Shit.
Troy and I are supposed to meet at the engineering building in fifteen minutes. By the time I show up, I'm twenty-five minutes late and wind-blown. I haven't eaten, and I'm pretty sure my hoodie smells bad. Troy's already there when I arrive.
His laptop's open, fingers flying over the keyboard, brows slightly furrowed in concentration. The sight of him—so focused, so steady—should calm me. Instead, it tightens the knot in my chest.
He looks up as I slump into the seat across from him. His eyes take me in—windblown hair, puffy jacket, the general aura of someone held together by three threads and a hoodie string.
“Hey,” he says, voice quiet. “You okay?”
“I'm fine,” I reply, too quickly. His eyes linger.
“You sure?” I don't look at him.
“I said I'm fine.”
A beat of silence.
Then he nods once and turns back to his screen. We work like that for a few minutes. Or, I pretend to work. I stare at the same paragraph of our proposal, rereading it so many times the words lose all meaning. Troy typessomething, then stops. Reaches into his bag. Slides a granola bar across the table toward me. “You should eat,” he says. I ignore it.
My phone buzzes in my pocket. Again. Third time in twenty minutes. I know who it is without looking, and something in my chest caves like wet cardboard.
“Your phone's blowing up,” Troy says, his voice neutral. Not prying, just observing.
“It's nothing.” I force my attention back to the screen. “Let's just focus on the model projections we were working on yesterday.”
Troy watches me, not touching his keyboard—which is annoying because I can feel his eyes on me, patient and knowing.
“Stop looking at me like that,” I mutter.
“Like what?”
“Like you’re trying to figure shit out. I'm not a project.”
My phone buzzes again. A text this time. I pull it out just enough to see the screen.
Mom:
Baby please, I'm really in a bind here. Just call me back.
I flip my phone face-down so hard it makes a cracking sound against the table. Troy's brows lift slightly, but he doesn't comment.
“The community workshop costs, when we have local preschools visit,” I say stiffly, pointing at my screen. “I think we underestimated the materials budget by about?—”
“Delilah.” His voice is soft but firm. “What's going on?”
“Nothing's going on. I'm trying to work.” My voice has an edge I can't quite soften. “Which is what we're supposed to be doing right now.”
“You've been looking at the same paragraph for tenminutes,” he says. “And you look like you haven't slept in days.”
My throat tightens. “I'mfine.”
“You're not.”
“What the hell would you know about it?” The words slice out before I can stop them.
Troy leans forward, elbows on the table. “I know your mom has been texting all afternoon and for some reason, you flinch every time. I know that you’re hungry and haven’t slept.”
I stare at him, heat rising to my cheeks. He's beenwatchingme that closely?
