Chapter 8
CHAPTER EIGHT
As we approach Davidson Hall from Saga, the newest puzzle on campus is impossible to miss.
White poster boards in the windows, most of which now have two-foot-tall letters scrawled in Sharpie.
The message is almost finished—only one letter left to make it true.
Two letters are chosen each night by popular demand, and we’ve only gotten three wrong so far.
A stick figure with a head, body, and one arm has taken over the Mayberry Hangman profile picture to mark our mistakes.
MAYBERRY
W_NS
B_G
We’ll get the last letter easy tonight. But the mystery I’d like to solve is this—who is making this magic happen?
My eyes are yanked from the hangman game when Austin pushes his plaid flannel sleeves higher over his elbows.
I never need a reminder to look at those distracting forearms—wide and sculpted, wrapped in warm, tan skin from his Mexican grandma’s side.
The muscle? I bet he’s been in a committed relationship with the gym since kindergarten.
The undersides are paler, veins pumping.
Like a peek at the bear while it’s sleeping—muscles relaxed, claws tucked in, still dangerous but completely cuddly.
I’ve been friends with this guy for months, and I still can’t shake the desire to touch those arms.
Forcing my eyes away, I tell him about the library earlier. “Izzy came with me, and we tried to get a rise out of the librarian. You know, Arjun works in there—” I stop to steer him away from my Jeep. “I need to go back and change.”
“How come?”
“Because I look like this?”
He frowns in this gentle way that makes my heart skip a beat.
“I don’t have my keys anyway.”
“Oh.” He pats his leg, antsy.
“In a hurry?” I ask.
“Li’l bit. So I assume y’all succeeded in your mission to horrify Mrs. Casey?”
“Totally. How’d you know?”
He sends me a knowing look. “Please. Arjun didn’t stand a chance.”
I didn’t think he knew Izzy. Apparently he does. And he’s noticed she’s pretty. My chest tightens, but I redirect hard and check his shoes—the laced leather boots he always wears when he’s not in sneakers. As if Levi helped him pick out work boots. Which is probably exactly what happened.
“Do you know all these G3-ers from volleyball last semester?” he asks.
“Some of them, yeah.” I jab him in the side.
He reaches for mine, but I’ve already taken off.
“Hey!”
Now he’s chasing me, and I have to flat out sprint. He’s impossibly fast. I wish I could watch him running behind me, all champion-running-back speed and agility. Football season is over, and it’s a terrible shame.
My major head start barely gets me to my building first. I manage to badge in, but his hand meets my side as I pull the door open.
Fully giggling, I hold on to the door for dear life as he squeezes my ticklish spot.
“Don’t start what you can’t finish,” he teases.
When I push him away, he pretends I’m actually strong enough to move his bear body.
Still gripping the door handle, I grin. “Well, Austin, I think …” I lunge to jab at his side and then jump through the doorway. “I won this round!”
“Cheater!”
The door slams.
He’s allowed in my building on Friday nights, but he’s too much of a gentleman to barge into a girls’ dorm without an invitation, even as a joke.
I sprint to my suite’s lounge, round the corner, and stop at the mirror.
Wow, what a sight. My wavy hair has frizzed into a full-blown disaster.
But Austin’s in a hurry. With a sigh, I finger comb and French-braid the sides, trying not to flinch.
As Mia Thermopolis said, “This is as good as it’s going to get.
” I’ll never compare with the girls he’d normally be on a date with. Still, I wish I had longer to try.
But no time to think. I grab my cutest pair of jeans off the floor and scan for a top from the closet. Something that makes me look like I have a waist. Clothes on, makeup touched up, phone in pocket. Grab my keys, run down the hall. I can’t miss my chance at a not-date with Austin.
She looks beautiful, but I hate that she fixed herself up. I wish I could tell her how much I liked how she looked five minutes ago. I wish I could tell her that her hair wild and free sends a chill up my spine. I wish I could kiss her until she believed me. But I can’t. I’m not the boss.
“Hey, you. All dry?”
“You okay?”
She caught me. Nerves churn in my stomach. An almost date with Sophie feels like the NFL Scouting Combine. When it’s finally time to ask her for a relationship, I hope I’ve done enough to make the cut.
“Yeah.” I nudge her arm. “I’m great.”
“Samwise,” Ethan calls down the sidewalk. “Can you help me out again tomorrow? You were money before my last test.”
I turn to his voice and hold out a fist bump. “Finn, my man.”
Sophie steps in. “How were the Bahamas, Ethan? I’m so jealous!”
He flashes a smile, teeth bright against his dark skin.
Don’t get any ideas, buddy.
“Oh, it was the best,” he says. “Super fun.”
“I bet. The water is so clear, right? Amazing snorkeling.”
“Yeah, for sure. So—”
“See you at the first soccer game of the season! Exciting!” Sophie grabs my arm and beelines across the grass for the Jeep.
Trying to take care of me again. And touching me while she does it. I want to love it, but Ethan asked me because he knows I’ll come through. If I don’t make time, who else will?
Dad never let things slip. Even before his surgery, when his back had him in pain every day.
He never slacked. Work? Covered. Chores?
Done. Football fees, travel, gear? Somehow, he always made it work.
