Chapter 6
CHAPTER SIX
My pen flies across the paper as I finish outlining the Bible paper that was just assigned for Monday. The faster I knock this out, the less time wasted on schoolwork later.
My watch buzzes with a text.
Kit
Meet up in the lounge after class?
I swipe back to the time. Seven minutes until the beautiful freedom that is Friday afternoon.
Izzy leans in. “Is our adopted G3-er busy tonight? We’re dressing up and going out for Mongolian food.”
Mongolian. A night out. Sounds like what I’d be doing at home.
Some stellar planners live on G3. FOMO hits every time I miss one of their floor events.
Luckily, they’ve grafted me in whenever I need an escape from my own floor, but Izzy doesn’t know I keep my weekend nights open. Because I’m pathetic.
I imitate Ryan Gosling in Barbie. “So cool.”
She laughs out loud. The professor raises a brow, and we drop our heads. I need a run and a shower before dinner, but I can squeeze in a hangout before that.
I lower my voice. “Can’t tonight. But I’m free after class?”
“Oh, right. Boyfriend life. Must be nice.”
About that.
“Yeah, I’m done after this,” she says.
“I’ve got some crazy plans to pick up books at the library.” I wiggle my fingers like I’m luring her into a heist. “Wanna join?”
Can’t compete with Mongolian food. Not this time, at least.
“Ooh, the guy who does work-study in there is so cute,” Izzy says.
“Oh, Arjun?” I grin and elbow her. “Let’s see if he’ll flirt with you in front of the crotchety librarian.”
“Girl. Say less.”
I could invite Kit along, but I don’t have it in me to be in close proximity to her any more than I already am.
No, just wait—before you judge me, hear me out.
Perfect people on red carpets and social media?
Not real. I know this firsthand. I’ve actually been to an A-lister red-carpet event.
And some of my friends back home are successful influencers.
Trust me, those people don’t look like their pictures.
Just regular people. It’s all angles, lighting, and stylists.
But Kit? Kit is actually that perfect. Looking at her is like staring straight into the reality of my own inadequacy.
While I was home, one of my friends asked all about Mayberry, swiping through my camera roll and squealing over Austin—a proper response to the man.
But then she pointed at a picture of Kit and me, toggling her finger between us.
“That’s your friend? She’s so pretty. I mean, you’re pretty too, but, like, whoa. ”
That comment has been stuck in my head on a loop.
What she said was true. It shouldn’t bother me. But it does. And it bothers me even more that it bothers me. But lately, it’s worse. Because girls like Kit get their dream guy and ride off into the sunset. Of course they do.
I slide out my phone and type two words—Sorry can’t—and stare at them, like they’re aimed at more than just her.