b a d  c h o i c e s
COVEY'S POV:

"Bad choices make good stories," Professor Monroe starts out, his eyes locking with my own for the shortest second before continuing, "and as writers, each of you gets to decide how to tell those stories. Your readers, they get to decide how to interpret them."

Woah.

No wonder I like this man.

I mean, look at him. Those thoughtful words, intellectual mind, very very defined abs.
I mean, come on.
Just, look at him.

Yeah, look at him. That's my guy right there. My Coco Puff.

"Have any of you ever thought about what might have gone on in an author's mind as they wrote a certain paragraph, sentence, chapter—maybe even a word? Perhaps, what their childhood was like, their tragedies, heartbreaks, experiences?" He walks around the platform of the lecture hall slowly, turning the thoughts over in his mind as the gears spin in our own heads.

"What about William Shakespeare? What went on in his deep and complex, twisted mind?" Conrad sort of scoffs. "For example, Romeo and Juliet's story is tragic, Hamlet was vengeful, and Macbeth led a life full of murder."

All I know is that Conrad is hot.
And that he's talking about Shakespeare.
Oh my dinos, I should probably be paying more attention.

I blink a few times and readjust my vision.

"It's interesting how you can use your past experiences in life to create a work of art. So, how do bad choices make good stories?"

Rebecca Stiles raises her hand. "From reflecting, you learn not only more about yourself, but you can help others by speaking from experience."

Conrad nods his head, chin in fist, with a thoughtful look on his face. "Exactly. So, does anyone have something—some past experience—that they'd like to share in brevity with a main theme to it?"

Margot Lee lifts a hand up to answer. "Professor, this isn't psychology class or a therapy session. Why are we even talking about this?"

I beat him to answering her, and speak up in his behalf. "Writing is therapy, far more than any paid therapist can ever give."

"Miss Jensen, now is not the time for debate class," Conrad says, giving me a pointed look.

I clasp my hands together on the table in front of me. "But I do have something I'd like to share."

"By all means," he says, gesturing for me to talk."

I take a deep breath, looking down at my hands. "I was emancipated when I was sixteen because I hated my childhood. A big house, fancy cars, workaholic parents, piles and piles of random and useless toys, clothes, things every kid dreams of—everything that inevitably means nothing in the end. And the last thing I said to my parents was, 'I hate you,' even when I knew in my heart that I didn't. So when they died last year in a car crash, I guess I learned that goodbyes seem like a good idea until there isn't a good in it. Until all you're left with is nothing." 

Conrad looks at me intensely for the longest time, it feels like years, and he doesn't say anything—I think he doesn't know what to say.

So I tuck a stray piece of hair behind my ear and add, "It's okay though, bad choices make good stories. Now I know not to let the people I really love slip away me so easily. Now I don't hate. Now I just... know."

Venice reaches over and puts a hand over mine, squeezing it and breaking me from my thoughts. That's when I realize I'm still in English class and that everyone just heard my whole life story in one minute. I look up at Conrad and feel so secluded in this tiny bubble. He clenches his jaw, but his eyes are soft, and they say more than words ever could. He cares.

Conrad shifts his gaze to the rest of the class. "The little excerpts from our lives are what shape and define who you are as a person. The lessons you learn are what shape you as a writer." He loops his thumbs in his pockets. "Being a writer means living a life you wish you could, creating characters that you reflect yourself in, devising a plot, making decisions with the right state of mind and perfect outcomes—"

"Closure," I blurt out, causing him to sharply turn his head my way. "Writers seek closure because real life doesn't hand it to us. So, we write it."

"Precisely," he agrees.

I look at him for a second and say, "But I guess point of view is what changes a story—and as writers we hold so much power when it comes to that. So we do well to ask, 'Am I telling the right story from the right perspective?'"

Everything is silent for a minute. Then Venice holds his hand up.

"Yes?" Conrad asks with an edge in his voice.

He clears his throat. "Bad choices make good stories? Well, what about the consequences? What about the aftermath?"

"That is for you to decide as an individual," Professor Monroe explains curtly.

Conrad paces around the room in a slow and alluring kind of way, and I get lost in the way his mannerisms ricochet off the walls, effecting me and pulling me under his rip current. "I hope you learn a thing or two about yourself after taking this course," he says pointedly, not specifically looking at one place or another. "And I hope you learn enough to succeed as an author. Maybe then you will be able to get your work published."

******

"Covey," Conrad says before I can slip out of class at the end of his lecture.

Venice glances at me and I wave him off so that he knows I'll be okay.

When he leaves, I follow Coco Puff into his office and shut the door behind me. "Yes?"

Conrad doesn't say anything; he just hugs me. Strong, muscular, and safe arms squeezing and sucking the life out of me. Then he says with a sigh, "Your parents—god, Covey—wow."

I shrug. "Didn't you read my initial paper, my memoir? I was talking about them in there."

"I think I have it memorized, Cove."

Sighing, I lean into him and reach my hand up to play with the hair on the nape of his neck. "They were good people, just with a lot of baggage that came with them. They were unhappy, but you can't blame people who can't do anything about their actions anymore."

Conrad lifts my chin up with his index finger and kisses me slowly, his lips cajoling mine. He's so caring, I practically melt into every atom that completes him. I think I'm falling hard for my professor. He's my new choice. 

"Coco," I whisper, tracing the god-like features of his face.

He leans down and pecks my nose. Cute. "Yes, Coco Puff 2.0?"

I smile, grabbing his jaw in both my hands. "You're my new bad choice. Promise me to be worth the risk?"

"You're mine too, kid," he mutters, giving me a tiny smile that resurrects the dinosaurs in my tummy. "I promise."

"And Coco?"

He hums, watching me, looking at me, just simply enjoying me.

I get on my tippy toes and place a warm kiss on his lips. "You called me Coco Puff 2.0," I whisper teasingly.

He chuckles, holding me closer to him. "I'm happy you're happy."

"No, you're grumpy that I'm happy, but you'll never accept the fact that you're a Mr. Grumpy Grinch so you say you're happy that I'm happy even though you aren't," I try to explain, all in one breath.

He shakes his head, a lopsided grin spread across his face. "I just got a fucking headache."

I poke his dimple. "I think I like this Conrad."

"I know I like this Covey," he whispers.

"I even like grumpy Conrad," I add.

He waits a second before lowering his mouth to my ear. "I enjoy freaky Covey."

Woah baby, calmers downers.
Holy dino chicken nuggets.

I look up at him sheepishly, biting my lower lip. "Bad choices make good stories?"

He nods, tucking a bit of my hair behind my ear. "Tell that to our kids someday."

******
AUTHOR'S NOTE:

I THINK I'M IN LOVE-----

What I love most about writing lecture chapters is that I get to show my depth as a writer. Besides all the smut and cheesy stuff in this book, I still have depth as a person. Plus, the connection Conrad and Covey have even in the classroom is so REAL.

Love you all! Please vote, comment, and have a dino-tastic day!!