All eyes are on me, tracing my long path to the back row, as I slip into Political Sociology, fifteen minutes late, thanks to Mason Grant. My hair is still damp, mist coiled around me, like I’ve brought the wet grounds indoors. The professor glares at me over his glasses, waiting in silence with his marker poised on the whiteboard as I find the only empty seat.
Head down, I flick open my notebook and grab a pen, ignoring the piercing gazes from all directions.
Taking pity on me, the polite person to my right slides their notes toward me. I mutter a quick “thank you” and startcopying while the professor clears his throat and resumes the conversation on International Political Economy.
It’s not until the third line of copying the notes that it hits me.
The familiar handwriting.
My head snaps up to the guy next to me.
Freckled face. Ginger curls. Cocky grin.
“Caden?” I whisper-yell.
9
EVA
The restof the lecture passes in a haze while I sit there, gob-smacked, trying to convince myself this is real.
Cadenishere.He is actuallyhere.
I wait until the end of class before I ambush him.
“What the hell?” I all but scream, not caring who stares. “How did you… When…?”
“Okay, that was so worth it.” Caden shakes with laughter while I gawk at him with furrowed brows.
As glad as I am to have him here, I’m so confused. Caden couldn’t afford to transfer with me, despite my relentless begging. He had already enrolled in Manchester for the year. This relocation would have cost him too much. And unlike my other friends, Caden comes from a single-mother, middle-class household. So, what changed? Did he take out a second loan or win the lottery?
“Slow the brain before you exceed the speed limit,” Caden mocks, reading the questions off my expression as he rises from his seat and swings his bag over his shoulder. “You just seemed so miserable without me. I thought I’d better come and save you before you become a national threat.”
I giggle, the sound slowly fading as I recognize the familiar phrasing he used, and just like that, my questions are answered.
“So, am I getting the grand tour, or what?” Caden asks.
“Sure.” I loop my arm through his, a practiced reflex, and lead him toward the north wing. “Fair warning. You probably don’t want to be seen with me.”
“I’ll take my chances.” He grins. “Besides, you are forgetting, I’m dangerously charismatic.”
I chuckle, working my phone with my free hand and rereading the long list of texts I sent to Dan over the last week that received no response—until now.
Are you going to call to check in?
Guess ‘Hello’ didn’t accept your bribe. Thanks for the heads-up on the article.
Hey Loki! Did karma get you already? Call me.
Dan, I’m serious. I need to speak to you. Call me. Now!
I’m miserable here, Dan. It’s this close to becoming a national threat. Call me, or I swear I’m sending Mum and Dad to haunt you.
I take a deep breath and type another message.
Thanks for Caden. Jerk!
Whatever Dan did to convince Caden, I’m beyond grateful. With Caden here, all the Fort drama turns into background noise. For a few blissful moments, I’m back in my old life again. Where the only threats were my father’s endless debates, or Mum’s burnt cottage pies. The girl who used to stroll along the Manchester streets at midnight with her best friend, high on sugar and Marvel buzz, convinced the world was a happy place.
