Chapter 11
The phone is already buzzing by the time I clear the stairwell, vibrating through my jeans with the urgency of a live wire. It’s only ten-fifteen and the group chats have mutated from idle memes to a kind of campus-wide surveillance, every notification a fresh hit of dopamine-laced dread.
First, there’s Hunter: Dude. They’re making memes about you. Some of them are actually kind of hot??
Then Sara, her text like a bandage over the wound: Ignore the noise. Coffee after class? I can bring pastries.
Then, just for flavor, the Wilcox U account:
@WILCOX_OVERHEARD: When the guy you roast in Chem becomes the hero of your bisexual awakening. #DeadpoolWasRight #SpicyLabPartners
I swipe through the notifications in the semi-dark, thumb moving faster than my brain.
There are at least twelve new posts—some with my face, most with Aaron’s, one particularly haunting with our heads photoshopped onto that famous Spiderman double-pointing image.
The comment threads are a minefield, half speculation and half blood sport.
The hallway outside Organic Chemistry is a live feed of the student body’s attention span.
Every third person is scrolling, heads bent to screens, thumbs flicking.
As I join the river of students shuffling toward the east entrance, I start to feel the weight of eyes—not just the casual, background checks for potential friends or threats, but the laser focus of people who think they’re seeing something new.
I walk faster. My shoes squeak on the tile, echoing louder than they should. Somewhere behind me, a girl whispers, “That’s him,” and I can tell without looking she means me. I want to evaporate. Instead, I keep my head down and count the steps to the next door.
The quad is staked out with benches and early adopters of parka season, all pretending to read but really tracking the flow of gossip.
Even the squirrels seem to pause mid-fight, just in case they miss the next plot twist. I consider detouring around the arts building, but that would only guarantee more stares.
So I push forward, every muscle in my back braced for impact.
Halfway to the cafeteria, my phone goes off again. This time, it’s a text from a number I don’t recognize:
UNKNOWN: You’re famous, lol. Don’t let it go to your head. ;)
I delete the message without replying, but the residue lingers. Famous. It tastes like battery acid. It’s the price to be paid for dating Aaron Thompson. I begin to wonder if I can afford it.
The entrance to the dining hall is a funnel of sound and fluorescent light. I scan my ID, slide past the salad bar, and beeline for the back tables—my usual spot, the one furthest from the glass wall where upper class students set up their daily tribunals.
The place is already packed. There’s a steady drone of voices, but above it all is the cackling of Aaron’s friends, clustered around two pushed-together tables near the front.
They’re all here—Malik, the guy from the lab who once turned a whole titration into a stand-up routine; blonde dude from Aaron’s baseball days; a guy with teal hair who I think is his roommate.
They’re loud enough that I can hear individual words, even over the sizzle of the fryer.
I grab a tray, try to look like I haven’t noticed, and start the pilgrimage through the buffet line. As I reach the pasta station, the volume spikes.
“I’m just saying,” Malik says, “the odds of him being straight were never that high. Did you see the way he dressed up for the formal? He could out-slay half the girls on campus.”
The teal-haired guy grins. “It’s the brooding that does it. You put enough angst in a lab partner and it starts leaking out the pores. It’s, like, science.”
The laughter that follows is genuine, not mean, but it still feels like a body check to the ribs.
I keep my head down, piling the world’s driest spaghetti onto my plate, but I can feel the conversation orbiting around me.
There’s a gravitational pull to the drama, and I’m the new satellite.
I should be flattered, or at least vindicated.
Instead, all I want is to make it to my seat without tripping over my own feet.
I get within ten feet of my usual table before I realize it’s already occupied. Three first-year students, eyes wide, have claimed it as a strategic lookout point. They notice me, then look away fast, as if my mere presence might infect them with whatever viral craze I’ve become.
Plan B: the farthest booth, half-shadowed by the broken lamp overhead. I slide in, tray first, and exhale for the first time since leaving class.
I’m halfway through a forkful of pasta when my phone lights up again. This time, it’s a photo—Aaron, at the head of his table, mugging for the camera with a mouthful of sandwich. In the background, Malik is holding up two fingers behind Aaron’s head, peace sign or bunny ears, it’s hard to tell.
HUNTER: Never in my life have I been this proud. You are literally campus history, Spence.
