My Dead Ex Is Grading My Thesis

Texting my advisor, practically in tears, to subtly guilt him into processing my stipend.

To make my plea extra pathetic, I tossed in a casual exaggeration: My boyfriend is dead from starvation.

His reply was instantaneous: Boyfriend is dead?

Understood. Ill send him this afternoon.

I thought he meant the money.

Instead, that afternoon, Professor Harrison Stanford led his prodigal, recently returned-from-overseas son straight to my office.

His son, who was also my ex-boyfriend, who Id told everyone had been dead for two years.

The ridiculously tiny grad student stipend was, yet again, weeks past due.

Im a coward. Give me ten times the guts I have, and I still wouldnt dare ask Professor Stanford directly.

My only option was to use the classic "send a desperate text to my mom, but send it to the professor instead" strategy. I typed it out:

Mom, Im skipping the holidays. Tuition money is gone, my Venmo is overdrawn, my boyfriend is dead from starvation, and Professor Stanford is too senile to remember the payroll deadline. Guess Ill be staying here, living off instant ramen and sheer willpower.

Professor Stanford replied with a single, damning question mark: ?

My phone nearly flew out of my hand. Panicking, I immediately tried to backtrack: I am so sorry, Professor! Wrong person! Please ignore that!

Professor Stanford: Your boyfriend is dead?

Professor Stanford: Understood. Ill send the boyfriend this afternoon.

My brain short-circuited.

What? We were supposed to get paid at the start of the month. It was almost Christmas break, and I hadnt heard a single clink of a coin.

Professor Stanford is a brilliant man, but hes pushing sixty and his memory is shot. I knew exactly what happened: he forgot to submit the payroll form to the Bursars Office. Again.

Normally, a months delay is inconvenient. But now? The entire administration was about to shut down for two weeks. This meant a two-month delay, minimum. How was I supposed to live? I needed that money just to buy a plane ticket home and look halfway respectable.

I needed to remind him, but I couldnt bring myself to say the words.

Just yesterday, I had sent him the initial draft of my thesisa piece of writing that I knew, deep down, was utter garbage. I sent it, then stuffed my phone into my roommates laundry hamper and spent half an hour in the common room doing interpretive dance to relieve the anxiety.

I knew the paper was trash, and sending it was basically giving him an aneurysm.

His reaction was immediate and brutal: Piper, try shaking your head and listen. Do you hear the faint sound of the ocean?

I obediently shook my head, then realized a moment too late that he was calling me brain-dead.

Next time, write more. I was only halfway through this comedic masterpiece.

Me: "..."

Well, at least my academic rivals are probably toasting my failure right now, knowing I have a student like you.

I managed a weak smile. At least my thesis had achieved a level of lethal impact.

Then the phone calls started, a solid thirty minutes of me being verbally destroyed. He ended the call with a simple: Piper Maxwell! Be ready for the seminar next week!

See? After being flayed alive yesterday, how was I supposed to demand money today?

But pride is a small price to pay for survival. The Professor might hate me, but my bank account shouldn't have to suffer. If the hard way failed, I'd try the soft way. If the direct route was closed, Id take a detour.

As I was stewing, my mom messaged me: "Sweetheart, when are you heading home?"

A flash of inspiration.

My fingers flew across the screen, typing out the perfect, melodramatic plea. Copy. Click on the Professors contact. Paste. Send.

One smooth, flawless motion.

I stared at the screen, my heart hammering against my ribs.

One minute later, the Professor sent that fatal question mark.

I quickly tried to delete the message and play dumb: Oops! Sorry Professor! Hand slipped! Please pretend you didn't see that!

I saw it.

Yes! My inner self was throwing a ticker-tape parade. The money was secured!

Then he replied: Your boyfriend is dead?

Understood. Ill send the boyfriend this afternoon.

I was completely bewildered.

Was that the point?!

Of that entire rambling block of text, the only true parts were that I hadnt been paid and the Professor had forgotten! The rest was pure fiction!

He was sharp as a tack when it came to critiquing my work, but now he was taking this one bizarre detail literally?

I wanted cash. Why was he sending me a boyfriend? Could I eat a boyfriend?

I collapsed onto my bed, convinced that life was one gray, endless spiral. I texted back resignedly: Okay, thanks, Professor.

A boyfriend was unnecessary baggage. I was too broke to feed myself, let alone another person.

A massive plate of greasy Chinese takeout for luncha complete carb overloadhad put me into a deep, food-induced coma. I slept through the early afternoon, only waking up as the sky darkened, jolted awake by my phone vibrating.

It was the Professor.

I assumed hed invented some new, truly horrifying epithet for me, so I took a deep, steadying breath before answering.

Hello, Piper? What are you doing? Why arent you answering?

Um Professor, I was revising the thesis

Stop revising and get down to that trendy Sichuan Hot Pot place downtown.

I assumed he needed me to pick up a package or run an errand, yawning as I said, Professor, Natalie has the external hard drive.

He sounded impatient. I know! Just get down here. Someones offering a free meal, and youre going to pass that up?

I froze. A free meal?

