothering to put my laptop in my bag.

With berating thoughts bouncing around my skull, I rushed over to the English building. I pushed open the heavy door to the class, breath coming in short bursts.

Lit class was held in a medium-size lecture, one where every row had tables, none of those annoying lap desks. And, of course, there were no easy seats to get to.

With a forced smile, I shimmied past half a row of people, mumbling sorry's. Oops, stepped on someone's bag. And another one. A guy let out a grunt. Well, it might have been a foot that time. I winced.

I slumped into the empty chair and dropped my laptop on the desk. Cracking it open, I tried to catch up with Professor Davis.

"We're continuing our discussion of Mary Shelley's Frankenstein. If you recall from last class, we discussed that gothic horror seeks to produce a sense of terror," he said.

The clacking of computer keys filled the room, my own fingers adding to the hum.

"The gothic has two important attributes— it's the world of excess and signifies an over-abundance of imaginative frenzy. It's untamed by reason and..." the prof continued on.

Wait. I paused. This was lit class. I smoothed down my windblown ponytail. Lit class meant Alec.

I scanned the backs of the sea of heads, holding still.

"Frankenstein is a tale of hubris. Shelley explores the powers of scientific exploration— dangers of flying too close to the sun," Professor Davis said.

Found him! My heartbeat quickened, eyes bright and glossy.

Alec sat near the front with distinct tousled dark hair, chin resting on his hand as he listened intently, nodding along with the professor.

Davis went on. Yadda, yadda, Icarus, trapped cause of the maze thing King Minos made for the bull he caught his wife cheating on him with, et cetera.

I met Alec in the first lit class. We both arrived early, and he sat next to me. We briefly introduced ourselves before class started. While he'd carried on the conversation, I stared at his deep brown eyes with amber flecks. He mesmerized me with his expressive gestures, asking me little questions that I could barely force my brain to function and answer.

As a poli sci student, an English course was mandatory for him, but he heard great things about Professor Davis. Most people took this course because of him, from a bunch of different faculties.

"Mary Wollenscraft Shelley lived in the shadow of "killing" her mother in birth and her father always reminded her of this. She grew up with this sense that life and death are deeply connected to one another," he said, segueing into Mary Shelley's life.

I rested my chin in my palm, abandoning my notetaking.

Blinking slowly, my expression went soft. Alec would rock Mr. Darcy's profession-of-love-scene in the rain. I totally didn't envision the scene in my head with Alec instead of Matthew Macfadyen.

I snuck another glance. His long fingers held a pen loosely, a moleskin notebook laid out in front of him.

Reaching into my bag, I pulled out my phone and swiped into the notes app. I added to his growing pros list. Knows his way around a fountain pen.

My stomach roiled, and I sighed, putting my phone away.

This was as close as I would ever get to being Keira Knightley. Or Elizabeth Bennett. Same thing.

I rubbed my forearms. Why couldn't I dig up the courage to go talk to him?

Professor Davis moved from behind the podium, drawing my attention. "Young Shelley spent her days reading her mother's books. She was a little weird though— Shelley and her first boyfriend hooked up for the first time at her mother's grave." Odd to hear my sixty-year-old professor talk about hooking up, but okay.

The girl in front of me turned and whispered something. Her friend held a hand over her mouth to suppress a smile, but a giggle slipped through.

The skin under my eyes tightening, I sucked in a breath through clenched teeth and focused back on my notes.

"Shelley, her husband, and a poet, Byron, all spent summer inside and in 1816 the trend was ghost stories. One night Mary overheard Byron and Shelley talking to each other; they were talking about some recent scientific discoveries from Luigi Galvani."

My gaze drifted back to the whispering girls. I rubbed my chest, shoulders hunched. Past them, I spotted Layla. I remembered correctly at the newspaper meeting, she chose this class too.

"Mary Shelley had a dream that a scientist had a dream, and the seed for Frankenstein was planted," he said. Huh. Kinda like how Stephanie Meyer had the Twilight dream. Or, I guess Mary had the dream first, so the other way around.

"Can anyone tell me a major theme in Frankenstein?" he asked.

A couple of hands rose, one of them being Alec's. Professor Davis waved in Alec's direction.

"Frankenstein is a framed narrative, so it's a story within a story, within a story type thing," Alec said. I gave him my rapt attention, the pulse in my throat rising.

"Yes, you're correct, Mr. Ito-Russell." As a frequent contributor, Davis called on Alec by name.

"The creature is at the centre of the narrative, filtered by Victor Frankenstein's perspective, filtered again by Robert Walton, and then finally told by the author. The author is whoever receives letters from Robert Walton, which happens to be his sister, Margaret Walton Saville." Professor Davis paused, giving the room a sweeping look.

"So, what is the importance of the frame narrative?"

If I were a cartoon character, my mouth would have fallen open at that moment. The revelation unfurled in front of my eyes.

Margaret Walton Saville = M.W.S. = Mary Wollenscraft Shelley

The frame narrative was all about how Mary had to sit and listen to Byron and Shelley talk and talk and talk. Women sat on the sidelines.

But, in Frankenstein, M.W.S. had a crucial role as the author and was simultaneously forced into the background. Whoa.

Nobody raised a hand. I glanced around uneasily but took care not to meet the professor's eyes. My tongue darted out, wetting my lip.

Raise your hand.

Just do it.

But, maybe I was all wrong. Maybe that was waaay off. It would be so awkward if I answered and was completely off base.

My hand stayed limp in my lap.

After a tense minute, Alec raised his hand, hesitating.

Professor Davis nodded for him to speak. It was probably for the best that I didn't open my mouth. I would ramble and make a fool out of myself, and I did enough of that yesterday.

"Well, the novel is all about perspective." Alec waved his pen. "It's about stories and the importance of stories. And, since there's always three degrees of removal, we're not observing the story as it happened, we're observing perception."

Wow, so insightful. I leaned forward.

"You're absolutely right, and as much as I want to continue this conversation, that's all the time we have for today. See you all next week," Professor Davis said.

Alec packed up, making small talk with the guy next to him.

I slid my laptop into my bag, but couldn't help but send one last glance his way.

His eyes searched around the crowd. Mine stayed locked on him.

Then, he landed on me and gave a grin. How many books had I read where a girl's heart stopped when a guy looked at her? Now, that line made a whole lot of sense.

Alec walked in my direction, holding my gaze. My cheeks flushed hot.

I couldn't find my voice.

Ohmysweetgoodness.

He was coming over.

Whew! This was a fun chapter to write... all those hot guys😏 More new characters! What do you think of Will and Alec? What're your thoughts about the story so far?

I'd also love to know what you're writing! Feel free to self-promo in the comments😉Mention the genre and a quick blurb about it so we can all find some new reads. If you don't write, what else are you currently reading? Or do you have any recommendations?

Also, I dedicated this chapter to Alex (@nonfictionalex) who has helped me SO much in understanding the writing side of being on Wattpad after only being a reader for so long. 

Aaaand here's my lil reminder to vote! Please & thank you :)