3. Eli
CHAPTER 3
ELI
First week on a new campus, and I already felt like a fish out of water. MU wasn’t anything like CHU back in L.A. The air here was cooler—not cold exactly, but a noticeable change from the dry heat of California. Late August in Michigan felt different: humid, with a faint crispness in the mornings that hinted at fall around the corner. The buildings had an older, more classic feel, and the vibe was… quieter. Not bad, just different.
The business lecture hall was enormous. Rows of long, narrow desks climbed up in tiers, each one with those little flip-up surfaces too small to fit anything useful. The fluorescent lights hummed faintly overhead, and the room smelled like a mix of stale coffee and someone’s aggressively minty gum. A far cry from the sunlit, sleek classrooms I’d grown used to back home.
Why MU? The question hadn’t stopped swirling in my head since I landed. I’d told myself it was for the business program. For a fresh start. But deep down, I knew the truth. I needed distance—hundreds of miles of it—between me and my ex. Sometimes, exes don’t stay in the past, and I wasn’t about to let myself get pulled back into that mess. Not again.
I slid into a seat near the middle—not too close to the front to seem overeager, but not far enough back to get lumped in with the students who only showed up when attendance was mandatory. As I pulled out my notebook, someone dropped into the seat next to me.
He had this effortlessly cool, artsy vibe. Messy brown curls peeked out from under a knit beanie, and his oversized hoodie looked more intentional than lazy. Definitely didn’t scream ‘ business major .’
I offered a polite smile but didn’t get a chance to say anything before the professor began speaking.
“Good day, ladies and gentlemen. I’m Professor Williams. Welcome to Intro to Marketing Principles,” she said, her voice crisp and no-nonsense. She was tall, with dark brown skin and a striking presence. Her box braids were pulled back into a high bun, and her gold-rimmed glasses reflected the light as she moved. “This class is about understanding people. What they want, what they need, and what makes them choose one product over another. Marketing is psychology, sociology, and a little bit of theater. Pay attention, and you’ll leave this class with the tools to sell just about anything—yourself included.”
Her tone was commanding, the kind that made you sit up a little straighter. She launched into the syllabus, and I tried to focus, but my thoughts kept drifting. Everything here felt unfamiliar. No familiar faces, no comfortable routines. And then there was Niall—my roommate who made silence feel louder than any conversation.
“Not a fan of marketing?” The guy next to me spoke quietly, snapping me out of my thoughts.
I blinked, realizing he’d caught me staring at the professor with what was probably an expression bordering on blank. “What?”
He smirked, tilting his sketchbook in my direction for me to look. On the page was a quick sketch of the professor mid-gesture, her expression exaggerated for effect. “Just saying, you don’t look thrilled to be here.”
I chuckled under my breath, glancing from the sketch to him. “That’s really good. And, uh, I’m here for the degree. Not sure if that makes me a fan.”
He shrugged, leaning back. “Fair enough.” He tapped his pencil against the page, smirking. “Keeps me awake during lectures. Better than zoning out completely.”
“I’m Eli, by the way,” I said, keeping my voice low.
“Asher.”
“Art major?” I guessed, nodding toward the sketch.
He grinned, almost sheepishly. “Yeah. But this course is a general requirement. Figured I’d get it out of the way early. You?”
“Business major,” I said, nodding. “Marketing’s part of the program, so I’m stuck with it.”
The professor’s gaze swept the room, and I quickly pretended to jot something down. Asher did the same, though the amused glint in his eyes said he wasn’t worried about getting caught.
When class ended, I stuffed my notebook into my bag, relieved the first class was over. Asher stood up, stretching lazily.
“Haven’t seen you around before,” he said as we headed for the door.
“Yeah,” I said. “Transferred in this semester.”
He glanced at me. “Makes sense. Most people in this class have been stuck together since the start.”
I huffed a quiet laugh. “Yeah, well, I probably shouldn’t even be in this one. Some of my credits didn’t transfer properly, so here I am, knocking out an intro class as a junior.”
Asher smirked. “Brutal. But at least you’ve got me for entertainment now.”
I raised an eyebrow. “That so?”
He tapped his sketchbook. “Unless you hate free art.”
I smirked. “Can’t say I hate it.”
“Good.” Asher tucked his sketchbook under his arm as we stepped into the hallway, the flow of students moving around us. “So, where’d you transfer from?”
“Crescent Hills U. In L.A.,” I said, adjusting my bag strap.
His eyebrows lifted. “Damn, West Coast to Midwest? That’s a commitment.”
“You could say that.” I kept my tone light, not really in the mood to get into the why of it all. “Needed a change.”
Asher didn’t pry, just gave a casual nod. “Fair enough.” He glanced around the hallway, then back at me. “Have you eaten yet? Café’s decent if you’re looking for food.”
I hesitated, pulling my phone out to check the time. I had a little while before my next class. “Yeah, I’ve got time.”
“Cool. Come on.”
We walked across campus. The café was nestled between two academic buildings, the kind of place that looked like it had been around forever—worn brick exterior, a faded wooden sign above the door, and a steady flow of students coming and going.
Inside, the café buzzed with the kind of energy that only came with the start of a new semester. Students were crammed around small, mismatched tables, some laughing loudly while others hunched over laptops, their faces lit by the glow of screens. The hum of conversation mixed with the occasional clatter of trays and the hiss of the espresso machine behind the counter.
