His Jealousy Sent Me Straight To The Ivy League Chapter 09
When I came out of the office, Conrad was still standing by the hallway window.
The two slushies sat on the windowsill, already half-melted.
“Inez, what is going on? Explain this to me.”
His tone was the same as always—calm, not raised, as if he were just asking about a homework problem.
“Special research program,” I said. “Princeton admitted me.”
Conrad froze.
“…When did that happen?”
“The school submitted my materials last year. My mom signed the consent form.”
“You never told me.”
I looked at him but didn’t answer right away.
He really hadn’t known.
He didn’t know I had won national competition awards. The day of the ceremony, he was at the movies with Talia while I went on stage alone to accept my medal.
He didn’t know I had published papers. The author byline was my full name—Inez Eleanor Reyes—not just the “Inez” he always used.
And he didn’t know about this program, either. He had taken the athletic recruitment route for swimming, not the academic research one.
That was why, when he deleted my applications, he thought he had calculated everything perfectly.
“Conrad,” I said, using his full name for the first time in years, “what school did you apply to?”
“University of Florida,” he said. “I got an offer through the swim program. You know that. It’s in the South.”
“In the South.”
“Yeah.”
“That’s good.”
I picked up one of the slushies from the windowsill and turned toward the stairs.
Conrad followed me.
“Wait. Then you’re… not going to Emory?”
“No.”
“You’re going to Princeton? In New Jersey?”
“Yeah.”
“Why? Weren’t you always saying you wanted to go south? You said that.”
“The application was changed.”
The moment those words left my mouth, he stopped short.
I didn’t look back. I kept walking.
When I reached the stairwell landing, his voice came after me again, tighter this time.
“What do you mean, the application was changed? Who changed it?”
I stopped and turned back to look at him.
He was standing in the middle of the hallway, his fingers clenched so hard around the slushie cup that his knuckles had gone white.
“Conrad,” I said, “what were you doing at 11:50 p.m. the night before last?”
He didn’t answer immediately.
A few seconds later, he said, “Sleeping.”
“Okay.”
I turned and went downstairs.
This time, he didn’t follow.