I nod as I tug my phone from my waistband and glance at the time. “Yup. Tessa should be out of her art history class by then. She said she’d meet us there and that she’ll try to grab us a booth.”
There’s still about half an hour before my next class—just enough time to mentally prepare myself for the hour and fifteen minutes of boredom that is Public Finance. At least the day ends on a better note with Forensic Psychology.
“Ugh, I’m starving already,” Khloe groans, clutching her stomach like she’s on the verge of collapse. “If I don’t get food soon, I might literally pass out and die in the middle of the Union. And when that happens, Rae, it’ll be your fault.”
I roll my eyes and slip my phone back into my waistband. “Please. If you die, it’ll be because you tried flirting with Henley or some other guy you thought was hot and forgot to breathe.”
That earns a round of laughter and a playful smack on my arm from Khloe. “Woman, I am not that thirsty.”
“Khloe,” I deadpan. “You are the queen of thirsty. You love to comment on my reading habits, but I’ve seen your Instagram. Every other reel is a thirst trap from some tattooed biker with greasy hair and a growl.”
She gasps, dramatically offended. “Bitch, you’re one to talk!”
“Okay, fair,” I say, throwing my hands up in mock surrender, laughing. I built my algorithm brick by brick, and I’m not ashamed. Masked men with knives, leather-clad bikers—some of them overlap, and those videos? Chef’s kiss. Definitely guilty pleasure and droolworthy.
“I hate to break up this charming roast session,” Austin cuts in with a lopsided grin, slinging his backpack over one shoulder, “but unfortunately, I’ve got class.”
Marlena lets out a dramatic little whine and wraps her arms around his waist like it will prevent him from leaving. “Already?” she pouts, nuzzling into his chest.
“You’ll survive, baby,” he teases, his arms wrapping around her in an awkward but endearing hug.
“I was about to take off, too,” I chime in, reaching down to adjust the strap on my bag as he absentmindedly twirls one of Marlena’s pigtails between his fingers. “See y’all at one?”
“Wouldn’t miss it,” Austin says, leaning down to press a soft kiss to Marlena’s forehead. “Behave,” he adds with a mischievous smirk before giving her a gentle swat on the butt.
She lets out a playful squeak and swats him back. “No promises,” she calls as he starts to walk off.
We all watch him disappear into the crowd of students. I glance at the time again and sigh, forcing myself to stand and brush off my leggings. “I should get going too,” I mutter. “Gotta mentally prepare myself for Public Finance.”
“Let us know if this next professor is as hot as Henley, okay?” Khloe says with a devilish grin, stretching her arms above her head.
I roll my eyes but can’t suppress the laugh that bubbles up. “Don’t hold your breath,” I call over my shoulder as I start toward the Chemistry Building. Their voices and laughter fade behind me, replaced by the low hum of campus chatter and the occasional skateboard clack on pavement.
THREE
RAELYNN
Public Finance is exactlyas boring as I imagined it would be—maybe even worse. Professor Lynn Andrews spends the first thirty minutes walking us through the syllabus in a voice so flat and lifeless it could probably sedate a rabid animal. She’s middle-aged and dresses like a strict librarian—perfectly pressed slacks, a stiff white blouse buttoned all the way to her throat, and glasses that rest low on her nose like they’re perpetually disappointed in you. Everything about her screams control. Her PowerPoint is color-coded down to the bullet points, her syllabus is a twelve-page manifesto, and her overall vibe suggests she alphabetizes her spice rack and sends back lukewarm coffee just for sport.
When she starts lecturing on how finance plays a “crucial role” in criminal justice—budgeting, resource allocation, grant writing—I try to care. Really, I do. I know it matters. I just wish it didn’t feel like being slowly smothered by a weighted blanket of boredom.
Seventy-five minutes of this, twice a week, and attendance is mandatory.
Of course it is.
By the time she clicks to her final slide and dismisses us—mercifully, twenty minutes early—I’m already halfway packed. My notebook snaps shut, and I shove my laptop into my bag like it personally offended me. I don’t even pretend to linger. The moment I’m in the hallway, I pull out my phone to check the time.
11:56 a.m.
I’ve got an hour to kill before lunch, and honestly, I’m grateful for it.
After barely surviving the soul-sucking monotony of Public Finance, the thought of real food and actual conversation feels like salvation. I could use the break before Forensic Psychology—a class that actually sparks my interest. Something dark. Layered. The kind of material that gets under your skin in the best way. Definitely a far cry from budget spreadsheets and grant-writing lectures that make me want to jam a pencil into my eye socket just for stimulation.
I make my way across the quad, the heart of campus pulsing with midday energy. Students spill out of buildings, clustering in groups, animated by caffeine and shared misery. I weave through them, sidestepping the usual suspects—zombie-eyed freshmen staring at their phones for directions, overly confident skateboarders who think they own the sidewalk, and cyclists who seem to believe bells are optional.
A chime rings out over the loudspeakers, three short bells, followed by the university fight song. I don’t even flinch. It’s clockwork by now. I hum along as I saunter toward the Union, not really in a hurry.
I don’t head straight to the Cactus Grill, though. Tessa won’t be out of her art history class for nearly an hour, and I’m not sure what time the others are free. No sense staking out a booth like a desperate lunchroom gremlin just yet.
