Heat flooded my ears.I focused on aligning crackers.“Not classroom appropriate.”
“North Point is a cafeteria, not a confessional.”
Exactly.Too many ears, none caring until one word lit their gossip receptors.I shook pepper into the soup.
Maya waited—a talent forged over years of me stalling.She said, “Did you do the thing you’re terrified to want?”
I swallowed broth.“Maybe adjacent to the thing.”
“And you’re… what?Happy?Panicked?”
“Quantifying.”I broke a cracker, shards sinking.“System variables shifted.Observation window too small for conclusions.”
Her stare softened.“You like him.”
“Don’t psychoanalyze.”
“Math-analyzing then: is wanting this inside the margin of error?”
I opened my mouth, closed it.The honest answer tasted like the soup—thick, too hot.“I’d need a bigger sample.”
“Then gather data.”She nudged my foot.“Don’t pretend you’re running a double-blind when he clearly sees you.”
I flicked soup off the spoon.“He acts normal.That’s… disorienting.”
“Maybe normal is good.”
“Or maybe normal means temporary.”The words escaped before I could reroute them.
Maya’s expression went gentle; she didn’t pounce.“Temporary like every foster placement?”
I kept my eyes on the bowl.“Past is prologue as they say.”
She sighed.“Austen, he clearly likes you and you clearly like him.The hard part is over.”
I snorted.“Hallmark called; they want the slogan back.”
“Fine.I’ll keep the royalties.”She pushed her tray aside, elbows on table like a coach in a timeout.“Question: are you stilltutoringhim?”
“Of course not, he passed financial accounting last semester.He doesn’t need me anymore.”
“Whoa, that sounded loaded,” Maya said.She looked around and lowered her voice.“Just because you’re not tutoring him doesn’t mean he doesn’t need you anymore.You have a lot more to offer than strategic tutoring.And from what I know about gay men in their early twenties, tutoring is the last thing on their minds when they’re together.”
I hesitated half a beat too long.
Maya’s smile was small, satisfied.“Run your study.Remember the null hypothesis: you deserve constants too.”
I hated how much that landed.I drained the rest of the soup to have something to do.
She gathered her backpack.“Office hours.Text if you need a pep talk.”
“I hope that’s code for something.”
“It’s exactly what it sounds like.”She stood, squeezed my shoulder—short, not pitying—and vanished into the press of students.
Across the room, the TVs looped Luke’s glove save from Caribou State.The caption readCARTER WALL.My chest tightened—not pride, not fear, something between.
I dumped the tray, hoodie sleeves brushing the trash rim, and headed back to Ridgeway.
