Chapter 2: Winston’s background
Winston flipped through his notes again, the Krebs cycle blurring into a meaningless jumble of letters. His eyes burned from the fluorescent hospital lights, and the sterile air smelled like failure and hand sanitizer. He glanced at Lisa, who was deep in conversation with her aunt about the merits of prune juice—because apparently, that was the most pressing topic while her cousin Mark was still unconscious down the hall.
Seven hours. Seven goddamn hours sitting in this plastic chair. He could’ve memorized Gray’s Anatomy in that time. Or at least gotten halfway through a decent nap.
"Still obsessing?" Lisa’s voice cut through his thoughts like a scalpel. She gestured at his notes with a flick of her wrist, her nails freshly painted in a shade of pink that screamed I don’t care about your feelings. "Honestly, Winston, you’re such a try-hard. It’s just a class."
Winston bristled. "It’s not just a class, Lisa. It’s for the documentary, remember? The anatomy one?" He hated how defensive he sounded, like a kid explaining why he needed an extra juice box.
Lisa rolled her eyes so hard he half-expected them to get stuck. "Oh, please. That little vanity project you’re doing for that rinky-dink production company? As if anyone actually watches those things."
Winston’s grip tightened on his notebook. "It’s not a vanity project," he snapped, keeping his voice low so the other families in the waiting room wouldn’t stare. "It’s a paying gig. And it’s actually pretty interesting. People are curious about how their bodies work."
"Whatever," Lisa said, turning back to her aunt with a dismissive wave. "Just don’t get any ideas about becoming a real doctor. You know how squeamish you are."
His jaw clenched. She always did this—undermined his passions, belittled his ambitions. He was a video editor, a damn good one, but Lisa treated it like a hobby, not a career. Like he was just killing time until he got a real job.
He thought back to his last project—a no-script video for a local brewery, all slow-motion shots of beer being poured and close-ups of condensation on the glass. Simple, but satisfying. And it paid the rent.
A spark of inspiration hit him. Maybe he could incorporate some of this biology stuff into his next project. A time-lapse of cell division, set to music? He pulled out his phone, fingers flying over the screen as he sketched out a rough storyboard.
Lisa’s aunt shot him a look that could curdle milk. He ignored her.
"You know," Lisa said, her voice dripping with enough sarcasm to drown a small animal, "the only reason you’re even taking this biology class is because you think it’ll make you look ‘intellectual’ for your little video."
Winston slammed his phone down hard enough to make the plastic chair rattle. "That’s bullshit, Lisa. I’m genuinely interested in the subject matter. And for your information, the production company is small, but they’re really good at what they do."
He stood up, pacing the waiting room like a caged animal. "They trust me to create content that’s both informative and engaging. Something you clearly don’t think I’m capable of."
Lisa’s eyes narrowed. "Oh, so now I’m holding you back? Is that what you’re saying?" Her voice rose, sharp enough to draw the attention of the other families.
Winston exhaled through his nose. "I’m saying," he replied, his voice tight, "that maybe, just maybe, you could try supporting my interests instead of constantly shitting on them." He grabbed his bag and stormed out of the waiting room, leaving Lisa and her family staring after him.
The antiseptic smell of the hospital suddenly felt suffocating.
Winston shoved through the sliding doors, gulping in the marginally fresher air of the parking lot. He slumped onto a bench near the ambulance bay, the metal cold against his thighs even through his jeans.
His laptop practically burned his fingers as he yanked it from his bag. The screen flickered to life, illuminating his haggard face in the dim evening light. His script document stared back at him, the cursor blinking accusingly between two paragraphs about the endocrine system.
"Vanity project my ass," he muttered, cracking his knuckles. The distant wail of an approaching ambulance underscored his irritation.
The documentary wasn't just some hobby - the production company had already secured distribution to twelve elementary schools. He pictured Mrs. Henderson's third grade class watching his film, their sticky fingers clutching juice boxes as they learned about white blood cells.
He needed to make mitochondria exciting for eight-year-olds. No pressure.
His fingers flew across the keyboard. "Meet your cells - the tiny workers keeping you alive!" he typed, then immediately backspaced. Too patronizing. The hospital's exterior lights flickered on, casting long shadows across his screen.
A memory surfaced - his six-year-old self utterly captivated by a PBS special about the solar system. That sense of wonder was what he needed to capture. He began typing again, faster now, weaving in interview clips from the pediatrician they'd filmed last week.
"Your body is like the coolest science experiment ever," he murmured as he typed. Somewhere behind him, a car alarm started blaring. He didn't flinch.
The script was coming together - animated red blood cells as delivery trucks, neurons firing like text messages. He paused, chewing his lip. It needed...something more. A kid in the interviews had asked why we get goosebumps. That was gold.
