8 small celebrations
By the time I find Nola after my last class, the campus feels different in that subtle way it does when something big happens for someone you know, even if it doesn't technically affect you, like the energy shifts just enough that you notice it without being able to explain why, and I'm still thinking about Jackson's face from earlier, about the way he said I made it like he was trying to keep it simple but couldn't quite hide what it meant to him.
Nola spots me before I say anything, already mid-sentence about something that sounds like a rant about a professor, but she cuts herself off the second she sees my expression.
"What?" she says immediately, narrowing her eyes. "You look like you have news."
"I do," I admit, adjusting my bag on my shoulder. "Jackson made the team."
Her entire face lights up like I just told her something personally exciting.
"Your roommate," she says, like she needs to confirm it even though she already knows. "The illegal one."
"He's not illegal," I say automatically.
"He lives in a boys' dorm with you, that's at least suspicious."
"It was a housing mistake."
"Still suspicious," she says, but she's smiling now. "Okay wait, that's actually kind of huge."
"Yeah," I say, and there's something softer in my voice than I expect. "It is."
She studies me for a second, like she's noticing something I'm not saying, then her expression shifts slightly.
"You're happy for him," she says.
"I am," I reply, because there's no point pretending otherwise.
She hums like she's filing that away somewhere, then claps her hands together once. "We should celebrate."
"We are not celebrating," I say immediately.
"We are absolutely celebrating," she corrects, already turning and starting to walk. "Come on."
"I didn't agree to that."
"You don't have to," she says over her shoulder. "I agreed for you."
I sigh, but I follow her anyway, because arguing with Nola when she's already decided something is like arguing with a wall that talks back, and a few minutes later we're stepping into a small store just off campus, the kind that sells everything from snacks to random baked goods that look better than they probably are.
"This is a terrible idea," I say as she heads straight toward the refrigerated section.
"This is a great idea," she counters, already scanning the options. "We're getting him something."
"We're not getting him anything."
"We are," she insists, grabbing a small cake and holding it up. "Look. Perfect."
I glance at it.
It's simple, small, chocolate with a thin layer of frosting, nothing dramatic, nothing that screams this is a big deal, just... something.
Something thoughtful.
Something unnecessary.
"I don't know if he likes chocolate," I say, even though I'm already reaching for it.
"Everyone likes chocolate," Nola replies.
"That's not true."
"It is in this situation," she says, handing it to me like the decision has already been made. "You're buying it."
I stare at it for a second, then sigh quietly and take it anyway, because for some reason saying no feels harder than it should.
"This is stupid," I mutter as we head to the register.
"It's thoughtful," she corrects.
"It's unnecessary."
"It's cute."
"I'm not trying to be cute."
"Too late," she says, smiling.
I pay for it before I can change my mind, the small box feeling oddly significant in my hands as we step back outside, and the second we do, reality settles in again.
This is stupid.
Why did I just buy him a cake?
"He's going to think this is weird," I say, glancing down at it.
"He's not," Nola replies easily. "And if he does, that's his problem."
"It's definitely my problem."
She laughs, nudging my shoulder. "Relax. It's a cake, not a marriage proposal."
"Still."
"You're overthinking it," she says. "Again."
I exhale slowly, because she's right and I hate that she's right.
We split a few minutes later, her heading one way, me the other, and as I walk back toward the dorm, the box feels heavier than it should, like I've somehow made this into something bigger than it actually is.
It's just a cake.
That's it.
Nothing else.
I push the door open and step inside, and Jackson is sitting on his bed, leaning back against the wall, phone in his hand like he's been there for a while.
He looks up when I walk in, eyes flicking briefly to the box in my hands before settling back on my face.
"What's that?" he asks.
I hesitate for half a second, then hold it up slightly.
"It's... um-" I start, already regretting this. "I got you something."
His eyebrows lift slightly, surprise flickering across his face in a way that makes my stomach drop just a little.