I absolutely had to go! Professor Stanford always paid well when he hosted. I needed to eat back all the stipend he owed me.

I rocketed off the bed, threw on a random puffy coat over my pajamas, didn't bother fixing my rat's nest of hair, grabbed my fuzzy Crocs, and pedaled a shared bike straight to the restaurant.

I looked a little rough, but who cares when its hot pot? If my thesis was good, hed be happy even if I wore a burlap sack.

As soon as I walked in, I heard the Professors signature booming laugh.

The steam from the bubbling chili oil immediately fogged up my glasses. I squinted, navigating my way toward the sound. I could vaguely make out that he wasn't alone.

The Professor spotted me and waved me over, telling me to sit across from him.

As the fog cleared from my lenses, I saw Mrs. Stanford sitting next to him. Id been to their house several times, so we were friendly.

I squeezed out a sweet smile. Mrs. Stanford! So good to see you.

She smiled back warmly. June! Come on, sweetheart, sit down, sit down.

Looking at the couple, I couldnt help but ask the question burning in my mind. Professor, I thought this was a group dinner. Why did you just call me?

He huffed, took a sip of tea, and gave me a look that was needlessly cryptic, clearly too important to bother with an answer. He always had to be the mysterious onejust like my ex.

I turned to Mrs. Stanford instead.

Before she could speak, someone sat down next to me.

A clean, expensive note of cedar and leather hit my noseone of those high-end, bespoke scents. This guy was seriously dressed up. Wasn't he worried about ruining his clothes in a hot pot joint?

I hadnt even turned my head yet.

Mrs. Stanford pointed a chopstick at the person next to me, chuckling. Well, here he is! The replacement boyfriend, delivered as promised. Go on, check the merchandise.

I turned my head, curiosity instantly turning into whiplash.

I looked, and then I snapped my head back, slamming my hands over my face and vigorously rubbing my eyes.

No. No, no, no.

I must have been groggy from my afternoon nap, or maybe Id hit my head on the way over. It had to be a hallucination.

How could my ex-boyfriend possibly be here?!

Dad. Mom.

That deep, low, magnetic voiceit was exactly the same as the one etched in my memory.

Damn it. Not a hallucination.

Linc, quickly, introduce yourself to June. You two need to get acquainted.

Lincoln didn't speak immediately. I just felt two intense gazes, like high beams, fixed on my face.

Stiffening my neck, I slowly turned my head back.

He was in a perfectly tailored black wool coat over a charcoal turtlenecklooking impossibly sharp, almost clinically clean. Two years had stripped away the last traces of boyishness, leaving a man who was undeniably sexier, but still utterly reserved. His hair looked carefully styled, every single strand immaculate.

He had clearly dressed for a serious meeting.

And me? Pajamas under a puffy coat, a rat's nest for hair, and fuzzy Crocs.

I wanted the floor to swallow me whole.

Lincoln West stared at me, his expression unreadable. He opened his mouth and spoke, his tone flat. Lincoln West. Twenty-six. Six-foot-one. Just back from London.

I nodded rigidly, a pathetic sound escaping my throat: Uh-huh.

Could you tell me something I dont already know?

Seeing me turn into a mute, Mrs. Stanford prompted me again: Well, June? What do you think? Satisfied?

How could I possibly answer?

If I had known this was a blind date, that the date was the ex-boyfriend Id dumped, and that the ex-boyfriend was Professor Stanfords own son...

I would have starved to death in my dorm room before stepping foot outside the gates.

This dinner was clearly a strategic ambush to couple us up. Lincoln was dressed so meticulously that he must have taken the introduction seriously. And now he looked up, saw me, and his emotional damage was probably large enough to eclipse the entire restaurant.

I strained to keep my face muscles from spasming, trying to hold a polite, slightly awkward smile.

The older couple, completely oblivious to the radioactive tension between us, were just happily watching the pot boil. I lowered my head, frantically picking at my fingernails, while Lincoln sat beside me, slowly sipping his tea. Though we were inches apart, the emotional distance between us was wide enough to fit another person.

Mrs. Stanford suddenly piped up, I was right there when you texted Harry this morning. You said your boyfriend starved to death, and oh, that sounded so sad... But the old must make way for the new, right? So we sent you a new, very much alive one!

I wished for immediate death.

Professor Stanford sighed, joining in on the public shaming. I remember you mentioning once that you had a first love back in sophomore year. But you havent dated anyone since, so I figured you broke upI never imagined hed passed away. You should have told me! I wouldnt have been so hard on you.

Aaaah! Stop! Please!

Lincoln was my first love! I had casually invented the "he died" story years ago to stop people from asking nosy questions about the breakup!

Professor Stanford seemed to realize I hadnt actually given an introduction and tapped the table. Linc, stop being so aloof. Dont you have anything to ask Piper? You young people should talk.

Lincoln set his teacup down.

He turned his body toward me, those impossibly gorgeous eyes fixed on mine.

Then, his thin lips parted, and he slowly, deliberately delivered the sentence that shattered my soul:

So after we broke up, youve just been telling people I died?