I want to argue, to remind him that being history is rarely a good thing while you’re alive. Instead, I send a thumbs-up and return to my lunch, ignoring the spike of adrenaline that comes every time the phone vibrates.
It takes three attempts to finish the pasta.
Every time I look up, I see Aaron—either in real time, laughing with his friends, or projected onto every screen in the room.
At one point, he catches my eye, holds the gaze for a full second, then winks.
I choke on my water, spluttering so hard a kid at the next table looks up in alarm.
I’m about to pack up and bail when I hear footsteps behind me. There’s a pause, then a familiar voice, quieter than I expect.
“Mind if I sit?”
Aaron. He’s holding a plate of fries and a half-eaten sandwich, looking like he just finished a double shift at the gym. His hair is still damp, but he’s changed into a hoodie—blue, Wilcox U crest faded from too many washes.
“Yeah,” I say. “Go ahead.”
He slides in, setting his food down with practiced care. For a second, neither of us speaks. He shuffles the fries, stacking them in little pyramids, then clears his throat.
“You surviving?” he asks, voice pitched low.
I nod, not trusting myself to talk.
He glances sideways, reading my silence. “They’ll get bored eventually,” he says, popping a fry into his mouth. He leans in. “You wanna know what they’re saying about me?”
I raise an eyebrow. “Should I?”
He grins. “Apparently, I’m the ‘bi icon’ now. Malik says I’m supposed to start giving advice to freshmen.” He rolls his eyes, but the smile doesn’t fade. “I told him I’d consider it if the pay is decent.”
I can’t help it—I laugh. It’s not loud, but it’s real.
Aaron’s smile softens. He picks at his sandwich, then looks at me, serious for the first time all day. “You’re handling this better than I thought,” he says. “I half expected you’d fake your own death.”
I snort. “I half considered it.”
He laughs, then turns his attention to the pasta on my tray. “You know that’s just noodles and ketchup, right?”
I look down. “My ancestors suffered so I could eat this.”
He laughs again, the sound echoing in the little booth. For a second, it’s just us. No memes, no stares, just a normal lunch.
Then his friends show up. Not the whole crew—just Malik and the teal-haired guy, but it’s enough to make my pulse stutter. They approach with the confidence of people who have never known social anxiety.
“Hey, Montgomery,” Malik says, sliding in next to me without asking. “Mind if we crash?”
Before I can answer, the teal-haired guy is already wedged beside Aaron, balancing his own plate on the edge of the table. “This is a summit,” he announces. “We need to work out the terms of the new social order.”
I stare at Aaron, half-expecting him to bail. But he just shrugs, as if to say, This is happening whether we like it or not.
Malik turns to me, eyes bright. “So, rumor is you’re the brains of this operation. You cool with being the poster child for campus romance, or should we let the meme die?”
I blink. “Can I vote for the meme dying?”
He laughs, clapping me on the shoulder. “Too late, man. You’re trending.”
The other guy leans in, lowering his voice. “We saw the video,” he says. “You and Aaron at the coffee shop. It’s kind of adorable.”
My face goes hot. “There’s a video?”
Malik nods, solemn. “Everything’s a video. You just gotta assume.”
I sink a little lower in my seat, wishing I could dissolve.
Aaron sees the look and nudges my foot under the table. It’s a small thing, but it grounds me. He grins, then looks at his friends. “You guys are being weird,” he says. “Let us eat in peace.”
“Fine, fine,” Malik says, but he winks at me as he says it.
For the next ten minutes, the conversation is all rapid-fire jokes and cafeteria gossip. I keep expecting the other shoe to drop, but it never does. Instead, the group settles into a rhythm, the old boundaries gone, replaced by something new.
At one point, Aaron’s hand brushes mine under the table. The touch is fleeting—a single knuckle, a flick of warmth—but it sends a line of heat up my arm.
I glance at him, and he’s already looking, eyebrows raised, like he’s daring me to pull away.
I don’t.
The rest of lunch blurs past. When it’s time to go, Aaron lingers, letting the others file out first.
He looks at me, serious again. “You good?”
I nod. “Yeah. I think I am.”
He smiles, then stands, shouldering his backpack. “See you in lab?”
“Yeah,” I say, voice steadier now.
As he walks away, I feel the ghost of his touch still humming in my bones.
My phone buzzes one last time.
SARA: Proud of you.
—ΠΩ—