Chapter 10
The lecture hall lets out in a tidal wave of noise, two hundred students evacuating through the double doors like a mass exodus from a failed cult.
I hold back, gathering my notes and mechanical pencil with more care than necessary, waiting for the worst of the crush to subside.
When I finally step into the hall, Aaron is there, leaning against the wall as if he’s been waiting, which he has.
Yesterday’s confession still echoes in my skull—three syllables, infinite fallout: “It was me.” I half expect him to look right through me now, as if I’ve gone quantum and slipped between states, but instead he gives me a quick, crooked smile.
It’s not the full-wattage thing he used to weaponize in class. This one’s smaller, private.
“Hey,” he says, voice low.
“Hey,” I say back. My hands are already sweating.
We move down the corridor, forced into single file by the traffic jam of undergrads shuffling toward their next scheduled obligation.
The light in here is barely better than the lecture hall—a dirty sodium haze leaking through half-dead fluorescents.
Every scuff of my Converse is amplified by the institutional acoustics, like the floor is determined to rat me out.
Aaron walks beside me, close enough that the heat of his arm radiates through the gap between us. Neither of us says a word for a full thirty seconds, which, in Aaron Thompson time, is a geological era.
He finally cracks. “So. You wanna grab lunch?”
My brain is still processing the way his biceps flex under his t-shirt. “Now?”
He grins, a quick flash. “Unless you’ve got plans to run more titrations.”
“Yeah,” I say, and it comes out softer than I mean. “Lunch is good.”
We slip outside, the air crisp and a little wet from last night’s rain. The campus looks different in November—leaves mostly down, grass turning the color of saltines. Somewhere nearby, a groundskeeper is abusing a leaf blower, but the sound fades as we cut through the quad.
Aaron keeps a steady pace, not rushing, but not letting it drag either. Every so often he glances over, like he’s expecting me to bolt. I wonder if he’s worried I’ll disappear again, like Jessica did.
Neither of us brings up the conversation from the coffee shop, but it’s there, a low-frequency hum under everything. I start a sentence—”Did you—” but abort it, unsure how to finish. He does the same, his mouth opening, then closing again. We’re a matched set of aborted takeoffs.
Our shoulders brush once, then twice. The first time, I flinch. The second time, I don’t.
We pass a kiosk selling coffee and prepackaged donuts, the air tinged with burnt sugar and synthetic cinnamon. For a second, I think about veering off—just grab a donut, retreat to my room, go back to pretending—but Aaron’s presence keeps me on the vector.
“Sal’s?” he says, already angling toward the little ancient sandwich shop across from the science building.
“Yeah,” I say. “Classic.”
He grins, and it’s almost a relief. We reach Sal’s and push through the heavy glass door into a microclimate of garlic, stale fryer oil, and the ever-present drone of the refrigerator case.
The booths are vinyl, all in varying states of stickiness, and the tables are engineered for maximum wobble. It’s perfect.
We grab a booth in the far corner, the one under the humming ballast that flickers at unpredictable intervals. Aaron sits across from me, elbows on the table, hands folded like he’s bracing for impact.
For a few seconds, neither of us says anything. The only sound is the distant whine of a blender and the muted pop from the old radio mounted near the soda fountain.
Finally, Aaron cracks his knuckles, a nervous tell I haven’t seen before. “You okay?”
I want to say yes, but my throat sticks. “Getting there,” I manage.
He nods, staring at the table. “Me too.”
We sit, hands in our laps, eyes on everything but each other. The weight of yesterday’s confession settles between us, not heavy, but tangible.
He opens his mouth, closes it, then tries again. “I meant what I said yesterday. I really am glad she’s you. Uh, you’re her. I don’t—” He cuts himself off, then looks up, eyes direct. “I don’t want this to be weird.”
“Me neither.”
He gives a tiny laugh. “Too late for that, huh?”
The overhead light flickers, painting both our faces with a sickly yellow before settling back to its normal stutter. I force a smile. “Welcome to my world.”
A guy in a Sal’s apron appears and asks what we want. Aaron orders the turkey on rye, no mayo; I get the grilled cheese, because it’s impossible to screw up and I need something predictable. When the guy leaves, the silence doesn’t feel so loaded. It’s just… quiet.
Aaron drums his fingers on the table, then says, “Do you ever wonder if you’re just… making it up as you go?”
