She scoffs. “I’ll be grumpy.”
“I’ve noticed.” The corner of my mouth twitches up. “It’s kind of adorable. Cute, even.”
“Evan.”
“Okay, fine.” I lift a hand. “I’ll stop using the word. But I’m waiting.”
There’s a long silence, the tension cooling into something softer. She drums her fingers on the bag, a nervous little tattoo, then squeezes her eyes shut for a heartbeat before popping them open again.
“Two hours?” I ask.
She nods, not trusting herself to speak. I watch her wrestle herself through every possible response, like she’s got a hundred years of pride stacked up in her ribcage and if she lets any of it slip, she’ll collapse.
“Fine,” she whispers, so quietly I almost miss it.
“Fine,” I echo.
She opens the door fast, like the moment’s a fire and she’ll burn if she stays. Backpack hits the pavement, boots follow, and she’s already halfway up the walkway before she remembers herself. She spins, jogs back to the car, and opens the door again.
She pushes her face in, cheeks flushed.
“Thanks,” she says, and you’d think she was swallowing glass, the way her voice cracks around the word. Something in my chest breaks open. Before I can answer, she’s gone again, hurrying up the steps, almost running, ponytail whipping behind her.
I watch her go, the weirdest warmth pooling in my chest. It’s not relief, and it’s not victory, either. It’s something stupider—a sunbeam sneaking through the clouds, a little burst of stupid hope that I can’t quite justify.
She disappears through the double doors. I keep my eyes on the spot, like she might pop back out and need another rescue.
My phone buzzes in my lap. June's face flashes through my mind. I don’t answer it. I just stare at the college doors, at the spot where she vanished, at the way she said thank you like it mattered.
I have two hours.
A mission timer.
And I know exactly what I’m going to do with it.
Chapter Eleven
Molly
The accounting exam wrings me out like a wet rag. It is a test that starts out merely dismal and ends up feeling like weaponized math, designed to leave me in shreds by the last page. When I finally step out into the late afternoon, the sky over the Ironwood Falls Community College campus is a sheet of gray steel, and I’m not even sure it’s technically brighter outside than inside.
The cold air slaps my cheeks. I suck it in, lungs raw, and I taste the cigarettes of the two girls huddled under the eaves of the entrance, along with a distant note of gas station coffee. For a second I just stand there, trying to get my bearings. There’s a numbness in my brain that has nothing to do with the weather, but more with the raw, sandpaper feeling of having to remember every damn thing you’re supposed to know just long enough to regurgitate it — then watching it all leak out of your ears the moment the exam is over.
And then I see him.
Evan Wilder is leaning against his basic, forgettable beige sedan like he belongs here, hands in his pockets, calm as a man who doesn’t know what it feels like to sprint through life on caffeine and stubbornness. He’s watching the doors like he’s been waiting for me to walk out this whole time.
Which is stupid.
Because he said he would.
My first reaction isn’t relief. It’s irritation because he kept his word, and men who keep their word are harder to shut down. They keep doing things like not disappointing you, making you believe them, trust them, respect them, until they get close enough to really hurt you.
What a dependable asshole.
I cinch my backpack a notch tighter, square my shoulders, and walk toward him at a pace just short of a challenge. I watch him watching me: the way his posture shifts, a small lift in his chin, a barely there smile that isn’t quite smug but definitely isn’t sorry.
“There she is,” he says, as if he hasn’t just been killing time for two hours.
