Chapter 4 #2
Aaron, to his credit, offers me a handful of napkins. Our fingers brush for half a second, and I’m struck by the sheer absurdity of it—last night, his hands on my waist; today, a passing touch in a room full of witnesses.
He leans in, voice just above a whisper. “Don’t worry. I won’t tell anyone you were actually paying attention.”
I want to laugh, or punch him, or both.
Instead, I mop up the mess, watching the blue lines dissolve until my entire morning is a smear of what might have been.
—ΠΩ—
The line at the campus coffee shop stretches out the door and every table is staked out by undergrads clutching laptops like life vests. Sara sits in a corner booth with two coffees on the table, waving at me with the hand not currently scrolling through her phone.
I slide into the seat across from her, setting my backpack down with a thud. The tabletop is sticky with caramel drizzle and something that smells faintly like Red Bull. I grip my cup so tight the lid nearly pops off.
“You look like you just got hit by a bus,” Sara says, not unkindly.
I take a scalding sip, then wince. “It’s worse. Try getting called out by Collins in front of two hundred people while nursing a hangover and Aaron Thompson does his best Sherlock Holmes impression two inches from your face.”
Sara raises both eyebrows. “For real?”
“Yes. And now he’s apparently obsessed with finding the mystery girl from last night.”
Sara snorts. “You did too good a job. That’s what you get for hiring a professional.” She leans in, eyes wicked. “So? Did you crack?”
“I think my soul left my body for a solid thirty seconds.” I recount the exchange in the lecture hall: Aaron’s relentless questions, his too-perfect hair, the way he made a public joke out of my existence. “And now he wants me to be his inside informant, like I’m the campus paparazzi.”
She laughs, not bothering to hide it. “This is amazing. It’s like a reverse catfish situation. You’re the only one who can solve his existential crisis.”
I glare. “Can we not make this about him? I’m the one having the crisis here.”
Sara holds up her hands in surrender. “Okay, okay. Let’s focus on your trauma. What’s your plan?”
“I don’t have one,” I admit. “I was hoping you’d talk me out of ever leaving my dorm again.”
She sips her iced latte, ice cubes rattling. “You know you could just… tell him. Get it over with. Rip the Band-Aid.”
I stare at her, incredulous. “And say what? ‘Hey Aaron, remember that girl you can’t stop thinking about? Surprise! It was me, your socially anxious lab partner, in a dress and three pounds of makeup.’”
She gives me a look—a cocktail of pity and impatience. “What’s the worst that could happen?”
I open my mouth and the floodgates break.
“He could laugh in my face. Tell everyone. Post the story online. Or—he could be cool with it, but I have to see that look in his eyes, you know the one, the ‘oh, I thought you were normal’ look, and then he ghosts me forever. Or he could be into it, which is, frankly, even scarier, because then what?”
Sara nods like she’s heard it all before—which, to be fair, she probably has. “Worst case, you end up a meme. But you already are, so what’s left to lose?”
“My dignity?” I say, but even I don’t believe it.
She grins. “That ship sailed when you let me glue fake lashes on you.”
I want to protest, but she’s right.
The coffee shop noise swells as a fresh wave of students crowds the register.
Overhead, the speakers cycle through a playlist of pop remixes at a volume just shy of painful.
I’m trying to disappear into the plastic seat when I spot Aaron at the entrance, flanked by two of his sidekicks.
He looks like he hasn’t slept but still manages to radiate Main Character Energy.
I duck behind my textbook, which I’ve strategically placed between me and the rest of humanity. Sara follows my gaze, then shakes her head. “Smooth,” she whispers. “Nothing says ‘undercover’ like hiding behind an orgo tome with your name in Sharpie on the spine.”
I hiss, “He’ll see me, Sara!”
She smirks. “He’s gonna see you way more if you keep acting like a hunted raccoon.”
I lower the book by an inch and risk a glance.
Aaron is at the counter, ordering a black coffee and a scone, still mid-lecture to his friends about “the one that got away.” I catch just enough to know he’s talking about Jessica Rabbit, again, and the hopelessness of a campus-wide search when no one even knows the girl’s real name.
“He’s obsessed,” I whisper, voice laced with something I refuse to call hope.
Sara snorts, then leans in. “You know, this is the plot of, like, half the romance novels in the world. Secret identities, yearning, the dramatic reveal.” She waggles her eyebrows. “Very sexy.”
I want to die on the spot. “You read too much fanfiction.”
“Or not enough,” she fires back. “I say you let this play out. Maybe he gets bored. Maybe he moves on. Maybe you get to have a normal semester and never think about this again.”
I nod, but I can’t imagine anything being normal again.
Aaron collects his order, and as he turns from the counter, our eyes lock for a split second. He hesitates, like he might recognize her in me, but then one of his friends jostles him and the moment passes. I let out a breath, feeling both relief and disappointment in the same millisecond.
Sara watches him go. “He’s relentless,” she says. “Kind of hot, actually. In a stalker-adjacent way.”
I wrinkle my nose. “Remind me to never let you set me up.”
She shrugs, sipping the last of her iced latte. “I don’t have to. You’ve already set yourself up.”
The bell over the door jingles as Aaron and his entourage leave. I watch the back of his head until he’s swallowed by the crowd outside.
For a long minute, neither of us says anything. The noise of the shop, the sugar rush, the faint clatter of cups—it all fades into background radiation.
Finally, I break the silence. “I should just tell him, shouldn’t I?”
Sara’s smile is soft. “You’ll know when you’re ready.”
I nod, then sip my lukewarm coffee, already replaying every possible outcome in my head. For the first time, the idea doesn’t feel radioactive. Just inevitable.