“I don’t think the sexual chemistry between your main character and the love interest is believable at all. Also, that’s not even how people fuck. You—I mean, your main character—seems kind of… I don’t know. Prudish.”

The comment jolts me. I turn my attention away from the window, where I’ve been gazing distractedly as my peers pick apart the story I submitted for the workshop. Who just called the main character of my story a prude? I look around the classroom at the bored, impassive faces. Finally, I lock eyes with Dexter, who always sits directly across from me—probably so he can taunt me more easily—and it dawns on me that he’s the culprit. He stares at me expectantly, tipping back in his chair, tapping his pencil against his smirking lips. Of course Dexter fucking Hart would hate my story. He seems to take a special kind of pleasure in criticizing me. I glare back at him, wishing I could wipe the smirk off his face. His smile grows the more I glare, dimples deepening in his