Not My Match (The Game Changers 2)

My heart drops at his criticism, part of me agreeing with him about my lack of motivation, the other part thinking back to all the diaries and journals of my childhood, dreams I wrote and drew squiggly hearts around, then to the more developed notebooks of my teens, where I first combined my love for Einstein with my thirst for books. My writing kept me sane through high school and my undergrad, little scenarios and science-type meet-cutes that made me giggle, and now, now, he wants to throw it all back in my face and say it’s pointless? My story kept me from being lonely. My story encouraged me to get up every day and try again to be a better person, to take another stab at this degree I’m starting to think I’ll never get.

I take another step and put my hands on his desk as I face him.

“You may be a physicist, but you are not my reader. My story is empowering for women—or men! It’s a journey of one woman who starts out scared and afraid but learns to pilot her own ship and earns the love of a tough man. She realizes she deserves love and respect and happiness. And she’s more intelligent than you are, but I digress. It’s inspiring. It gives hope and healing with a side of entertainment, something you know nothing about.” I rack my brain, looking for something to get through the holier-than-thou smirk he’s wearing. “You can’t put me in a box and give me a label and say what I write isn’t important. Writers and readers come from all ethnicities, religions, genders, sexualities, languages, backgrounds, and, most of all, different fields of study. If I want to write a book, you can guarantee the science side of me is leading the way, because that’s the part of me that needs fiction; it craves to mix the two and produce something wonderful. You don’t get it, and it’s your opinion. You lead with your head. I don’t. But I refuse to let you belittle me for what I write.” I dip down, jerk out the papers, and clutch them to me.

My chest rises as I grapple for control. I suck in air. “I wrote your paper. I accidentally sent you the wrong document. I will send the correct one immediately, sir.”

He gapes at me, and I dash for the door.

Better to leave before he can tell me he’s calling me before the committee and throwing me out on my ear.

I’d fight the chauvinistic jerk all the way.

I run down the hall and take the stairwell, my brain racing, hands shaking with adrenaline. I’ve never stood up for myself like that, and Jesus, it felt good. I fling open the door and jog out of the building and into the sunshine.

Half an hour later, I realize I’ve walked past the parking lot where Red is and ended up in a shopping center. I walk into one of the boutiques.

Shoving thoughts of Dr. Blanton and everything else to the side, I browse the aisles, and when the salesgirl asks me what I’m looking for, I almost say a tweed blazer and slacks but shut my mouth and ask her what she thinks might go with my hair. She grins, grabs clothes “to contrast,” and tosses them at me as I hang out in the dressing room. She’s young, hip, and full of commentary about my hair. “It’s not that bad,” she assures me and points me in the direction of a salon across the street.

With my savings account missing several hundred dollars, I walk out and head to the salon. Walking in, I realize it’s no Cut ’N’ Curl but is hard-core ritzy. I don’t know if I’m staying or going when a young stylist walks up and asks if I need anything, and when she says she’s just had a cancellation, it feels like fate.

She plops me down before a mirror, and I take in my streaky-blue hair. I laugh for a good minute while she gives me a bemused look. My hair really is horrid.

A person can’t change the core of who they are. There’s no sparkling personality underneath my quiet nature or sexy bombshell lurking inside my lanky frame. My identity isn’t most boring, smart girl, or virgin. I’m just me, and I like me, dammit, even if I did lose myself there for a while after the Preston fiasco.

Myrtle’s words haunt me . . .

Do what makes your heart fly. Every breath you inhale must be meaningful.

I’m done wondering what Dr. Blanton and my cohorts think, done trying to fit myself into other people’s molds of what I should look like or be. I want my doctorate—that fact will never change—but writing is ingrained in my soul.

The stylist gives me a look. “Well, what do you want to do?”