CHAPTER TWENTY-seven #5
The steam from my shower still clings to the mirror, fogging up the edges as I wrap my towel tighter around me. God, I love this dorm. Having an ensuite bathroom feels like a luxury at Ridgewater — one I refuse to take for granted.
I've heard the horror stories about the first three floors. Communal bathrooms. Fighting for mirror space, dodging wet towels on the floor, finding other girls' hair in the drain.
No, thanks.
Floors four and five are where it's at — private bathrooms, hot showers on demand, no one banging on the door telling you to hurry up.
I step out of the bathroom, still warm from the shower, and crouch to pull my weighing scale out from under the bed. It's part of my routine — once a week, every week. I don't obsess about it, but I like to know where I stand.
I step on and watch the numbers blink to life: 129.4 lbs. Perfect.
A little smile tugs at my lips.
This — this right here — is why I eat clean and drag myself to the gym even when I'd rather be binging Netflix with a pint of Ben & Jerry's. It's why I pass on late-night pizza with the girls and plan my meals like it's a full-time job.
It's not always easy, but moments like this make every early-morning run worth it.
I step off the scale and slide it back into its spot, feeling lighter — literally and figuratively.
Today's got that weird Florida chill in the air — yeah, you heard me right. Florida. Chilly. Shocking, I know.
It's been raining for days, the wind's been rude enough to turn every walk across campus into a hair-whipping battle, and somehow the air still feels damp no matter how many layers you wear.
But honestly? I kind of love it. Days like this are rare, which means I finally get to play dress-up without sweating through my clothes by noon.
I pull on my outfit for the day: a cream knit sweater, soft and a little oversized, tucked just enough into the waistband of a black A-line skirt. Black tights slide over my legs, smooth and snug, and my favorite pair of tall heeled boots finish the look.
When I check the mirror, my lips tug into a slow, satisfied curve.
God, I love dressing up now. Clothes actually fit me — like fit-fit me.
No more crying in fitting rooms under those soul-crushing fluorescent lights. No more wrestling myself into jeans two sizes too small and pretending it's fine while slowly losing circulation.
I do a little twirl, my skirt flaring out just enough to make me laugh at my own reflection.
I then grab my phone off the desk before reaching for my bag, the screen lighting up with three unread messages.
The first one's from Lucy.
LUCY
Already at the lecture hall. Where are you? Class starts in fifteen.
I nearly roll my eyes. Classic Lucy.
This is the same girl who thinks "on time" means showing up thirty minutes early just so she can claim the dead-center seat. Lucy lives for being first in the room — she's probably already got her notes spread out and color-coded before the professor's even finished their pre-class coffee.
I tap back a reply.
ME
Chill, I'm coming. Save me a seat!
Then I open the other two.
Both from Zach.
ZACH
Good morning, sugarplum. Wanna grab breakfast together?
The second one makes me groan out loud.
ZACH
Or I can just show up outside your dorm and bribe you with coffee until you say yes.
I stare at the screen, biting the inside of my cheek.
He's not actually going to wait outside my dorm, right?
The thought makes my heart thud against my ribs like it's trying to escape. And I hate it — hate how warm the idea makes me feel, how stupidly fluttery it makes my chest.
It's been over a week since I last saw him — that night in his room, when we finally said all the things we'd been holding back for the last three years.
Since then, he's asked me out a few times, inviting me to grab coffee or a quick bite, and every single time, I turned him down with some excuse about being busy with class or Capstone rehearsals.
Which, okay, isn't completely a lie. I have been busy. But if I really wanted to, I could've carved out twenty minutes to see him.
But I didn't.
Because the old me — the girl who waited around for him after every practice, who said yes the second he asked, who jumped at every crumb of attention — she would've said yes in a heartbeat.
And that girl? I'm not her anymore.
I want this to be different. I need it to be different.
God. I want to smack myself for smiling. I really do. But there it is, stretching across my face anyway — a stupid, traitorous smile that I try to smother by biting my lip.
Ever since I unblocked him, Zach's been blowing up my phone like it's his part-time job.
And I don't mean casual check-ins, either. I mean nonstop. Good morning texts, random memes, late-night "are you still awake?" messages — the guy replies faster than Prime shipping.
And, okay, I hate to admit it, but there's something satisfying about it. Like the universe finally decided to flip the script.