His watch buzzed. 6:47 PM. He'd been out here nearly an hour. Inside, Lisa was probably sharpening her knives.
He kept typing. Fuck it. This was his shot. The adrenaline rush reminded him of late nights editing in college, when the work consumed him completely. He added a segment about the brain's creativity, how it let kids imagine dragons and spaceships and-
"ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME?"
Lisa's shriek cut through the parking lot like a scalpel. Winston barely managed to save his document before she snatched at his laptop.
"You're out here working?" she spat, her scrubs wrinkled and her ponytail coming undone. "Mark just woke up from surgery and you're- what, writing fucking fanfiction about body parts?"
Winston snapped the laptop shut. "It's not fanfiction, Lisa. It's my job. The deadline's tomorrow."
Lisa's laugh could've frozen lava. "Your job. Right. The one that pays in exposure and free granola bars." She crossed her arms. "Winston stood, towering over her. "I like my work, okay? It's stressful but I love it. I've wanted this since before I even knew you.”
The words hung between them. Lisa's nostrils flared. Winston took a breath, softening his tone. "Look...I know you're miserable at the clinic. I couldn't do that - come back every day to a place that made me that unhappy." He met her eyes. "What keeps you going back?"
Lisa blinked like he'd asked her to explain quantum physics. Her mouth opened, closed, then opened again. "Because...I have to?" She said it like it was the most obvious thing in the world.
“Okay well I’m glad you went there; because in addition to this being a kickass project, it’s also $80-FUCKING-thousand dollar project, and we’ll have 3 more if this goes well,” he said very bluntly to her. “ And also for the record I make more than you now.
So maybe stop acting like my job is some cute little hobby.” The words hung in the air like a bad smell. Winston immediately regretted saying it, but damn if it didn’t feel good watching Lisa’s carefully constructed superiority crack like thin ice.
Lisa’s face did something complicated between a sneer and a wince. “Eighty…what?” Her voice came out strangled. “I thought this was just some…side thing.” Her manicured nails dug into her scrubs. “Why the hell didn’t you tell me?”
Winston shrugged, picking at a loose thread on his jeans. “I did!!!” He laughed. “Remember? On the phone when you were on your way to your aunt’s and you were pissed off at your sister for not calling you back because she wanted to spend time with her new boyfriend?”
Lisa’s mouth opened and closed like a fish. The hospital parking lot lights flickered overhead, casting jagged shadows across her face. “But…the clinic,” she stammered, “it’s stable. It’s a real career.”
“Yeah well I make more and I’m happier,” Winston shot back. The words tasted bitter even as they thrilled him. Lisa flinched like he’d slapped her.
Before she could retort, the automatic doors hissed open. Aunt Carol barreled out like a linebacker in a floral muumuu. “Lisa! Mark’s awake!” She grabbed Lisa’s arm, oblivious to the tension. “He’s asking for you by name, sweetie!”
Lisa’s anger evaporated instantly. “Is he in pain?” She turned toward the hospital, already stepping away. “What did the doctor say?”
Aunt Carol waved a dismissive hand. “Oh you know men, whining about the IV like it’s torture.” She tugged Lisa toward the doors. “Come on, he needs his favorite cousin.”
Lisa hesitated, shooting Winston a look that could curdle milk. “We’re not done,” she muttered before letting Aunt Carol drag her inside.
The sliding doors wheezed shut behind them. Winston exhaled, the fight draining out of him. The parking lot smelled like gasoline and regret.
His phone buzzed. Michelle’s name flashed on the screen with a single emoji: a winking face. His stomach did a backflip.
Another buzz. A message: "Stacks. Tonight. 10 pm. 😉"
Winston’s thumb hovered over the screen. Somewhere inside, Lisa was probably holding Mark’s hand and glaring at the heart monitor like it had personally offended her.
He typed three letters: "Yes."
Send.
The guilt hit immediately, hot and sour in his throat. He shoved his phone in his pocket like it was on fire.
Across the parking lot, an ambulance wailed to life. Winston watched its red lights spin, painting the asphalt in flashes of crimson. Appropriate.
The hospital parking lot smelled like hot asphalt and bad decisions as Winston trudged toward his car. His fingers twitched toward his phone—Michelle's text still burned in his pocket like an illicit love letter. He needed an excuse. A good one.
Lisa knew his work schedule better than he did. The "late night editing" lie was dead on arrival.
He could claim he needed alone time, but Lisa would just show up with chamomile tea and unsolicited back rubs. The thought made his skin crawl.
His car door creaked like an old man's joints when he opened it. The leather seats still held the day's heat, sticking to his thighs through his jeans.
Dave.
Dave from high school—lives in Portland now, works in IT. Lisa had never met him. Winston grinned, turning the key in the ignition. Perfect.