I blink, caught off guard. “What, life?”
He shrugs. “Yeah. I dunno. Some people, it’s like they get a script. Everyone else is just improv.”
I think of Sara, who always knows the right thing to say. I think of Hunter, who doesn’t care if it’s the right thing as long as it gets a laugh. I think of myself, stuck in the wings, running lines that never sound right out loud.
“All the time,” I say.
He nods, satisfied. “Figured.”
We lapse back into silence, but it’s easier now. The fridge hums, the light buzzes, the world spins on.
Our sandwiches arrive, grease spots already blooming through the wax paper. Aaron takes a bite, chews thoughtfully, then grins at me through a mouthful of turkey. “This place is terrible,” he says, “but in, like, a comforting way.”
I laugh, the first real one of the day.
He watches me, and there’s something in his eyes I can’t place. Not the usual confidence, not even the self-deprecating charm he uses as armor. Something more like hope. Or hunger.
“Hey,” he says, dropping his voice to just above a whisper. “We’re good, right?”
I nod. “Yeah. We’re good.”
He reaches across the table, not touching, just letting his hand hover. I stare at it, at the way his fingers splay out, ready to close around whatever I give him.
For a second, I almost do it. I almost take his hand.
But instead, I reach for my sandwich, peel back the wrapper, and start to eat.
It’s a start.
—ΠΩ—
Aaron breaks first, which is new. “I, uh, wanted to say I’m sorry,” he says, not quite making eye contact. “For… everything, I guess.”
I blink. “You didn’t do anything.”
He shakes his head, tearing the napkin into smaller pieces. “No, I did. I was a jerk. Especially about Natalie. And… other stuff.” He glances up, the weight of guilt clinging to his eyes.
“It’s fine,” I say, but my voice makes a liar out of me.
Aaron shrugs, the movement tight. “I just… I was trying to be cool. It was easier to play a part than be honest.”
The napkin is now a white pile of shreds, which he gathers into a little heap and pushes to the edge of the table.
I stare at the grilled cheese in front of me, the shellac of fake cheese glistening under the lights. It feels like a prop. “Sometimes I wish I could be anyone else,” I say, surprised by the bitterness in my own voice.
He laughs, but it’s not unkind. “If you figure it out, let me know.”
The pause after is long enough for the fridge to cycle twice. I pick at the crust, tearing it off in strips.
Aaron runs a thumb along the seam of the vinyl bench, not looking at me. “Can I ask you something?”
I nod, throat suddenly tight.
“When you told me—about Jessica—were you scared?”
“Terrified,” I say. “I kept waiting for the part where you would… I dunno. Laugh. Or get pissed.”
His mouth pulls into a lopsided grin. “You really thought I’d be pissed?”
I shrug. “You were looking for a girl, so…”
He cuts in, sharper than I expect. “That’s the thing, though. I wasn’t necessarily.”
My brain stalls. “You—?”
Aaron leans forward, elbows bracketing the napkin shreds. “I mean, I like girls. But I like guys too. I’m here with you, aren’t I?” He glances away, his hands drumming the edge of the table. “Most people don’t know.”
“I get it,” I offer, the words limp, but he gives a small nod like he appreciates the effort.
“I kept thinking, maybe it’ll be different with someone who gets it. But that night, in the closet… I didn’t know what to do. I thought it was just a game, and then it wasn’t.” He lets out a breath, fogging the plastic cup in front of him. “It wasn’t, was it? A game?”
“No,” I whisper. “Not after.”
He grins, relief and regret mixing in the lines of his mouth. “You know I’ve never done that before? Gone after who I thought was a stranger just because it felt right?”
Unable to find my voice again, I nod.
He watches me, reading every twitch and microexpression. “What did it feel like for you?”
“Like…” I trail off, searching for something that isn’t a metaphor. “Like I was someone else. But also me, for the first time.”
His eyes soften. “Same.”
The fridge hums, orders get called, a chair scrapes the tile behind us. All the background noise of the universe, but I can only focus on his hands, now steady, palms open on the table.
I swallow, the taste of old fear rising up. I risk looking up, and his gaze meets mine, unflinching. “I don’t want to be a coward anymore.” The words come out like a confession.
He smiles, this time for real. “Neither do I.”
The pause that follows isn’t empty. It’s full of all the things we can’t say yet but maybe will.
