Aaron winks at me as he sits, and my hand is shaking so badly I knock over my water bottle. The cap is loose, and the spill is immediate: a spreading stain across my notes, the ink bleeding into Rorschach blots of molecular failure.
Aaron, to his credit, offers me a handful of napkins. Our fingers brush for half a second, and I’m struck by the sheer absurdity of it—last night, his hands on my waist; today, a passing touch in a room full of witnesses.
He leans in, voice just above a whisper. “Don’t worry. I won’t tell anyone you were actually paying attention.”
I want to laugh, or punch him, or both.
Instead, I mop up the mess, watching the blue lines dissolve until my entire morning is a smear of what might have been.
—ΠΩ—
The line at the campus coffee shop stretches out the door and every table is staked out by undergrads clutching laptops like life vests. Sara sits in a corner booth with two coffees on the table, waving at me with the hand not currently scrolling through her phone.
I slide into the seat across from her, setting my backpack down with a thud. The tabletop is sticky with caramel drizzle and something that smells faintly like Red Bull. I grip my cup so tight the lid nearly pops off.
“You look like you just got hit by a bus,” Sara says, not unkindly.
I take a scalding sip, then wince. “It’s worse. Try getting called out by Collins in front of two hundred people while nursing a hangover and Aaron Thompson does his best Sherlock Holmes impression two inches from your face.”
Sara raises both eyebrows. “For real?”
“Yes. And now he’s apparently obsessed with finding the mystery girl from last night.”
Sara snorts. “You did too good a job. That’s what you get for hiring a professional.” She leans in, eyes wicked. “So? Did you crack?”
“I think my soul left my body for a solid thirty seconds.” I recount the exchange in the lecture hall: Aaron’s relentless questions, his too-perfect hair, the way he made a public joke out of my existence. “And now he wants me to be his inside informant, like I’m the campus paparazzi.”
She laughs, not bothering to hide it. “This is amazing. It’s like a reverse catfish situation. You’re the only one who can solve his existential crisis.”
I glare. “Can we not make this about him? I’m the one having the crisis here.”
Sara holds up her hands in surrender. “Okay, okay. Let’s focus on your trauma. What’s your plan?”
“I don’t have one,” I admit. “I was hoping you’d talk me out of ever leaving my dorm again.”
She sips her iced latte, ice cubes rattling. “You know you could just… tell him. Get it over with. Rip the Band-Aid.”
I stare at her, incredulous. “And say what? ‘Hey Aaron, remember that girl you can’t stop thinking about? Surprise! It was me, your socially anxious lab partner, in a dress and three pounds of makeup.’”
She gives me a look—a cocktail of pity and impatience. “What’s the worst that could happen?”
I open my mouth and the floodgates break. “He could laugh in my face. Tell everyone. Post the story online. Or—he could be cool with it, but I have to see that look in his eyes, you know the one, the ‘oh, I thought you were normal’ look, and then he ghosts me forever. Or he could be into it, which is, frankly, even scarier, because then what?”
Sara nods like she’s heard it all before—which, to be fair, she probably has. “Worst case, you end up a meme. But you already are, so what’s left to lose?”
“My dignity?” I say, but even I don’t believe it.
She grins. “That ship sailed when you let me glue fake lashes on you.”
I want to protest, but she’s right.
The coffee shop noise swells as a fresh wave of students crowds the register. Overhead, the speakers cycle through a playlist of pop remixes at a volume just shy of painful. I’m trying to disappear into the plastic seat when I spot Aaron at the entrance, flanked by two of his sidekicks. He looks like he hasn’t slept but still manages to radiate Main Character Energy.
I duck behind my textbook, which I’ve strategically placed between me and the rest of humanity. Sara follows my gaze, then shakes her head. “Smooth,” she whispers. “Nothing says ‘undercover’ like hiding behind an orgo tome with your name in Sharpie on the spine.”
I hiss, “He’ll see me, Sara!”
She smirks. “He’s gonna see you way more if you keep acting like a hunted raccoon.”
