Page 7 of Seeds of Christmas
“So Carter is...” I trail off.
“Additional field support,” Professor Bam says. “He’ll help with site checks, equipment transport, basic data collection. But the analysis, the write-up, the intellectual work—that’s ours. He’s getting academic credit for fieldwork, not authorship.”
Field support. Like an intern.
Like I’ve been for two years, except now I have totrainthe intern.
An intern who’s probably forgotten everything from that intro class. Who’s taking the spot that should have been Professor Bam’s.
“When does he—when do we—leave?” I ask.
“Day after tomorrow. I’ve already briefed him on the basics, but you’ll need to go over protocols, equipment, site locations.” She slides a folder across the desk. “Everything’s in here. You know this project better than anyone, Rhi. Better than me, honestly. You’ll be fine.”
You’ll be fine.
I want to believe her.
I take the folder, holding it against my chest like a shield. “Okay. I can do this.”
“I know you can.” Professor Bam smiles warmly. “You’re the most competent student I’ve ever worked with. Carter’s lucky to have you as a partner.”
Partner.The word feels wrong. We’re not partners. Partners implies equal investment, equal stakes, equal work.
I nod, but inside, my brain is already spiraling:
What if he messes up the data?What if he doesn’t take it seriously?
But I smile. Because that’s what I do. I smile and say it’s fine and swallow down every anxiety until I’m choking on them.
“Great,” I say brightly. “I’ll reach out to Carter today. Make sure he’s up to speed.”
“Perfect.” Professor Bam stands, extending her hand. “Thank you for being flexible, Rhi. I know this isn’t what we planned, but I have complete faith in you.”
I shake her hand and watch her leave. Then I let myself feel it.
I want to scream. My throat burns with it. Instead, I pull my ponytail tighter—so tight it hurts—and pack another pair of socks.
I’ve worked so hard. Sacrificed so much. And now I have to babysit someone who couldn’t be bothered to attend class, who’s only here because he needs a last-chance save.
And I have to beniceabout it.
I pull out my phone. Find Carter’s number still saved in my contacts from freshman year.
My thumb hovers.
A message from my mom saves me from contacting him.
Mom
Sweetheart, Matthew stopped by the house today. He’s really hoping you’ll be at the Christmas Eve party. He misses you so much. We all do. Please reconsider?
And just like that, my decision is cemented.
I don’t care if Carter Wolfe is unreliable. I don’t care if he doesn’t remember who I am. I don’t care if I have to do all the work myself while simultaneously managing my stupid, inconvenient attraction to him.
I grab my phone and type out a response:
I’ve already told you—I’m doing fieldwork for Professor Bam. I can’t come home for Christmas.