He reaches over, just barely, and rests his hand on the Formica, fingers inches from mine. “We could start over,” he says. “Just, like… try it, and see.”
“Okay.”
We sit, sandwiches uneaten, watching each other exist. The silence between us is a living thing. The closer Aaron’s hand gets, the louder it breathes.
He doesn’t rush it. His fingers trace lazy lines on the Formica until they reach the border of my tray. He taps once, a soft question mark, and when I don’t recoil, he lets his pinky nudge against mine. The contact is almost nothing, but it sets my whole nervous system on fire.
Eyes half-lidded, a ghost of a smile plays on his lips. “There was something about you—Jessica—that night,” he says, and the name lands different now. “Something familiar I couldn’t place.”
I swallow. “You mean the wig didn’t give it away?”
He laughs, low and real. “Not even close. It was the way you kissed me.” He shifts, moving his hand so his palm covers the back of mine. The weight is gentle, not possessive. “Your lips feel the same, no matter what you’re wearing.”
My face heats up to a point where I might actually ignite. I feel it in my cheeks, my ears, all the way down my neck. Aaron’s smile widens, but he doesn’t say anything more.
He just leans in, slow enough for me to bail if I want.
I don’t.
We meet in the middle, both awkwardly tilted over the table, elbows bumping into trays and abandoned sandwich wrappers. It’s clumsy and a little ridiculous, but when our lips touch—bare, unmasked, no contest or dare behind it—the world snaps into focus.
It’s a soft kiss, the kind you only see in old movies, but it’s so much louder than anything I remember.
My whole body leans forward, desperate not to lose the connection.
He tastes like rye and cheap mustard and something chemical that’s probably just him.
He lingers a second, maybe two, then pulls back just enough to breathe the same air.
My eyes are still closed when he says, “We can take it slow. I don’t want to mess this up.”
I blink, dazed, and nod. “Yeah. Slow is good.”
He grins, then sits back, hands still folded over mine.
We stay like that for a while, not talking, just letting the aftermath settle.
The world comes back in increments: the metallic whine of the fridge, the wet thunk of a tomato slice hitting tile, the buzz of conversation from the table behind us.
Eventually, we go back to our food, picking at it in silence. This time, when our knees bump under the table, neither of us moves away.
We finish lunch, trading bite-sized facts instead of life stories. He tells me about the time he was eight and broke his wrist trying to skateboard down the gym stairs; I tell him how I once set a microwave on fire with a marshmallow Peep. The conversation is easy, like we’ve done it before.
When the check comes, Aaron grabs it, brushing my fingers as he pulls the slip of paper from under the ketchup bottle. “My treat,” he says, and when I roll my eyes he adds, “First date, remember?”
It is, technically, our first date. I try out the phrase in my head. It fits, but only just.
We walk out into the cold together, shoulders almost touching, and he lets his hand drift to my lower back, a casual guide. I don’t flinch. I don’t even think about it.
Halfway across the quad, he slows down, tugging me to a stop. “You want to hang out later?” he asks. “Or is that too much, too soon?”
I shake my head. “I’d like that.” I hear myself sounding calm, but inside my organs are rearranging themselves like a packing algorithm with a time limit.
“Cool,” he says, and gives me a lopsided grin. “There’s this movie marathon in the student center. We could, I dunno, watch people try to break the world record for popcorn eating.”
“Sounds terrible,” I say. “I’m in.”
He laughs, and the noise of the world recedes until it’s just the two of us, on a campus suddenly smaller and brighter than it was before.
We don’t talk on the way to the science building, but it’s not like before. The quiet is comfortable, expansive. We walk in sync, matching strides, and at the door he catches my hand, fingers slotting into place like they were designed for this.
He holds it for a second, then lets go. “See you tonight?” he asks, and I nod.
He’s gone before I can overthink it, melting into the crowd of backpacks and winter jackets.
I stand on the steps, the afternoon sun sharp and clean on my face, and for the first time I don’t want to hide from it.
I check my phone, out of habit, and see a new message from Sara:
WELL???????
I grin, type back: Tell you everything at studio. Bring caffeine.
She sends three heart emojis and a GIF of a cat hugging a coffee mug.
I slip my phone in my pocket, start toward the art building, and catch my reflection in the window. For once, the person looking back doesn’t look like a before-and-after photo. Just a person, a story in progress, caught mid-reaction.
I walk faster, eager for what comes next.