Page 1 of Not In The Contract
1. In Theory
Devon
Iwaslate.
Again.
I sprinted across the busy campus courtyard, dodging students and professors alike in a mad dash for the main building.
I refused to acknowledge the incessant buzzing coming from my phone; I already knew that a plethora of texts from my professor was waiting for me.
“Sorry!” I huffed, sidestepping and almost bulldozing a student carrying a tower of flyers in her hands. She yelled after me but all I could offer her was another apology.
The clock was ticking, and Paula wasn’t overly forgiving of my inability to be on time.
My sneakers squeaked obnoxiously as I skidded inside, ignoring the burn in my thighs as I pushed my legs faster. I took the stairs two at a time, my lungs aching.
A left at the top of the staircase and right down a hallway, and I was finally outside Paula’s office. I dragged in a lungful of air, doing my best to calm my ragged breaths before knocking softly on the glass of the door.
“It’s about damn time, Devon,” Paula grumbled as she flung the door open. She peered at me, her crystal blue eyes unimpressed.
“I’m so sorry,” I panted, my heart still running marathons in my chest. I adjusted the strap of my bag on my shoulder and took my usual seat on the other side of her cluttered desk.
It wasn’t exactly fair for her to give me hell about being late when her desk resembled a three-year-old’s toy box.
“You always say that,” she muttered as she rifled through the stacks of paper in front of her. She sat down with a sigh.
“And you always forgive me,” I countered and dug into my bag. I pulled out a crinkled paper bag and set it on the desk.
She blinked and snatched the bag towards her, the contents shaking noisily inside.
“Are these…?” she gasped, her eyes wide. “Sugar-roasted almonds?”
“Yup,” I said smugly, my lips popping on the ‘p’. “From that food truck that used to be a block over. I found it near my apartment. You’re welcome.”
Whatever her response might have been, it was stifled by the contented crunch of her mouth, and I opened my laptop.
“So,” she said, her words a little muffled by the almonds. “How is your dissertation going?”
I pressed my lips together and looked back at her.
“I’m not getting as far as I hoped I would,” I admitted. “There’s very little evidence available on people who grew up in foster care; if they have any influence at all, that kind of information is usually withheld. I was thinking about reaching out to recent grads who came from foster homes. I’m not even sure where to start.”
She hummed in thought, shoveling another handful of almonds into her mouth.
“You might not get much help from the grad students,” she said thoughtfully. “You’d probably have more luck with the alumni, but there’s still a possibility that you’ll come up short either way.”
I blew out a defeated breath.
“I have my heart set on this, Paula,” I told her. “This is the culmination of my studies, and it’s personal. I feel like if I don’t see it through, then I’m betraying myself.”
Paula studied me closely for a moment before dusting off the sugar that coated her fingers.
“I never suggested that you change anything about your dissertation,” she corrected me. “I just wanted to know how dedicated you are to seeing it through.”
I narrowed my eyes at her.
“I’ve been here for almost eight years, Paula.” I stared at her, my brows pulled down in confusion. “I think the duck-and-run ship has sailed by this point.”