Because once upon a time, I was the one glued to my phone, rereading our text threads, waiting like an idiot for him to text back.
And now? Now Zach Westbrook is the one basically sitting by his phone, waiting for me.
And God help me... it feels good.
I'm halfway through typing out another excuse — Sorry, can't, busy with rehearsal — when I open my door... and nearly jump out of my own skin.
"Oh good God!" My hand flies to my chest as my heart launches into overdrive.
Because there he is.
Zach, leaning against the wall across from my door, one ankle casually crossed over the other, two Starbucks venti iced lattes balanced in his big hands, that signature smirk curved across his annoyingly perfect mouth.
"Good morning, beautiful," he drawls, winking like the infuriating menace he is.
I blink at him, still trying to calm my racing heart. "You scared the hell out of me!"
"Technically," he says, voice dropping into something way too amused, "the proper response would be 'good morning, handsome.'"
His smirk widens. "But honestly? I think I like your surprise reaction better. Really does things for my ego."
I inhale deeply, then exhale, trying to will my pulse back to a normal rhythm. "What are you doing here, Zach?"
He pushes off the wall, that slow, lopsided grin of his stretching slow, tugging at one corner first before it spreads fully — the kind of grin that makes it impossible not to notice the little dimple on his left cheek.
"Well, since you keep turning me down over text, I figured I'd up my game," he says, stepping closer. "Harder to say no in person, right?"
He extends one of the cups toward me, wiggling his brows. "Latte?"
I just... stare.
At the mountain of whipped cream, the caramel drizzle catching the light like it's calling my name. My mouth actually waters.
God, it's been forever since I let myself have one of these.
Zach catches my silence and grins like he's been waiting for this exact moment.
"Almond milk," he recites, ticking each off like a checklist. "Three pumps of caramel syrup. Two shots of espresso. Exactly two packets of sugar. Whipped cream with cinnamon drizzle—extra whipped cream, because I know that's your favorite part."
I swallow hard, my fingers twitching with the urge to snatch the cup and chug it right there in the hallway. My body's practically humming like an addict in withdrawal, just staring at that sweet, creamy perfection.
But I don't move.
"Did I get it wrong? I was sure I remembered how you liked it."
A crease forms between his brows.
"No," I say quickly. "You remembered it perfectly." My gaze drops back to the cup, and my stomach does an awful little twist. "It's just... I don't drink that anymore."
"What? Since when?"
"Since I realized how fat I was." I let out a quick, almost flippant laugh and shrug, like it's no big deal. "Looked in the mirror one day, hated what I saw, and decided it was time to do something about it. Stopped shoving sugar down my throat, started counting calories, and started working out."
I make it sound easy. Like one day I just flipped a switch and became the girl who lives on kale and morning runs.
But the truth? It was brutal.
Ugly, soul-crushing brutal.
I thought hiring a fitness coach would fix it all — she'd hand me a plan, I'd follow it, and boom, problem solved.
But no.
She pushed me harder than I thought I could go. Made me track every bite, every rep, every ounce of water. And when I slipped — when I let myself have a cookie or missed a workout — it felt like I had failed her. Failed myself.
I cried through more workouts than I can count — legs shaking, lungs burning, tears mixing with sweat. I cried sitting across from my friends as they ordered burgers and milkshakes while I stabbed at my sad little salad, trying to convince myself it was worth it.
And when the number on the scale didn't move, when my body didn't change fast enough, panic twisted through me so sharp it made me sick — literally. I'd end up on the bathroom floor, forcing it all back up just so I wouldn't have to feel it sitting in my stomach.
But even that didn't work.
So, I ate less. And less. Starved myself until my head spun and my stomach ached so bad I had to lie down.
I wanted it gone — all of it — the weight, the softness, the girl who stared back at me in the mirror. I wanted her erased.
But every time I looked, she was still there.
Pathetic. Weak. The same girl who got laughed at, who got called fat.
The girl Zach Westbrook didn't want.
Every glance at the mirror felt like ripping the scab off a wound that never healed. Some nights, I'd grip the sink so hard my knuckles turned white, tears streaming down my face as I glared at my reflection. And then one night, something in me just... snapped.
I grabbed my hairbrush and hurled it as hard as I could. The mirror shattered, glass raining down like tiny shards of judgment, and for a second I felt relief — like I'd finally silenced her.