He’s packing his bag when he pauses, looking at me sideways. “You’re a good guy, Montgomery,” he says. “Seriously. Most people would just roast me or ghost me.”
I shake my head, my voice coming out weird and high. “It’s not a big deal.”
He grins. “It is, though. You listen.”
He shoulders his backpack, then, just before leaving, says: “Hey, you want to grab coffee after this? No pressure, just—could use someone to talk to who’s not a complete dumbass.”
For a second I forget how to breathe.
“Yeah,” I say. “Sure. That’d be cool.”
He nods, satisfied, and disappears into the hall, boots thudding against the tile.
I stay at the bench for a long time, replaying every word, every look. My hands won’t stop shaking, and the inside of my throat is raw.
I stare at the empty beaker in front of me, the residue swirling at the bottom, and think: Maybe there’s a way to neutralize this reaction after all.
Maybe there’s a chance.
I wipe down the bench, the same spot over and over, until the surface squeaks.
When I finally look up, Aaron is waiting outside the glass door, watching me.
I can’t help it—I smile. He grins back, crooked and a little bit wrecked.
We walk out together, and for the first time all semester, I don’t feel invisible.
Not even close.
Chapter 9
Aaron and I walk in step across the quad our shadows crisscrossing in the late afternoon like the X and Y axes of a graph I can’t interpret. I keep my hands stuffed in the pockets of my hoodie, thumbs worrying at the seam, head down as if that’ll stop anyone from recognizing us.
Aaron’s quiet, like the charged silence of an atom right before it bonds with something else. Every so often he glances over, not quite catching my eye, as if he’s trying to calculate the probability of me flaking out before we hit the coffee shop. I think about it more than once—just peeling off, muttering an excuse about study groups or existential nausea. But I don’t.
We reach the coffee shop in record time. Half-fogged windows filter the late sun into smudgy yellow streaks over the faux wood tables, canceling out the too-dim lights inside. The air is dense with espresso and whatever cheap cinnamon blend the manager thinks will keep us awake and loyal.
Aaron holds the door open with one hand and gestures me through with the other. I hesitate, but there’s no way around it. Once inside, he peels off to the counter, scanning the pastry case with the attention of a predator sizing up prey. I stand behind him, close enough to smell the citrus tang of his deodorant and the faint lingering bite of sodium hypochlorite from the lab.
The barista is one of the grad students from Chemistry, hair pulled into a messy bun, eyes rimmed with last night’s eyeliner. She clocks us instantly. “Hey, Montgomery. Hey, Thompson.”
Aaron flashes his perfect teeth, all charm. “Hey, Bri. I’ll do a double shot, black, and whatever Spence here is having.”
“Just coffee, black,” I mumble barely audible over the grinder. The barista rings us up, slaps two cups onto the counter, and scribbles our names with a flourish. Aaron covers both, then nudges me toward the pickup line.
We stand side by side, not touching, not talking. My hands fidget with the cardboard sleeve, flattening it until it almost splits. I want to say something, anything, but my tongue’s got the consistency of dried glue.
Aaron finally breaks the silence. “You always this jumpy after lab?”
He watches me, but not in a way that feels dangerous. Just curious.
I force a half-smile. “Only after titrations. The threat of glassware casualties puts me on edge.”
He laughs, and it’s not mocking. “We’re the safest section on campus. I’ve seen you handle a burette like a sniper rifle.”
I shrug, unsure if it’s a compliment or just another point of data.
The coffee comes up, names shouted into the hum of the room. “Spencer! Aaron!”
