Page 10 of Safe Place

There’s a reply to the roommate listing I posted on the housing board last week.

From: Poppy Reed

Subject: Roommate Inquiry

Hi! I saw your post about needing a roommate. I’m also a sophomore, and my sublease ends this month so the timing’s kind of perfect (hopefully?). I’m a bio major. I promise I’m quiet and clean. If the room’s still available, I’d love to meet and see if we vibe. Thanks so much! - Poppy

It’s sweet. Not overly bubbly, or stiff. I reread it once, then type out a reply with my number and a quick suggestion to meet up later this week.

Me: Hi! Yes, the room’s still open. Want to meet at the student center on Friday? Maybe around twelve? I’ll grab us a table. And we can go over to the apartment together if you want to take a look.

Poppy: Perfect. I’ll see you there, thanks again!

I sit back in my chair. There’s an extra bedroom in my apartment. The landlord only agreed to let me cover half the rent until the end of this month—after that, it’s full price or I’m out. So I need a roommate. I’ve been running numbers in the back of my head for days, trying to see if I could make it work solo, but the truth is, I can’t. Not without dropping a class. Or another job. I had to send a good chunk of the money I saved up to my mom last week. For some reason, I can’t bring myself to block her number, though that’s exactly what she deserves.

I refresh my student portal, and a new notification flashes across the screen.

Assigned Match: Carter Delaney | Junior | Writing & Reading Support

A junior. Upperclassmen rarely request underclassmen as tutors, especially not in subjects like writing. Maybe he failed a course last year. Or maybe he’s just desperate. Either way, I get paid, so I don’t overthink it. There’s no time for that. I close my laptop, tuck it into my bag with the charger, and pull on a hoodie before heading out. It's another Westcliffe one, gray this time, snagged at an embarrassingly good discount from the campus bookstore because of a small hole in the stitching on one sleeve.

The air outside is crisp, my favorite early-morning kind of cold that doesn’t bite yet. The fall weather is finally here. The walk is perfect—perfect amount of breeze and perfect hoodie weather.

Once I reach campus, I take the longer path toward the library. It’s almost always empty before eight, and if I get there early enough, I can grab one of the corner tables with the outlet and the sunlight. I walk with my head down, hands stuffed in my sleeves, until something—or someone—catches my attention across the quad.

Micah is standing near one of the business buildings, talking to a guy. The guy is tall—taller than Micah, and Micah’s already huge. Six-two, maybe six-three. But this guy looks like he belongs on a billboard—so ridiculously good-looking that I almost feel starstruck. His skin is smooth and golden-brown, hair curly and dark brown, jawline sharp enough to cut glass, and his eyes are unreal. Bright hazel, almost golden in the morning light.

But regardless of how handsome this guy is, my eyes drift back to Micah. There’s something about him that feels familiar. Not like I know him, but like I could. My chest settles a little just looking at him—which only makes me more uneasy. It’s a kind of calm I don’t trust.

I blink and look away before either of them notices. I don’t wave. Or say hi. He probably wouldn’t notice me anyway. He was just doing a girl a favor. That’s all it was. He seems like the type of person who’s just good. And a guy like that? He’s probably surrounded by girls who are confident, gorgeous, and rich enough to meet him at his level.

I step into the library and quietly close the door behind me. I’m relieved to see that there are plenty of empty tables available.

My phone buzzes just as I’m opening my laptop. I expect it to be from the student center or a shift reminder, but when I check the screen, it’s from a number already saved in my contacts. Micah Vale. I immediately feel my cheeks heat. I glance around the library as if someone might see the flush rising up my neck. Why is he texting me? Our group exchanged numbers during our first project meeting, but I didn’t expect him to actually use it. Definitely not like this.

Micah

Didn’t want to come say hi?

After everything we’ve been through?

Ouch.

Me

Sorry, I was in a rush.

Lies. I saw you basically drooling over my friend.

Should I be jealous?

Sorry. Hi, Micah.

A voice comes from behind me. “Hi, Sophie.”

I jump so hard I nearly knock my coffee over. I turn around to see him—Micah—and his unfairly attractive friend from earlier, standing right there.

“Hey, sorry—I didn’t mean to scare you,” he says, placing a gentle hand on my shoulder. I flinch again, and he immediately pulls back, both hands up like I’m a startled animal. “Whoa. Sorry. Are you okay?”