"It's just a cake," I add quickly, stepping further into the room. "I didn't know if you like chocolate or vanilla or strawberry or anything else and I figured chocolate was the safest option because most people like chocolate and-"
"Coleman," he cuts in, sitting up a little straighter, eyes still on me. "Did you actually get me a cake?"
I stop mid-sentence.
"Yes," I say, then immediately shake my head slightly. "I mean, I know it's kind of stupid and you don't have to-"
"Everly."
I look at him.
He's smiling.
Not his usual sarcastic, half-amused expression, but something softer, something more genuine than I've seen from him before.
"I love chocolate cake," he says.
Something in my chest loosens instantly.
"Okay," I say, a small smile slipping through before I can stop it, stepping closer and handing it to him. "Good."
He takes it carefully, like it actually matters.
"Congrats again," I add, a little quieter this time.
"Thanks," he says, and there's something in his voice that matches the way he's looking at the cake, like this wasn't expected, like it means more than it should.
We end up sitting on his bed without really deciding to, the cake between us as he opens the box, grabbing two plastic forks from the bag and handing one to me without asking, like it's obvious I'm staying.
"Don't judge this," he says, already taking a bite.
"I'm absolutely judging this."
"It's good," he says around the bite.
"It's store-bought."
"It's still good."
I take a bite.
It is good.
"Okay," I admit. "It's good."
"Yeah," he says, like he knew that already.
We sit there for a minute, eating in a way that's easy, not rushed, not awkward, just... there, and then he leans back slightly against the wall, exhaling.
"Team's gonna be a lot," he says after a second. "Captain seems like he's gonna be a bit of a hardass. We're probably gonna clash."
I freeze, just slightly.
Then I press my lips together, looking at him.
He glances over, catching the expression immediately. "What?"
I tilt my head. "Did I forget to mention something?"
"What?"
"The captain of the football team," I say slowly, watching his face. "is my older brother."
His eyes go wide, like actually wide.
For a second, he just stares at me. "Shit."
I lose it.
The laugh hits me instantly, sharp and uncontrollable, and I have to set the fork down because I'm actually laughing now, not just a small smile, but full, real laughter.
"I didn't mean it like that," he says quickly, running a hand through his hair. "I didn't know-"
"I know," I manage between laughs. "I know."
"Fuck," he mutters, shaking his head. "Of course it's your brother."
"That's on you," I say, still laughing. "You should've asked."
"Yeah, let me just ask my roommate if her brother is the guy running the entire team," he says dryly. "That would've gone great."
"You're the one talking shit," I point out.
"I wasn't talking shit," he argues. "I was just-observing."
"Observing that he's a hardass."
"He is a hardass," Jackson insists, then immediately winces slightly. "Shit."
I laugh again, shaking my head. "It's fine. He kind of is."
"Yeah," he mutters. "Good to know that doesn't make this worse."
"It definitely makes it worse," I say, still smiling.
"Great."
He drags a hand down his face, then huffs out a quiet laugh, like he's given up fighting it, and a second later I notice he's actually laughing too, softer, but there.
The tension breaks completely.
"So," I say after a moment, picking up my fork again. "Did you call your parents?"
"Yeah," he says, nodding once. "And my sister."
"You have a sister?" I ask, glancing at him.
"Older," he says. "Jenny. Lives in New York. She's a journalist."
"That's cool," I say, genuinely interested. "What's she like?"
He leans back slightly, thinking for a second.
"Loud," he says. "Annoying. Always right about everything."
"That sounds like you."
"I'm not loud."
"You're definitely annoying."
He looks at me. "Wow."
"And probably think you're always right," I add.
"I am always right."
"Exactly."
He huffs out a laugh at that, shaking his head.
"She's... good though," he says after a second, quieter now. "She gets it."
I nod slightly, because I understand that more than I want to admit.
We keep talking after that, about small things at first, then slightly less small things, conversation flowing in a way that doesn't feel forced or careful, just natural, like we've slipped into something without noticing exactly when it happened.
And at some point, I realize I'm not thinking about the fact that we're sharing a room.
Or that this wasn't supposed to happen.
I'm just... here.
With him.
And somehow, that doesn't feel as complicated as it should.