Free The Truth About You & Me by Amanda Grace Page B

soaring old cedar trees—three words from the radio echoed in my ears:
    â€œAge of consent.”
    I had no idea what they were talking about … or why, in that moment, I reached out and turned the volume up.
    A woman’s voice blared across the speakers. “I don’t care what you say, a sixteen-year-old and a forty-year-old is gross.”
    â€œBut again,” a guy responded, “the age of consent in that state is sixteen. It might be gross, but it’s not illegal.”
    â€œYeah … but … ew,” she said. There was a pause, and I frowned as the woman continued. “Anyway, moving on,” she said, “today’s big story out of Atlanta: a college volleyball player has become infected with a rare flesh eating—”
    I furrowed my brow as I clicked the radio off, pulling into a parking space and putting the car into park.
    Age of consent.
    Those three words rattled around in my head for a minute, feeling like a muffled, distant noise, until a moment of clarity—and hope, like a balloon lifting me from fear, from worry—sprung forth.
    What if it wasn’t about being a legal adult … what if there was another age that mattered? What if the “age of consent” wasn’t eighteen after all, but something else?
    If that girl could be sixteen and be with a forty-year-old and it wasn’t illegal …
    I jerked my seat belt, yanking it so hard it snapped upward and the buckle slapped against the window with a big clang. I grabbed my backpack from the back seat and slung it over my shoulder as I slammed the car door behind me and scurried across the parking lot, my feet lighter than they’d been for days.
    Why hadn’t I thought to research it? Why hadn’t I checked to see if it was legal for you and me to be together? I’d just assumed, somehow, that I had to be a legal adult—eighteen years old—or anything we’d do would be illegal.
    But maybe your line of thinking was right. Maybe once you weren’t my professor, and that non-fraternization policy didn’t stand between us … maybe it would all be okay, maybe I could tell you the truth.
    It was a ten-minute walk from the far flung edges of the parking lot to the library, but I don’t remember any of it—not the winding concrete pathways and certainly not the dew-covered shrubs I must have brushed into, given that my sleeves and jeans were tinged with water by the time I slipped through the glass doors of the library, walked across the wide expanse of floor, and made my way up the curving staircase to where the computers were.
    I was supposed be in English class in three and a half minutes, but I couldn’t bring myself to care. It was like I was staring at my dream as it dangled low on the branch … and I was about to find out if I was allowed to grab it.
    I walked past the first several bays of computers and around the corner, to where things were quieter and only three students were at the dozen or more terminals.
    I chose the computer farthest from the other students and plunked down in the chair, dropping my backpack on the floor and wiggling the mouse to bring up the login screen. My fingers trembled a bit as I typed, and I had to backspace and put in my correct password. After three attempts, I logged in and the computer booted up.
    Glancing around again, I popped open the web browser, typing in Washington State Age of Consent. I scanned the results, clicking on the third link. My eyes roved the page, looking for the answer I so desperately sought, feeling my face flush as everything in me strained with hope and fear.
    Sixteen.
    That was the number that leapt from the screen. A one and a six sitting there, blaring back at me as if they were glittering in neon lights. In that moment, I think I could have floated, flown, across the room. Or at least exhibited superhuman strength, like lifting a car or something. We could be together. On