CHAPTER TWENTY-seven #9
I sneak a side glance at Adam, who's over there looking entirely too smug.
Smug or not, at least I won't be suffering alone. If I'm about to make a fool of myself trying to pull off arabesques and pirouettes, he's going down with me.
And honestly? That thought is... kind of comforting.
By the time Adam and I push through the dining hall doors, it's creeping up on one. The lunch rush has mostly died down — thank God — but the place is still humming with life. Clusters of students linger over plates and coffee cups, voices carrying up to the high wooden beams overhead.
And then the smell hits me — smoky grilled meats, fresh deli spreads, dim sum steaming in bamboo baskets, and entire trays of sushi and sashimi lined up in perfect display, tempting me with every glossy piece.
We've just loaded up our trays — his piled with enough carbs to feed a small army: a burger stacked to the sky, fries on the side, and something that looks suspiciously like dumplings piled in the corner of his tray.
Meanwhile, mine...well, I initially told myself I'd just grab a chicken salad and maybe some fruit. But the second I walked in, my stomach staged a full-blown protest.
Not surprising, considering I skipped dinner last night — too wiped out to even chew, just collapsed face-first into bed. And breakfast? I pause, trying to rewind my foggy brain. Coffee... and... nothing.
I groan silently, squeezing my eyes shut.
Damn it, Caroline. No wonder I'm ready to eat the table.
If Cassie were here — my fitness coach in New York — she'd be wagging a finger at me. Balance, Caroline. No starving yourself between meals. Feed your body, give it energy — and stop acting like a slice of cake is a felony.
She had this whole system down, and I actually stuck with it because it worked. Eating on a plan never felt like punishment anymore — not like those miserable, crash-diet phases I used to put myself through.
Cassie even talked me into having a cheat day, which at first felt terrifying. The idea of deliberately letting myself indulge? I was convinced I'd spiral and never rein it back in.
But she made it sound doable — like treating yourself is part of the process, not breaking it. So I listened. Clean eating most days, cheat days every other weekend... and, shockingly, I even learned to enjoy it.
But ever since I got back to Florida? Disaster.
This is the first time I've eaten more than bird food in a normal day, which technically makes today my first cheat day since coming home.
So now my tray's stacked with grilled chicken and mashed potatoes, green beans, and obviously a sushi and sashimi platter — because resisting that glossy salmon and ruby-red tuna would be a crime.
Adam nudges me, and when I glance up, he's already tilting his chin toward an empty table by the glass — the one with the best view.
"There," he says.
Outside, past the window, the big man-made pond glints in the afternoon sun, swans cutting lazy paths across the water, palm trees swaying in the breeze like they've got nothing better to do.
My face lights up the second I see it's free. My favorite spot. The one place on campus where you can almost forget you're drowning in assignments and rehearsal schedules and just pretend life is... serene.
Or at least Instagrammable.
We slide into our seats, trays clattering on the table, sunlight spilling across the plates. I dig into my food like a woman starved (which, technically, I am).
Meanwhile, Adam's across from me, grabbing his burger — and not just any burger. This thing is a skyscraper. Meat, cheese, dripping sauce — basically food porn on a plate, and I kind of hate how good it looks.
"So, here's a fun fact about me." He grabs the burger with both hands like he's shooting a commercial for the meatiest, juiciest burger on campus — sauce dripping down in perfect slow motion, daring you to call the hotline and order ten.
"Last summer, I had this massive crush on a girl who taught at a private ballet studio. Very gorgeous and a few years older than me. And like an idiot, I thought the best way to impress her was to... you know... join her class."
I almost choke on a piece of sushi. "You didn't."
"Oh, I did." He nods solemnly, "I went in there thinking, how hard can it be? Jump a little, stretch a little, maybe twirl once or twice. Easy. I'd have her swooning in no time." He waves his free hand like it's obvious.
"Next thing I know, she's got me at the barre telling me to 'plié.' Thought it was some badass move. Nope. Just me bending my knees over and over until my thighs felt like they were being roasted over hellfire."
"And of course I tried to push through it—like I said, I was trying to impress her. Tapping out would've made me look weak, and that's just not my style." He leans back, smug grin firmly in place, like the whole world should already know this about him.
I snort into my water.
God, he's insufferable. Insufferable and... kind of funny. Which is even worse.
