The professor swap email hits my phone like a plot twist nobody asked for. I'm standing outside the humanities building, squinting at my screen as if that might change what it says.
"Creative Writing 101 will now be taught by Professor Sterling due to unforeseen circumstances."
Great. Just when I'd finally memorized Professor Daniels syllabus.
I stuff my phone in my pocket and hoist my backpack higher on my shoulder, realizing it doesn't matter.
"What's good, bestie!" Sabrina's voice cuts through my thoughts as she bounces up beside me, her psychology textbook clutched against her chest. Her smile is wide enough to make me forget about the handjob for a second.
"Hey," I manage, trying to match her energy but falling short by about a thousand watts.
"So," she says, leaning in conspiratorially, "you wanna come over and take laxatives with me?"
I stare at her for what feels like an eternity, my brain temporarily offline.
I ignore the laxative part of her question. "I wish I could hang out," I say slowly, "but I have to try and find a job today."
Sabrina snaps her fingers. "Oh dude, the convenience store near the Burger King is hiring! I saw the sign yesterday."
"It is?" My interest perks up. Walking distance from campus would be perfect.
"Yeah! The QuickMart. They've got a 'Help Wanted' sign up."
I consider it for a moment. "I guess I'll check there first."
"Sweet!" She hooks her arm through mine. "And then, after you're done, we can hang out and do the laxatives."
"Sabrina," I sigh, pinching the bridge of my nose, "don't fucking take laxatives for fun."
"Dude, come on, we can…"
I cut her off with a sharp gesture. "Sabrina, what is this? What's going on here?" My voice drops to a harsh whisper as students stream past us. "Is this like a fetish thing?"
Her eyes widen in horror. "Hell no! I don't have a shit fetish! I just thought it'd be funny if we got the shits together." She's practically bouncing on her toes like this is the most normal suggestion in the world.
I stare at her, mouth slightly open. "Sabrina, that's fucked."
Her enthusiasm deflates like a punctured balloon. A flash of embarrassment crosses her face, and she glances down at her shoes. "Look, I was lying, alright?" She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. "My roommates really want to meet you."
"Then why not just say that?" I throw my hands up in exasperation. "Why make up some weird laxative party?"
"Well, I got nervous you'd ask why they want to meet you," Sabrina says, scuffing her sneakers against the concrete. "And I thought you might be the adventurous type."
Is Sabrina human?
I look at her, trying to map out all the possible directions this conversation could take. My brain feels like it's running diagnostics on fifteen different scenarios at once. But when I really focus on her face, I can see she genuinely wants me to come over. There's something almost pleading in her eyes.
"Uhhh, sure, I'll come by," I finally say, shoving my hands in my pockets.
She brightens immediately, but I'm not done.
"Look, Sabrina, we're friends. I know we just met, but I really like you, alright?" The words tumble out before I can overthink them. "I'm like you. I don't have many friends either. So you don't have to try so hard. You can just be yourself around me."
Her cheeks flush darker, and she looks down at her shoes again, this time with a small smile playing at the corners of her mouth.
"Alright," she says softly. "I'll see you later then, Gabe."
She gives a little wave and walks backward a few steps before turning and heading toward her next class. I watch her go, feeling like I've just navigated a minefield while blindfolded and somehow made it to the other side.
"She's so cooked."
—
I push open the door to QuickMart, the electronic bell chiming overhead. The fluorescent lights hit me like a slap, making everything inside look simultaneously too bright and somehow dingy. The smell of coffee, processed food, and industrial cleaner hits my nostrils in a familiar convenience store cocktail.
"Be right with you!" calls a voice from somewhere behind the counter.
I scan the store, taking in the usual convenience store setup, racks of chips, coolers of energy drinks, and sad-looking hot dogs rotating on metal rollers. The "Help Wanted" sign is taped to the counter, slightly crooked, the edges curling from being handled.
A woman emerges from the back room, arms full of cigarette cartons. She's tall with a full figure, brown hair pulled back in a messy bun that looks like it's one head shake from completely falling apart. Wire-rimmed glasses slip down her nose as she sets the cartons on the counter.
"Sorry about that," she says, pushing her glasses back up with one finger. "What can I help you with?"
