I nod, not sure how to answer.
He talks more about swimming, about what it feels like to glide through water, how the world is “quiet and alive at the same time.” There’s poetry in the way he says it, but he doesn’t realize. He tells me about meets in California, about rivalries with other schools, about how he once set a pool record and celebrated by eating an entire extra-large pizza by himself.
Through all of it, he never asks about me. Not about my family, not about why I’m here on a Friday night, not about what I want to do with my life.
I count the ceiling tiles above his head. I trace the condensation on my glass. I listen to the chatter from other tables, each fragment of conversation more animated than the one I’m trapped in. I think about Liam, about what he’s doing right now. If he’s out with someone, if he’s home alone, if he’s even thought about me once since I left his classroom with my panties balled in my fist.
Dylan asks if I want to split a dessert. I say yes, even though I’m not hungry.
We get the tiramisu. It comes on a plate dusted with cocoa and gold leaf, a little pyramid of decadence. Dylan slices off a chunk with his fork, then offers me the first bite.
“Go on,” he says, “I won’t judge.” His tone is light, but I catch the flicker of tolerance under the surface.
I lean in, take the bite, let the espresso and sugar coat my tongue. I close my eyes, pretending I’m somewhere else, somewhere that isn’t so loud or bright or full of people waiting for me to fail at pretending to be normal.
Dylan watches me eat. “It’s good, right?”
I nod, chewing slow. “Really good.”
We finish the dessert in silence, passing the plate back and forth like a peace treaty.
When the bill comes, Dylan pays without hesitation. He signs the receipt with a flourish, then stands, holding out his hand to help me up. I take it, and the heat of his palm surprises me. It’s the first time we’ve touched all night.
He leans in, face so close I can smell the aftershave and the faintest echo of pool chemicals. “You want to go for a walk, or…?”
I shake my head, fast. “I should get back. I’m exhausted.”
Dylan’s face falls, just a fraction, but he recovers. “Sure. I’ll get you back to your dorm.”
For the first time all night, I smile sincerely.
“Thanks, that would be great.”
We’reat the hostess stand waiting for the coat check, the air in the foyer syrup-thick with perfume. Dylan is scrolling his phone, probably checking the team group chat, while I run mental laps around everything I’ll tell Andie about the date, all the while scraping at the memory of how little I actually cared.
It’s then that the unthinkable happens. The front door opens and Professor Thomas—no, Liam, I have to remember to call him that, at least in my head—materializes inside the restaurant. He’s drop dead gorgeous in a dark coat over a white button down and black pants. But the asshole isn’t alone! His arm is wrapped around a woman’s waist as he ushers her inside, a sharp-featured brunette in a red sheath dress that could put out a fire by walking through it. She’s middle-aged, maybe thirty-five or so, but still attractive. She’s clearly enthralled by Liam, and smiling up at him with adoration.
“That’s so funny,” she breathes. “You’re hysterical, Liam.”
My stomach knots in that special way: anger, jealousy, the petulant knowledge that even when I try to move on, there he is, cooler and more untouchable than ever.
He sees me in an instant. There’s no flicker of surprise, just a subtle tightening in his jaw and that same glacial blue stare, turned up to maximum voltage. For a second, I swear he might come over and drag me out by the ponytail, caveman-style. Instead, he steers his date forward.
“Claire,” he murmurs to the woman beside him.
I act before I think. My hand slides into the crook of Dylan’s arm, squeezing it, just so. The handsome boy looks up from his phone, startled, then beams and puts his arm around my shoulders, pulling me in. We are suddenly the image of collegiate coupledom, as if we’ve been doing this for months and not ninety minutes.
Liam’s mouth twitches, barely. I can feel him watching every micro-movement, every fake laugh, every squeeze of Dylan’s hand on my ribcage. He and the brunette pause just a little too long in the foyer, the moment vibrating.
And then, as if God is running a dress rehearsal for my humiliation, the hostess shouts, “Mr. Tourneau, your coat is ready!”
Dylan steps forward to get it, which means I’m suddenly standing alone, right in front of Professor Thomas and his attractive, age-appropriate companion.
She’s the first to speak. “You and that boy are so cute together,” she says, smiling at me with real warmth. “Is he your boyfriend?”
The word tastes like battery acid, but I nod. “Something like that.”
Liam’s face is set in stone, the blue of his eyes more a bruise than a color. His date glances at him because we obviously know each other. She’s waiting for an introduction, and when he doesn’t give it, she sticks out her hand.