"She said if I made it through her six-month ballet boot camp, she'd go out with me. So obviously, I signed up." He shrugs, all casual swagger, like this isn't the most ridiculous story ever.
"Never been the type to walk away from a challenge—especially not one that comes with a girl at the finish line. And let's be real, who's ever turned me down?"
I shoot him a look, rolling my eyes. "And did you? Survive?"
Adam smirks, lifting his burger like a trophy before taking a bite. Juice runs down his hand, and he licks it off without missing a beat.
"Hell yeah. Though it was the most embarrassing crap I've ever done to impress a girl—and easily the hardest. My thighs still haven't forgiven me.
Like, respect to the guys who do that full-time, because I swear I saw my soul leave my body during week two.
" He washes it down with water, grinning wider.
"We went out a few times. Good while it lasted, but—"
I arch a brow. "Let me guess, you got bored?"
He chuckles, no offense taken. "Wrong, Miss Judgmental. We actually had a good run. Only stopped because she moved to D.C.—got hired as a ballet instructor for one of those fancy conservatories."
"Sure," I deadpan, setting my cup down, "she didn't flee to another state just to get away from you."
Adam barks a laugh, totally unbothered, like I just handed him a compliment instead of a jab.
"You're mean, Care." Adam says it with a grin, all playful.
"Someone's got to keep you humble," I shoot back, but his grin softens and he pokes at his burger like he's steeling himself. "Okay — serious question. What about you? Why'd you stop doing ballet? Didn't you like it?"
I pause mid-chew, press a napkin to the corner of my mouth and actually think about it for once. "No. It wasn't that I didn't like it. I loved it." My voice comes out quieter than I expect. "I liked it a lot."
"So what happened?"
I purse my lips, looking for the easiest way to say it without turning into a drama. "Let's just say... high school sucked. There were kids who weren't exactly kind. Especially to kids who didn't fit whatever stupid mold they'd decided was 'perfect.'"
"What do you mean?"
"For lack of a better phrase — I was fat back then. The other kids picked on me for wearing a leotard and tights in class; they said I looked gross, like a burrito ready to explode." I shrug, like it's a ridiculous thing even telling it now.
"What? They said that to you?"
Adam goes visibly... pissed-off-disgusted, the way someone looks when they hear something that shouldn't have happened.
"Yep. You know how vicious kids can be at that age. I got sick of being their favorite target, so I quit ballet my freshman year."
Adam's expression softens, the usual cocky edge slipping. "I bet that was hard to walk away from."
"It was. But getting picked on every day was worse. I only kept going because I had this wild obsession with The Nutcracker since I was five. All I wanted was to be the Sugarplum Princess. Yep, that was my big life goal."
I roll my eyes when I catch Adam smirking across the table. "We all have our phases."
He lifts his hands in mock surrender, grin widening. "Yeah, yeah, if you say so."
Adam's grin fades, and for a beat he looks genuinely pissed.
"Still... I can't get over how mean kids can be in high school.
Like, who raised them? If I'd been there, I'd have tackled every last one of them and told them not to mess with you.
" He cracks his knuckles as he says it, all sudden seriousness and bad-ass posturing.
I laugh, because the image of him storming a high school corridor is ridiculous and somehow comforting. "Don't," I say, shaking my head. "You'd get suspended and then I'd feel worse."
"Fine," he folds his arms. "But seriously — that sucks, Care."
"It did," I admit, the smile in my voice. "But it's all in the past now. And my best... former best friend, Zach—he always had my back."
"Wait—Zach? You mean the guy from earlier? Zach Westbrook?"
"Yep. That's the one."
A ghost of a smile creeps onto my face before I can stop it.
God, the number of times that boy got himself sent to the principal's office because of me... I lost count.
Every time someone called me names or laughed too loud in my direction, he was already throwing punches. His parents were on a first-name basis with the school secretary because of how often they got called in.
He only stopped using his fists when hockey was on the line — the coaches warned him that if he kept fighting, they'd bench him, maybe even kick him off the team. You'd think that would've scared him straight, but no.
He didn't give a damn about hockey if it meant letting people treat me like garbage. Reckless idiot.
Of course, I couldn't let him keep doing that forever.
I didn't want him risking his entire future just because some idiot couldn't keep his mouth shut. So, I begged him to stop, wore him down. Eventually he listened — sort of.