I approach the counter, suddenly feeling my mouth go dry. Job interviews always make me nervous, even informal ones at convenience stores.
"I, uh, saw the Help Wanted sign," I manage, pointing to the paper. "I was wondering if the position was still open?"
The woman's eyes light up, warm brown irises catching the harsh overhead light. "Oh! Yes, absolutely," she says, straightening her posture. Her QuickMart name tag pinned slightly crooked. 'Debbie,' it reads in faded print.
"I'm Debbie Kline," she says, extending her hand across the counter. Her smile seems genuine, revealing slightly crooked front teeth. "I'm the assistant manager here."
I shake her hand, noticing how soft her palm feels against mine. "Gabe King. I'm a freshman at UMaine."
"Nice to meet you, Gabe," she says, holding onto my hand a beat longer than necessary. When she realizes, she quickly withdraws. "So, you looking for part-time work?"
"Yeah, I need to start making some money," I say, shifting my weight. "My schedule's pretty flexible, and I can work evenings, weekends, whatever you need."
Debbie nods enthusiastically, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. "That's perfect, actually. We're especially short-handed for closing shifts." She hesitates, then adds, "Not many students want to work until midnight on weekends."
"That works for me," I say, perhaps too quickly. Midnight shifts mean less time at home with Mom, which sounds like exactly what I need right now.
"Let me just grab an application for you to fill out."
She turns and steps, completely missing the small yellow stepping stool behind her. Her ankle catches on it, and she lets out a startled yelp as she topples backward.
I lunge forward instinctively, my arms shooting out across the counter. I catch her, one hand supporting her back while the other grips her arm. For a moment, we're frozen like that, her body suspended at an angle, her surprised eyes locked with mine, our faces uncomfortably close.
"Oh my god," she breathes, her cheeks flushing a deep crimson. "I'm so sorry."
I help her regain her footing, my hands lingering perhaps a second too long before I pull back. "No problem. Are you okay?"
She straightens her shirt with trembling hands, her face still flushed. "Yes, yes, I'm fine. Just clumsy." She laughs nervously, tucking another strand of hair behind her ear. "Thank you for the quick save."
"Don't mention it," I say, offering a reassuring smile.
She stares at me for a beat too long, then seems to remember why we're here. "Well, after that graceful display," she says with a self-deprecating chuckle, "I think I can safely say we would love to have you. How soon can you start?"
"I have class tomorrow, but I'm free at night," I reply, trying not to notice how her eyes keep darting to my arms.
"Ah, perfect," she says, nodding a bit too enthusiastically. "I work from four to midnight tomorrow. How about you come in at seven, and I can train you until midnight?"
"That sounds great," I say with a genuine smile. The job practically fell into my lap, or I guess Debbie fell into my arms, but either way, it's exactly what I need right now.
"Wonderful." She beams at me, though there's still a nervous energy about her as she pulls out a form from under the counter. "Just fill this out before you leave, and bring your ID tomorrow."
I take the application and quickly fill it out, aware of her watching me the whole time. When I hand it back, our fingers brush, and she jumps slightly at the contact.
"Well, I should get going," I say, backing toward the door. "I'm looking forward to working with someone that seems so nice."
Her expression softens, a warm smile spreading across her face. "Nice, huh?" she murmurs, more to herself than to me.
I step out of the QuickMart into the afternoon sunshine, a weird lightness in my chest that I haven't felt in days. The automatic doors whoosh closed behind me, and I can't help the small grin that spreads across my face.
I got a job. A real fucking job with actual money coming in. My first paycheck might not be much, but it's a start, a way to chip away at the burden Mom's been carrying alone all these years.
The thought of Mom sends a complicated wave of emotions through me. Everything between us is so fucked up right now, this tangled mess of desire and shame and boundaries constantly being crossed. But beneath all that chaos, I still love her. Not just in that twisted way that keeps me up at night, but in the normal way a son loves his mother.
She sacrificed everything for me. Eighteen years of selling herself to strangers, putting her body on the line so I could have the best of everything. No matter how inappropriate things have gotten between us, I can't forget that.
"Alright, I guess I'll go see Sabrina now."