Chapter 3
CHAPTER THREE
Through the MSC doors and into the three-story atrium.
I pass Common Grounds and scan the square tables scattered around The Hive for the always-bouncing Sophie, the girl living in Technicolor in a grayscale world.
We texted and even FaceTimed while she was home for break, but I missed her something awful.
There she is, dancing in her metal seat to the background music no one else notices. Guaranteed, she’s singing along. Her voice is straight magic—when she sings something soulful, no one would be judged for crying.
I sneak up and tickle her neck. It works. She shoots up from her seat with a yelp and whips around so fast her golden braid smacks her in the face. Like a willowy fairy pretending to be mad.
“Twice in one day?” demands the fairy. “You’re dead.”
As long as she’s the one to kill me, I can live with that. “I got you so bad.”
She slides a basket of chicken across the table. “Here, I ordered for you. They move at a glacial pace.” Her voice signals a movie quote. “You know how that thrills me … Oh, and extra sauce.” She adds it to my basket. “Obvs.”
I meet her gaze. “Thanks, Soph.”
These latte-colored eyes. I’ve been without them for weeks. They warm me up when I’m cold and cool me down when I’m hot.
How much longer? I have to tell her.
But still that same feeling. Months now. A tension in my chest when I ask him. Not panic. Not peace. Just a weighty pause—like God pressing a hand to my sternum and saying, “Back up.”
She snaps away and starts singing to the tune of “Need You Now.” One of her legendary lyric swaps. “It’s a quarter after ten, stomach’s growlin’ loud, and I need strips now. Said I’d do without, but I lost all control and I need strips now—”
Her song breaks into a laugh when I illustrate with a dramatic bite.
“Lady A would bring you on tour if they knew about you,” I say.
She flits back an honored glance. “Yeah, right. Now dish about the sign prank. Is it A1?”
I tense. “Text the number.”
“I knew it.” She edges closer and folds her long, lean arms on the table between us, her thin gold bracelet catching light at her wrist. “Whose number is it? Can you tell me that?”
Don’t push me, woman. I’d tell her anything with a single please, but this absolutely must stay a secret. “Just text it, Soph.”
“You know I will. But during chapel”—she points—“when I can narrow down who it is.”
I chuckle. “Narrow down to the ninety percent of the students on their phones during chapel?”
She holds up a finger. “Unless I come up with something hilarious. Can’t be more than a couple people laughing at the exact same second.”
“Clever. Lucky we sit behind you so I can watch this play out.”
Chapel would be far more fun next to Sophie, but traditions are a way of life around here.
Her floor, G1, sits on the back rows of the front section, and we Flooders sit in the front rows of the back section—the best seats in the house since we have railings for propping our feet—so we’re separated by a horizontal aisle.
Only the hardcore clingy couples break those rules.
And the rare rebels who don’t care about floor culture.
“Or … maybe I’ll forget all about it and have to find out with everyone else.”
“Equally possible,” I tease.
A thousand perfect freckles stretch across her cheeks into a grin. I try not to stare.
“Ideas for Saturday?” I ask.
She usually has an idea of what to do as well as the logistics, and my job is to check in with Levi and Haymitch. I’m a glorified messenger, but I’m not complaining. I’d do far more to see her almost every night.
“Hmm … I’m feeling wild and different,” she says.
“And that’s new?” I dunk the last bite and pop it into my mouth.
Her eyes narrow playfully. “For our activity, obviously.” She twirls a fry between her fingers. “Ooh, I got it. Line dancing.”
My heart rate spikes. Line dancing is always found near two-stepping. Would I get to dance with her?
I’m already there. Laughing eyes, swishing hair. Energy bursting from her in waves and soaking into my skin. “Let’s do it. Have a spot yet?”
I earn a going-along-with-her-crazy-ideas smile, a cousin of her sing-along smile. My nerves respond with an unhelpful hum.
“You must really like the idea,” she says. “You’re not even giving me a hard time.”
Busted. “Do-over?”
She bends forward in challenge. “Too late. You tipped your hand. You’re dying to go dancing with me.”
