I write the rules on a sticky note because ink makes things real. I stick it to the top of my laptop where it can glare at me when my resolve gets soft.
At noon, I push open the door to head back, and I almost collide with Talon. He stops short. His hand rises, reflexes fast, like he might steady me. I step sideways, and he drops it. We look at each other for a second that feels longer than it should.
“Penelope.”
“Talon,” I say, even and cool.
“You didn’t answer my invitation,” he says, smiling like he knows exactly how arrogant that sounds but doesn’t care.
“I did,” I say. “I answered with a no.”
He bites back a laugh. “You’re going to make this very hard, aren’t you?”
“I’m going to my next class,” I say. “And you’re going to yours.”
He leans back a little and studies me. “I’ll see you next lecture,” he says, and he sounds certain in a way that makes me want to pull the fire alarm just to break the moment.
“Do your reading,” I tell him, stepping past.
“Yes, ma’am,” he says softly, and my body remembers Saturday in one bright, unwelcome rush.
I take the long way around the quad, past the library and the fountain where someone has dyed the water pink. By the time I reach the building for my next class, my resolve is back with a vengeance. I take a seat in the back row, pull out my notebook, and write the date and the topic.
I let my hand fall, open my laptop, and add one more line to the sticky note rules.
5. I will not let a boy I met on a Saturday night decide who I get tobe on a Monday morning.
I will graduate.
I will get out.
I will help kids who are standing where I stood.
And Talon can sit in the front row and try to make me flinch all he wants.
He’s not the one who decides what I do next. I am.
Chapter Five
PENELOPE
By the timethe sun slides behind the apartment roofs, I’ve already changed my mind about the dress twice. Black would be the easy choice, and it’s the safe choice. But I stand in front of the mirror and pull the green one over my hips, anyway. The fabric clings to me like it knows what it’s doing. A wrap-style dress with long sleeves and a V-neck that dips just far enough to be dangerous. I smooth the skirt, shift left, shift right. My hair is soft and loose around my shoulders, waves I coaxed with a curling wand and a little patience. I finish the look with gold hoops, a thin chain, and nude heels.
I look like a woman who has a plan.
I don’t. I have a problem with a smirk, and a pair of glasses who keeps popping up on campus like a bad habit. Yesterday, there was no Sociology, thank God, but I still saw him twice; once outside the student center, once by the bookstore, and both times I slipped out of sight before he could spot me, heart racing for no good reason. Maybe it wasn’t guilt exactly—just the sharp reminder that he’s a crack in the careful lines I’ve drawn.
What’s his angle? That’s the question that won’t sit still. One date, like he said? Or will it be more after that? Is it a power play? I get the feeling with boys like him that the end game moves while you’re watching.
I line up my lipsticks on the sink and pick the one Gideon once called trouble—a deep, wine-red. I like that he says it with a smile, not a warning. The tube clicks closed, and I smack my lips together, checking the mirror one last time to make sure everything’s in place.
I put my phone on the counter just as a text comes in.
Gideon: Just parked, Little Menace.
I smile before I can stop it. A knock follows a bit later, three taps, patient, certain. I slip my purse over my shoulder and grab my keys, dropping them inside.