The space itself had a sort of haphazard charm. The walls were decorated with posters for campus events—movie nights, club sign-ups, a flyer for a hockey game with the team’s captain front and center, though I didn’t pay it much attention. A massive chalkboard menu hung crookedly behind the main counter, listing daily specials in bright, uneven handwriting.
The smells hit me first: greasy burgers sizzling on the grill, the sweetness of baked goods just pulled from the oven, and the unmistakable bitterness of coffee brewing nonstop. It wasn’t exactly gourmet, but it had a warmth to it, like the kind of place where people lingered for hours between classes.
We grabbed our food—me, a burger and fries, and Asher, a chicken wrap—and found a small table near the window. The view outside was nothing spectacular—just students milling around, some perched on benches or sprawled on the grass. But the sunlight streaming through the glass gave the space a cozy, lived-in feel.
I had no idea why Asher had invited me to come with him, but as I unwrapped my burger, I decided not to overthink it.
“You’re staying on campus?” Asher asked, popping a fry into his mouth.
“Yeah, in one of the apartments. My roommate’s…” I hesitated, not sure how to describe Niall. “Caldwell.”
Asher froze mid-chew. “Caldwell? As in Niall ‘ Iron Wall ’ Caldwell?”
I blinked. “Iron Wall?”
“Hockey nickname,” he said, smirking. “Dude’s a legend. Everybody on campus knows him.”
“Seriously?” I took a bite of my burger, debating how much to share. “Guess that explains why he’s so… intense.”
“Intense sounds about right,” Asher replied with a laugh. “He’s the captain, so no surprise there.”
I shrugged. “Probably. I mean, I know zero about hockey. Not my scene.”
Asher tilted his head, looking amused. “You don’t know anything ? Like, at all?”
“Skates, pucks, sticks. That’s about it,” I admitted, holding my hands up in mock surrender.
“You’re hopeless,” Asher teased, shaking his head. “I played in high school. I could teach you the basics if you want.”
“Wait, you played hockey?”
“Yeah,” he said, the corners of his mouth dipping slightly. “Quit after I came out. My team didn’t exactly roll out the rainbow carpet for me.”
“That’s messed up,” I said, frowning. “For what it’s worth, I wouldn’t have been one of those guys. I’m bi, so… solidarity.”
Asher blinked, then gave me a slow, understanding smile. “Well, that’s good to know.”
Before I could say more, a girl with tightly curled hair pulled into a high puff appeared at our table. She was wearing an oversized hoodie with bold lettering that read ‘ Art Is Resistance ’ and chunky combat boots. Her presence demanded attention—not in an intimidating way, but like she was used to owning whatever space she walked into.
“There you are,” she said, giving Asher a mock glare as she set her tray on the table. “Thought you ditched me for a second.”
Asher held up his hands, feigning innocence. “You know I wouldn’t do that, Gigi. Got caught up with class.”
She glanced at me then, eyebrows raising slightly. “And who’s this?”
“Oh, right.” Asher gestured between us. “Eli, this is Gianna, but all her friends call her Gigi. Gigi, meet Eli. He’s new here.”
I gave her a quick smile. “Nice to meet you, Gianna. Or should I say Gigi?”
She looked me over with exaggerated deliberation, her lips curling into a smirk. “Gigi’s fine. You’re lucky; I don’t let just anyone use the nickname.”
“Guess that means I’m special,” I said, playing along.
She grinned, pulling up a chair without hesitation. “Special? Eh, we’ll see.”
Her quick wit made me laugh, and just like that, the awkwardness of being the new guy felt a little lighter.
Gigi dug into her food with a relaxed ease, chatting with Asher as if they’d done this a thousand times before. I watched them for a moment, the way they seemed to fall into an easy rhythm—like they knew exactly how to fill the space between bites with casual banter.
“So, Eli,” Asher said after a moment, nudging me slightly, “what’s your take on the place so far?”
I shrugged. “It’s definitely different. Feels like I’ve barely scratched the surface.”
Gigi made a noise of approval, wiping her mouth. “That’s about right. The first few days are always a blur. But trust me, you’ll figure it out. You’ll find your spots, your people.”
Asher nodded in agreement. “Yeah, and the Student Union’s a good place to start. You’ll run into pretty much everyone there at some point.”
“Speaking of which,” Gigi cut in with a mischievous grin, turning to Asher, “are we still hitting that Welcome Week thing on Friday?”
“Yeah, why not?” Asher shrugged. “Free food, music, probably some chaos. What’s not to like?”
Gigi’s gaze flicked to me. “You should come, Eli. Good way to meet people. Plus, I need someone to keep Asher in line.”
Asher rolled his eyes. “I’m perfectly capable of behaving.”
“Sure you are,” Gigi said with a laugh, then turned back to me. “So? What do you say? It’s at the Student Union.”
I hesitated. Jumping into a big party with strangers felt like a lot, especially during my first week. I thought about the towering stacks of class notes and the stress of keeping up with everything. Then again, this was a fresh start, right? Wasn’t that why I’d come here—to leave all the bad memories behind and actually live a little?
“Okay, I’m in,” I said finally.
“Good,” Gigi said, flashing me a grin. “We’ll come get you. Where are you staying?”
“On-campus apartment,” I said. “You guys live nearby?”
“Off-campus,” Asher said, gesturing vaguely. “Same apartment.”
“Cool,” I said, feeling oddly relieved. Maybe this wasn’t such a bad idea after all.