The engine coughed to life just as his phone buzzed. Lisa: "We need to talk about what you said."
Winston groaned, tossing the phone onto the passenger seat. The steering wheel was slick under his palms as he pulled out of the lot.
Traffic crawled. His AC wheezed lukewarm air that smelled vaguely of feet.
He could already hear Lisa's voice—"Why can't I come meet Dave?"—and his stomach twisted.
His apartment complex loomed ahead, its beige exterior bathed in the sickly orange glow of streetlights. Lisa's car sat in his usual spot like a bad omen.
Winston took a deep breath, running through his story one last time.
The apartment smelled like burnt popcorn and Lisa's vanilla body spray when he stepped inside. She stood in the kitchen, arms crossed, one foot tapping.
"So," she said, voice sharp enough to cut glass, "about what you said in the parking lot—"
Winston held up a hand. "Lisa, I'm sorry." He injected just the right amount of rasp into his voice. "I was stressed about the deadline. Feeling unappreciated."
Lisa's shoulders dropped half an inch. "It's okay," she said, though her tone suggested otherwise. "I was just surprised you never mentioned the money."
Bingo.
Winston shrugged, shoving his hands in his pockets. "Yeah, well...actually, speaking of old news, Dave called earlier." He forced a chuckle. "Dude's in town for one night. Wants to grab a beer."
Lisa's eyebrow arched. "Dave?"
"High school friend," Winston said, grabbing a water bottle from the fridge. "IT guy. You wouldn't know him."
Lisa's lips pursed. "Why can't I come?"
Winston nearly choked on his water. "Oh, uh—guy stuff, you know? Plus he's staying way out in the suburbs." He waved vaguely eastward.
Lisa studied him for a long moment. Winston could practically hear the gears turning.
Finally, she sighed. "Fine. But you owe me date night this weekend."
Winston nodded, already mentally packing his toothbrush for Michelle's place. "Deal."
The microwave clock read 8:17.
He had a hour and forty-three minutes until the stacks.
The countdown began.
Winston watched Lisa's taillights disappear around the corner, her final wave through the rearview mirror more of a middle finger than a goodbye. The moment her car vanished, he slammed the apartment door so hard a framed photo of them at the beach clattered to the floor—glass shattering across the hardwood like his rapidly dissolving self-control.
"Fuck," he muttered, staring at the broken frame. Their smiling faces now bisected by a jagged crack. Poetic.
He peeled off his sweat-damp shirt with a single violent motion, flinging it toward the hamper and missing spectacularly. The fabric landed on his cactus plant instead—fitting, since everything today had been one giant prick. Michelle's text burned in his pocket, a five-alarm fire he couldn't ignore.
9:42 glowed red on the microwave. Winston's knee bounced like it was trying to escape his body. He needed to move. Needed to sweat out the Lisa-shaped toxin coursing through his veins before he did something monumentally stupid. Like show up to the library smelling like desperation and bad decisions.
Gym bag. Shoes. Keys. Out the door in under ninety seconds—a personal best.
The stairwell smelled like weed and poor life choices. Winston took the steps two at a time, his sneakers slapping against concrete in a rhythm that matched his racing heart. Each flight dumped another layer of tension from his shoulders. By the third floor, he was practically floating.
Outside, the night air hit like a slap. Winston broke into a sprint, his feet pounding pavement in time with the blood roaring in his ears. Past the 24-hour laundromat where a guy in a bathrobe was arguing with a washing machine. Past the bodega where he and Lisa had their first fight over whether jalapeños belonged on pizza (they did, and Lisa was wrong).
The gym's neon sign buzzed like an angry hornet. Winston shoved through the doors, the familiar stench of bleach and stale sweat wrapping around him like a hug from a wrestler. The front desk guy—Mario, according to his nametag—barely glanced up from his vape pen. "Yo, you good bro? You look like you're about to murder someone."
"Just cardio," Winston panted, already halfway to the treadmills.
He picked the machine in the corner—the one with the wobbly belt that threatened to launch you through the window if you went above 6.0. Perfect. Winston punched in 7.5 and held on for dear life.
The first five minutes were agony. The next ten were transcendence. His legs burned, his lungs screamed, and suddenly Lisa's bullshit was just background noise. Sweat poured down his temples, dripped off his nose, soaked through his shirt. He didn't care. He was a goddamn machine.
At minute twenty-eight, his phone buzzed in the cupholder. Michelle: "U ghosting me or what?"
Winston grinned, upped the speed to 8.0. Let her wait. The belt whined in protest beneath his sneakers.
By minute forty-five, he was a puddle of human regret. His shirt clung to his back like a second skin. His hair was a disaster. And yet—he felt amazing. Like he'd sweat out every ounce of bullshit the day had thrown at him.
