The spark I’d felt across that table had been instant and inconvenient. It lit up something in me I spent a long time assuming was dead, or at least damaged enough to be left alone.
Apparently not. Which was why I had spent the better part of the last week acting like an idiot.
Not in any dramatic way. I wasn’t writing his name in notebooks or staring moodily out of windows. I was just…adjusting my schedule. Slightly. Turning up at the library at roughly the same time we had met. Telling myself it was practical, that I worked better in the late afternoon anyway, that the extra study hours were good for me.
All technically true; also complete bullshit.
By day three, I had started spending a little longer on my hair before leaving my apartment. By day four, I had added mascara. By day five, I was so disgusted with myself I nearly scrubbed it off out of principle.
And the worst part? The part I hated most?
The stupid little drop of disappointment every time I packed up my books, slung my bag over my shoulder, and realized he hadn’t shown up.
Maybe I imagined it. Maybe there hadn’t been anything there at all. Maybe I had built an entire ridiculous fantasy out of one look, one deep voice, and an academic book exchange.
I snorted and pushed my pink headband back into place as I looked at myself in the mirror by the door.
“You have terrible taste in men, Emily.”
My phone buzzed on the entry table before I could talk myself into staying home out of embarrassment, and I grabbed it on the way to my bag.
It was a video call from Sophie.
Of course it was.
I answered with a sigh. “You know, most people text first.”
My sister’s face appeared at a deeply unflattering angle, all huge brown eyes and zero shame. “Most people are cowards.”
I laughed despite myself and stepped back into the apartment to lock the door again. “You’re fourteen. Stop talking like a retired mob boss.”
“Can’t. It’s who I am.”
Sophie adjusted the camera, and the screen wobbled for a second before settling. She was half sprawled across her bed, oneleg stretched out awkwardly beneath the blanket, her crutches visible against the wall behind her.
My thumb found the seashell bracelet on my wrist before I realized I was touching it. Sophie had made it during rehab, back when her hands still shook with frustration and stubborn determination, and the clasp had been repaired twice because I refused to stop wearing it.
It was crooked, fragile, and not remotely my usual style.
I loved it more than anything expensive had ever deserved.
There was a pencil tucked into her messy bun and the expression on her face said she had called for a reason and intended to drag it out for dramatic effect.
“When are you coming to visit?” she asked.
There it was.
“Soon.”
“That’s not a real answer.”
“It’s the only one I have right now.”
She narrowed her eyes at me in a way that would have been intimidating if she were not wearing a sweatshirt covered in cartoon frogs.
“Mom says you’re avoiding the question.”
“Mom needs hobbies.”