We never had to wonder. Never even had to ask.
He made sure we had everything we needed—most of what we wanted too.
Reliable, steady, the kind of man people don’t have to second-guess.
The kind of helpful only one-upped on the pages of the Gospels.
Does Sophie really think I need help getting out of things?
“Are you aware that no is a multiple-choice option?” she asks, voice low.
“Finn’s my buddy,” I say. “I wanna help if I can swing it.”
“Everyone’s your buddy. You’re the nicest guy on campus. The nicest guy in the world.”
“He’s your friend too.”
“True, but you don’t see me killing myself to tutor him. I wish I could tell everyone no for you.”
My arm clunks cold to my side when she drops it. “I’m really good at it.” She eyes me. “Maybe you’re the one who needs tutoring.”
She’s not wrong. My sister, Janie, likes to imitate Miranda’s that’s all wave in The Devil Wears Prada as a joke, but Sophie does it naturally.
What she doesn’t know is that Levi already heads people off on my behalf. He thinks he’s subtle, but I’ve seen him run interference for years—redirecting people, convincing someone to go in my place. I know he means well, but it grates that he thinks I need the help.
In some ways Sophie and I know each other so well already, but she doesn’t live on my floor, so there’s a lot she doesn’t really get.
Plus, she’s never met my family. She doesn’t know about the walk-on thing at UT yet.
And honestly? I don’t always understand her either.
I want to though. I wanna know every golden detail. We’re in such a weird spot.
“You don’t tell me no.” I nudge her arm, baiting her. She does.
She sends a look over her shoulder. “Prove it.”
That sassy, flirty spark in her eye. I almost pull her close. No. Can’t.
“Drive your Jeep into the pond.”
She gasps, horrified. “My baby? That was too easy of a no.”
“Tell me a secret.”
“No.”
I almost push her on it, but I’ve gotta stay in bounds. “Well, you showed me.”
“Yes I did. Learn from the master. Now, your turn to practice.”
“Shoot.”
“What do you say if a guy on your floor asks for help with his homework?”
“Soph, I wanna help if I can. They’re—”
“Your buddies. I know, I know. Come on, Austin.” This started as a game, but suddenly she’s serious. “You can tell them no if you can tell me no. Do it as a personal favor to me.”
I would sell all my possessions and join the circus as a personal favor to her. If she said my name while making the request, I’d really do something nuts like … become a vegetarian. A vegetarian zombie.
“Okay. I’ll try to tell them no.”
“Somehow that sounds more like a yes,” she teases.
“It was a no. To them.”
She pushes me, her affectionate gaze pulling me like a magnet. “Tutor me, Austin.”
“Yes.”
“Help me shower someone, Austin.”
“Yes.”
She keeps saying my name. It’s physically impossible to refuse.
“You’re supposed to practice saying no!”
We’ve arrived at the parking lot. So close. “Okay, no.”
“No to me?” She spins to a stop in front of her Sophie-yellow Jeep, bends toward me playfully, pokes my chest.
Am I screwing up? She’s so flirty tonight. I love it. I want more.
“No no no no no no no.” I swivel my head for emphasis.
“So proud of you. I think. That was confusing.” She laughs, but the air between us shifts—grows heavier. Another step closer.
It’s not time. Snap out of it. “Soph.” My body got the memo, but my voice didn’t. “I know you’re just playing, but my dad would make the time. Jesus even more so. He was so interruptible. I want to be like that.”
She studies me. “That’s why?”
“Saying no also just feels gross. But that’s part of it, yeah. When God brings someone along who needs help, I wanna be the guy who drops everything. That’s what love looks like.”
Latte eyes stare up at me with … what is that? Admiration? She props against the front of her Jeep, too beautiful to be real. “Jesus was interruptible, huh? And when he helped people, he did it with flair.” She gestures dramatically. “Here, I’m just gonna put this mud on your eyes.”
I chuckle. “Yeah, no kidding.” My voice is still too quiet. Traitor.
Sophie. I almost touch her hair, grab her hand, drag her close, kiss her, tell her what she means to me. I shove my hands in my pockets before I lose my grip. She has no idea how many times I tell myself no.
I clear my throat. “You wanna drive?”
“I have an urge to yell no right now,” she jokes. “But yes.”
Please, can I have the go-ahead? I’m trying to wait for your timing, but this sucks. She loves you. She’s ready, right? And anything else we can learn together. Please?
As I move toward the passenger seat, I release my detained hands and try to flick the tension from my arms.
She’s driving, so it’s my job to play DJ, a game she made up long before Mayberry.
I know the rules—impress Sophie with songs she forgot about or hasn’t heard yet.
It’s a great setup. If I nail it, the thrill of making her happy.
If I miss, a quick redo. And bonus points if I earn her perfect-song-for-the-moment sigh.
I type in her code and scan through what might fit tonight. Prime storytelling. Upbeat country with sentimental lyrics is a safe bet—Sam Hunt maybe. Or optimistic hip-hop, like Forrest Frank.
She rolls the windows down. Rolls her shoulders back. But her fingers keep tapping a frenetic beat on the wheel. “Something slow.”
A slow song? I risk another sidelong glance. That’s weird. She never wants those. Ever.