He grabbed his water bottle, chugged half of it in one go. The clock above the weight racks read 10:35. Shit. Late.
The night air was cooler now, crisp against his overheated skin. Winston jogged toward campus, his gym bag slapping against his hip. The library loomed ahead, its Gothic spires cutting into the night sky like stone knives.
Through the heavy oak doors. Past the security guard snoring at his desk. Into the stacks where the air smelled like dust and possibility.
And there she was.
Michelle leaned against the water fountain, her back to him, hips cocked at an angle that should be illegal. Those leggings—Jesus Christ—painted onto her like liquid sin. And peeking above the waistband? A thin strip of black lace, barely there, whispering secrets about what lay beneath.
Winston's mouth went dry. His pulse, which had finally settled, kicked back into overdrive.
Michelle turned, slow as molasses, a smirk playing on her lips. "Well look what the cat dragged in." Her eyes raked over him, lingering on his damp shirt. "You're sweaty."
"Observant," Winston managed, his voice rough.
Michelle stepped closer, close enough that he could count the freckles dusting her nose. "I like it," she murmured, fingers ghosting over his collarbone. "All that...pent-up energy." Her grin turned feral. "Let's put it to good use."
The overhead lights flickered. Somewhere in the stacks, a book fell with a thud.
Winston flinched. Michelle just grinned, her fingers tightening around his wrist as she pulled him deeper into the labyrinth of shelves. "Relax, Casanova," she murmured, her breath warm against his ear. "The cameras don't point back here." The scent of her vanilla shampoo mixed with the musk of old paper as she led him past Philosophy and Religion—straight to the dusty alcove behind Erotic Art.
Winston's knees hit the armchair first—some relic from the 70s with crushed velvet that smelled like cigarettes and bad decisions. The springs groaned beneath him like a disappointed parent. Michelle perched on the edge of the reading table, her legs swinging, the toe of her sneaker brushing his thigh. "So," she drawled, popping the 'o', "you look like a man who's about to confess to murder."
Silence. The kind that pressed against Winston's eardrums. He could hear his own pulse, could feel the sweat cooling on his lower back. He wanted to talk about sex—needed to—but the words were lodged behind his teeth like shrapnel. Michelle tilted her head, her curls catching the flickering lamplight. "Oh my god," she breathed, eyes widening with delight. "You do want to talk about sex."
"Maybe," Winston croaked. Then, quieter: "Yes."
Michelle's sneaker dug into his thigh—not painful, just present. "But?"
"But talking is all we're doing," Winston said, too fast. "Just talking. That's it."
Michelle held up three fingers. "Scout's honor." She paused. "Well, former Girl Scout. Got kicked out for teaching the troop how to make bongs from apples." She leaned in, close enough that he could count her freckles. "So. What do you wanna know?"
Winston's palms were damp. He wiped them on his jeans. "What's it...supposed to feel like?" The question hung between them, pathetic and raw.
Michelle didn't laugh. Just studied him, her gaze tracing the flush creeping up his neck. "First time?" she guessed.
Winston nodded.
"Me too." Michelle's grin turned wicked. "But I've done my research. Like, a lot." She swung her legs, her sneaker brushing his knee. "Tell me your deepest, darkest sexual desire, Winston. I promise not to judge."
The overhead light buzzed. Winston swallowed. "I like...confidence," he admitted. "Someone who knows what they want."
Michelle's eyes gleamed. "Oh honey, you're playing with fire." She twirled a curl around her finger. "There was this guy last summer—total himbo. Could bench press me but thought mitochondria was a Pokémon." Her laugh was low, throaty. "We didn't fuck, but Jesus, the things I let him do with his tongue—"
Winston's jeans were suddenly too tight.
Michelle noticed. Of course she did. Her smile turned feline. "Okay, real talk time." She leaned in, her whisper a hot brand against his ear. "I'm obsessed with anal play."
Winston choked.
"Never tried it," Michelle continued, her knee bumping his. "But the idea? Fuck." She bit her lip. "What about you? Ever stuck anything up your ass, Winston?"
The air left his lungs in a rush. "No," he managed. "But I've...thought about it."
Michelle moaned—actually moaned—and Winston nearly fell out of the chair. "God, yes," she breathed, her fingers digging into his thigh. "I want to fuck so bad. Like, lose-my-virginity-against-a-library-shelf bad."
Winston's vision blurred. This was wrong. This was so wrong.
“I’m sorry….i have to go, Michelle,” he said suddenly.
“I know,” she said. “Text me,” she then said in a coy but sweet tone of voice.
He turned and walked the other way, heading to his car.
When he got home, he masturbated, and came…HARD.