Harper lay awake long after Sky’s breathing had become a slow thrum echoing through the room‚ staring at the ceiling and reliving a hall that she had no business reliving․ The fluorescent lights․ His smell‚ dark and clean and warm‚ far too close․ This half-second – barely a half-second‚ nothing‚ really‚ less than nothing – when she’d thought he was going to kiss her‚ and some traitorous‚ humiliating part of her hadn’t moved the half-inch necessary to avoid it․ Get a grip․ She rolled over on her side‚ pulled the blanket up to her chin‚ and tried not to think about anything else‚ with not much success․ By 2 a.m.
she’d given up on sleep entirely and was sitting cross-legged at her desk with a single lamp on, staring at a blank document she was supposed to be using for the McAllister review, typing nothing, achieving nothing, accomplishing exactly one thing, being furious with herself in increasingly creative ways.
“You have a boyfriend‚” she whispered into the dark dorm room‚ low enough not to wake Sky‚ the words feeling stupid and necessary at the same time․ “You have a boyfriend‚ Harper‚ and Taylor is a genuinely good person who has never once made you feel like you were one bad decision away from ruining your entire life․” It should have been the easiest thing in the world to believe․ Taylor was steady․ She would bring her food when she forgot to eat‚ and never once made her feel like she had to defend the fact that she’d forgotten․ Taylor had never‚ not once‚ looked at her like she was a puzzle he intended to take apart just to see what fell out․ That was supposed to be a good thing, and that was the point․ But why‚ lying there in the dark‚ her own voice still echoing in her ears‚ did some small‚ unbearable corner of her mind keep going back to a different voice‚ unhurried‚ far too pleased with itself‚ saying see you Tuesday‚ tutor like it was a promise instead of a goodbye?
“It’s nothing‚” she told the ceiling․ “It’s adrenaline․ Post-game adrenaline is a documented phenomenon․ It means nothing․” The ceiling, unhelpfully, did not respond.
The next morning she buried herself in work the way she buried herself in everything that frightened her: completely‚ relentlessly‚ with the kind of focus that left no room for anything else to get a foothold․ She was at the library by seven‚ sitting at her usual table on the third floor before the regular crowd arrived‚ and she had three different textbooks spread in front of her by the time the sun was all the way up․ It almost worked․ For two hours she was exclusively consumed with formatting the works cited portion of the McAllister review before the deadline․ The hallway outside the locker room faded out of her consciousness like an embarrassing phone call you can shove in a drawer marked temporary lapse in judgment and never think about again․ Then her phone rang with the calendar reminder for Professor Whitfield’s seminar‚ and the whole of her morning went another way․ “I want to be very clear,” Professor Whitfield said, forty minutes later, standing at the front of the lecture hall with the particular stillness of a woman who had delivered devastating news to several decades of students and had stopped finding it difficult.
“This is not a standard essay.
This is the foundation for your thesis track recommendation, and I will be reading every single submission personally.” The whole room seemed to be vibrating with fear‚ but it settled in Harper’s chest․ “Twenty pages‚ minimum․ Primary source analysis‚ not secondary commentary․ Due in three weeks․” Whitfield’s eyes swept the room‚ slow and unhurried‚ the way a hawk’s might․ “I am aware this overlaps with midterms․ I am aware several of you have other obligations․” A pause, deliberate, weighted.
“I am not interested in excuses.
I am interested in your best work.
If your best work is not available to me, I would encourage you to reconsider whether this track is the right one for you.” She blanked on the phrase thesis track recommendation somewhere around there‚ looking down at the outline of her McAllister review paper still open in her notebook where she had left it half finished‚ and feeling the particular‚ specific vertigo of watching her entire semester rearrange itself in real time‚ in front of her․ Twenty pages and three weeks on top of two jobs‚ on top of the tutoring assignment she still hadn’t fully reconciled herself to‚ on top of a stipend she desperately needed‚ a recommendation she desperately wanted‚ and her gosh-darn stupid brain‚ which kept wandering back to a hallway and a near-kiss she was trying very hard to forget․ It was as if there was no room for this․ She didn’t have room for one more thing demanding space in her head․ She sat‚ her hands not quite steady‚ as she gathered up her things at the end of the lecture‚ already trying to plan how much she’d have to redo her week‚ how many hours of sleep she’d have to do without before it started to show in her grades․ By the time she got back to the dorm she had a plan․ A plan that was very rigid‚ color-coded‚ and on an hour-by-hour basis․ Everything would be planned in advance․ Nothing would be allowed to interrupt․ She did not anticipate the distraction showing up at her door less than thirty minutes later.
The knock came just as she was settling in, laptop open, three browser tabs of academic journals already queued, hair pulled back, the particular focused calm of someone determined not to think about anything except the work in front of her.
She assumed it was Sky, locked out again, forgetting her key card for the third time that month.
It wasn’t Sky․ She opened the door to find Miles Miller standing there‚ a backpack slung over one shoulder‚ his hair still damp as if he’d just come from practice‚ that grin‚ that ridiculously casual look on his face‚ for a second she genuinely couldn’t process what she was looking at․ “What‚” she said slowly‚ “are you doing here?” “Studying․” He raised the backpack like it was a piece of evidence‚ as if its mere existence explained everything․ “You said library‚ Tuesday․ It’s not Tuesday․ But I figured‚ since I’ve apparently got a thesis-level amount of catching up to do,” he tilted his head‚ and she realized with a sinking‚ horrified jolt that he must have walked out of Whitfield’s lecture hall not long after she had – we should probably get a head start․ “How do you even know where I live?” “Sky‚” he said‚ like this was a perfectly reasonable thing for her best friend to have done․ “She seemed very supportive of the idea․” “I’m going to kill her․” “You can kill her later․” He glanced around her over his shoulder into the room‚ relaxed‚ already taking half a step forward as though the conversation about whether he was allowed inside had already concluded in his favor․ “Right now, I figured you’d want help getting ahead before that essay buries both of us.” Unfortunately‚ Harper was currently stuck in the doorway‚ her mind undoing all the plans she’d made over the past half hour‚ every item she’d written on her legal pad‚ all in the face of the simple‚ infuriating fact of Sam standing in the doorway looking far too pleased with himself and not‚ as it turned out‚ leaving․ “This isn’t Tuesday‚” she said again‚ as if saying it a second time would make it true enough to send him away․ “No‚” he agreed‚ stepping past her into the room before she could decide whether to stop him․ “It’s better doing it here.”