“Yeah,” she says with a faint laugh. “He’ll actually be joining us later at the coffee shop, if that’s okay?”
“Yeah, of course.”
We fall into step as I mentally think about where the psychology department is. Then I remember it’s on the north side of campus near the library, and we move toward it. “So where are you from?”
“Pullman, in Washington,” she replies.
“Really? I used to attend WSU.”
“No way. I visited campus last week, and I liked it, but I kinda want more freedom than being in the same state as my parents, especially since the divorce.”
Her voice dips just slightly on the last word, like she isn’t sure she wants to leave it out there. I glance over, offering an easy smile, knowing the strain that can have. “Ah, I’m sorry to hear that. My parents are divorced, too.”
“So you know it sucks,” she scoffs.
I nod. “It does, but they’re better people apart.”
“Yeah,” she says quietly, watching the path ahead. “Mine will be, too, eventually. It’s still pretty fresh.”
I hum in agreement, not pushing.
The rain has eased more into a fine mist now, just as we approach the psychology building, and I’m partly grateful for the reprieve from talking about divorces. “That’s where most of the psych lectures are held. Then just behind is the library.”
“Oh, I have to see that. It looked beautiful on the website.”
“Yeah, it really is,” I say, leading her toward the path that winds between the buildings. “It’s kind of the heart of campus. Everyone ends up there eventually—either to study, nap, or hide from the rain.”
She laughs again, this time more relaxed, her braids swaying as we walk. “Do you come here a lot?”
“Only when I’m pretending to be productive,” I admit. “I’m an art major, so most of my life happens on the west side of campus.”
“That’s fair,” she says, her tone brightening. “I’m more of a people-watcher than a bookworm. Maybe that’s why psychology interests me. I like figuring people out.”
“You’d fit right in here then,” I tell her. “Half the students are trying to figure themselves out still.”
She grins as I open the heavy door. “What made you pick art?”
I think about it for a second before answering. “Technically, I picked art history. I want to become an art museum curator, but I’ve always loved how you can capture a moment and make it feel alive again, and it doesn’t matter the medium. It fascinates me.”
“That’s really cool,” she says, holding my eyes.
I can tell she’s starting to settle, her nervous energy easing. We round the corner, and the library comes into view. It stretches up in tiers, rows of shelves curving toward a skylight that filters the gray light into the room. Students fill the lower level—laptops glowing, earbuds in, jackets draped over chairs.
“Wow,” she breathes. “You weren’t kidding.”
I smile, remembering the first time I came here before I transferred with Daphne. “Yeah. It kind of makes you want to pretend you’re the main character in some academic drama.”
Bethany grins. “Or a mystery novel.”
“Exactly. Come on, I’ll show you the best place to people watch.”
Chapter forty-five
Jay
MybodystillcarriesLiv with me as I settle into my seat on the plane and her scent of apple and vanilla sticks to my skin, dragging into my lungs on each inhale, reminding me of how she fell apart on top of me this morning. I knew the minute she stormed into the apartment last night, full of determination to get me out of my clothes as fast as possible, that it wasn’t the right time to tell her everything about this trip. I’m not hiding, I’m almost certain I won’t get this job; it’s such a long shot, and I don’t want to upset what we have. I’ll go home to her, and everything will be fine. We can talk, and I’ll tell her everything I need her to know.
Now, as the plane vibrates around me, I can still see her, hair a little wild from sleep. The way she sneakily steals looks at me when she thinks I’m not paying attention. What she doesn’t realize is that I’m always paying attention to her; it’s impossible not to.
