TWENTY-ONE
LEO
Thanksgiving break.The most wonderful time of the semester.
Students vanish and the campus goes quiet in a way that feels almost holy—no lines at the café, no one jamming the printer with a 200-page dissertation draft, no herd of freshmen clogging the stairwells. The break is too short for an intensive, too long for the university to grant faculty the entire week off, which means most professors take PTO or invent conferences in exotic locations so they can disappear until the following Monday. The campus looks like a ghost town.
But not for one Leopold Christopher Euler III.
Oh, you thought Leo was short for Leonardo? Leonard? Leocifer? That last one isn’t technically a name, but one of my nannies disliked me enough to call me that when I was six. My mother thought it was charming. I did not.
As I was saying—Thanksgiving break is my favorite break of the year. Two whole days of undisturbed office work, where I can actually accomplish things instead of being ambushed by hallway questions or committee meetings. Then Wednesday with Georgeand Linda. Thursday with Dexter—this year we’ll add Alis, Sunny, Skye, Tori, and the whole Gilmore contingent for dinner. And Friday through Sunday? That’s reserved for leftovers, alcohol, too many sports channels, and sleep. In years past, Dexter and George were the constants of that long weekend. This year, my weekend plans feel less certain.
Still, I’m determined to enjoy the silence while it lasts. I stroll into the office at 8:36 a.m., twirling my keys around a finger and whistlingFly Me to the Moon.Thirty-six minutes late, but when you’re the only human in the building, who’s keeping score?
Except… I’m not the only human in the building.
The pod lights are already on. Odd. I keep walking toward my office, mentally scrolling through my three-page to-do list, when I see them: Tori’s handbag, her phone, a purple knit sweater draped over the back of her chair, and her laptop open and glowing faintly on her desk.
Strange. She said just last week that she and Skye were driving to spend the first part of the break with their parents before heading back Wednesday night for Thanksgiving dinner. So why are her things here?
I glance around the pod. Empty. No sign of her.
I shrug and retreat to my office. But twenty minutes later, with no sound from the open space, curiosity edges into worry. If her phone wasn’t sitting on her desk, I’d text her. Instead, it resides between her bag and laptop like a witness to something I don’t yet understand.
I push back from my desk and head into the hall. The women’s bathroom is the logical guess. Maybe she’s not feeling well. I knock, call her name. Nothing. Empty stalls, humming light, no Tori.
Next, outside. Her car is parked right in front, gleaming in the thin November sun. No Tori inside it. The benches out front are empty, too. The weather is mild, late autumn sunshine catching on the last stubborn leaves, but she’s nowhere in sight.
I head back inside, check the other offices. All locked. All dark. The pod is still empty except for her things, sitting exactly where I saw them before.
There’s only one place left. The copy room.
I knock softly and push the door open.
I expected to find Tori, earbuds in, humming over a stack of papers with the steady whir of machinery filling the room. What I find is the opposite: Tori on the floor, knees pulled tight to her chest, face buried in her arms.
“Hey,” I say, stepping inside. “Tote?”
She huffs, raises her head just enough to glare. She looks… wrecked. Not crying-today wrecked, but the slow-burn kind of wrecked. Exhausted. Mad. The kind of mad that simmers behind your eyes when you’ve had no sleep and too much to think about. Two seconds away from murder.
“You okay?”
“I’m fine. Just go away.” She drops her head back into her arms.
“You don’t look fine.”
“Fuck off, Leo.”
“See, that’s interesting. Those words communicate the exactoppositeof fine.”
Her head snaps up again, eyes blazing. “Why are you even here? It’s Thanksgiving break, everyone’s gone. I came here today so I wouldn’t have to be around anyone. But of course, you’re here. Because you’re always here. Showing up to witness every fucking moment of misery and embarrassment life decides to toss my way. Like I can’t catch a fucking break.”
That… stings. I thought we were friends now. Flirty friends? Maybe, one day, more than friends? Her tone, though, makes me sound like a nuisance. An issue.
No, that can’t be right. She’s upset.
“You can talk to me, you know,” I say carefully. “Or scream atme. Curse me out. Tell me why you hate the world. I told you, GBF. Full service. At your service.”