The hum sharpens to a buzz. Focus, man. “Whatever. You just want an excuse to wear your new Justins.”
A classic Sophie excited clap. “Doesn’t hurt.”
Sophie Appel in cowboy boots is lethal. She’s California perfection with a newfound country streak.
I’m six foot two inches and not small, but she could knock me over with a pinky when she wears those boots.
Or casts a line. Or launches into a story around a campfire.
Wish I could say I showed her the light, but it just took one too many hikes, one too many lakeside sunsets, and she was a goner for the forest. I didn’t even get to be there for most of it.
Girl has a million friends and more hours in the day than the rest of us—a result of her being secretly brilliant and an incredible multitasker.
“You don’t wait for an excuse to wear your million plaid button-ups.” She reaches across the table to pat my chest.
Buzz. Spark. But I force a teasing tone. “Hey now.”
One shoulder lifts with mock innocence, and she grabs her phone. “Time to plan. Local expert?”
That’s me. I grew up just thirty minutes from campus in the little town of Graham.
East Texas has its faults— mosquitoes like a plague, six-month summers hot as Hades, noisy cicadas that all die at once and make a mess.
But we get enough rain to keep those pine forests thick and endless, and our barbecue is the best there is.
I’d live here forever if I could. I’m a simple drive-a-pickup-to-the-creek kind of guy.
Throw in a fishing rod and Sophie in my Cowboys hat, and I couldn’t possibly be happier.
And that’s an actual memory, unwise as it was.
Beside me, Sophie scrolls with purpose. I pull out my phone too, but my mind is firmly back in September.
Her birthday. She’d been dying to jump into a creek “like in The Notebook,” so I took her to my swimming hole in Graham—rope swing included.
That day we were living a country song. The creek is dangerously close to my parents’ house, but I held off on introducing her.
Clutch move. She would’ve been so freaked out.
In college days, that was like four years ago. This hippie commune of a campus runs on a time warp—blink twice and suddenly you’ve got a second family. Eating every meal together and hanging out till late every night doesn’t help. My roommate fell in love in three months, and he fell hard.
Without a glance, she moves from her seat to the bench beside me, tilting her screen my way. My body temperature jumps five degrees.
“Here?” Her arm brushes mine as she pinches to zoom in.
“Ah …” Clearing my throat, I spin my phone on the table to busy my hands. “Lightning Cowboy is less than ideal.”
She purses her lips and scrolls again. “Yeah?”
“Sort of a rager on college nights.”
“Ugh. I couldn’t find another place with under-twenty-one nights.”
“Except—” Shoot. I said that out loud before I thought it through. “I know a place. Mostly two-stepping, but I know the owner. Might could convince him to clear some space for line dances if you wanna lead them.” She will.
Her eyes gleam. “Austin, you’re a genius. Please take us there?”
“Oh, a genius, huh?”
“Okay, no big heads allowed.”
I sit back, arms crossed, and my shoulder grazes hers. “I have great ideas. I’m a genius.”
She shoves my arm. “So you know how to two-step?”
“Since the sixth grade. Oh, Soph. I have a test.” Over break, I heard the perfect song for her. With a gulp of air, I bravely launch into the chorus like she does—“Goldest” by Walker Hayes.
She lights up, already singing along. And now it’s all her, singing her own anthem.
“You know every word,” I say. “You showed me.”
“It’s Walker Hayes. Come on, Austin. Try harder.” That smile is 100 percent contagious. “Fact is, ‘um’ and ‘platinum’ is the best rhyme ever.”
As I nod, I let out a content yawn. Our baskets are empty, but I’m in zero hurry.
Her expression fades to that sad look she never explains. She shifts in her seat, eyes flicking toward the door.
I know what this is. She takes “good vibes only” to an extreme.
“You don’t have to do that, you know,” I tell her gently.
She blinks. “Do what?”
“Leave just ’cause you’re sad.”
Her fingers curl around the edge of her sleeves. “Do not.”
I don’t push it. Just nudge her arm with mine.
And her eyes warm. Success.