Chapter 23
Duplication Error
Austen
“What’s the error probability if I double-side these?”
I asked out loud so I wouldn’t think about Luke’s hand on my waist six hours earlier. The Ridgeway copier chugged, indifferent. Curling steam from the exit slot fogged my glasses; I pushed them up with a knuckle and kept feeding the tray.
Seventy-two Calc II quizzes, duplex. My left thumb had a new paper cut—evidence I still lived in a world where toner mattered.
Luke’s hoodie hung around my shoulders, long enough that the cuffs swallowed my wrists. I’d grabbed it by accident—or muscle memory—when I left the room. Smelled like detergent and faint eucalyptus from his shower gel. I’d tried not to notice.
Packet forty-three caught, jam icon blinked. I popped the front panel, rescued the crimped sheet, smoothed the crease on my thigh. The machine spat a scolding beep.
“Live,” I muttered, closing the panel. Copy cycle resumed.
Someone cleared a throat behind me. I turned, half expecting Maya’s raised eyebrow, but it was Luke—sweats, beanie, backpack slung single-strap.
Fresh from weights, probably en route to business psych.
Normal schedule. Normal roommate. No big deal that I’d fallen asleep with my face tucked against his collarbone.
He held two coffees, the campus-brand cardboard sleeves aligned like they’d passed inspection. “Printer coffee,” he said. “Black, two sugars.”
I took the closer cup; heat stung the paper cut. “Quality control?”
“Barista owed me for spotting her rink-side tickets.” He gestured at the copier. “Jam day?”
“Inevitable.” I stepped aside so he could watch the pages stack. His shoulder brushed mine—fractional contact that shouldn’t register. It registered anyway.
“You good?” he asked, like last night existed in a sealed envelope we could reference but not open here.
“Running on caffeine and stress.” I sipped. Too sweet; he’d remembered. “You?”
“Bench presses and motivational screaming.” His smile reached one eye, not both. “Harper moved film to four, so I’m clear tonight if we’re still iterating.”
Iterating. The word flashed warm. “Ledger practice after dinner?”
“Works.” He tapped his cup against mine—quiet clink of cardboard. “Text me room temp; the radiator sounded petulant this morning.”
“Valve stabilized at sixty-eight point four.” I tried to be casual. It came out earnest; he grinned wider.
Machine dinged; stack complete. I pulled the tray, slapped the pages against the table. “Go learn about synergy.”
“Go terrorize quiz averages.” He backed away. He disappeared down the stairwell, sneakers squeaking.
I sent Maya a text.
Me: Forgot to ask earlier, Lunch?
Maya: Sounds good. I’m heading to North Point around 12:15.
Me: See you soon. Save me a seat.
I exhaled, counted to eight, then slid the quizzes into my bag. The hoodie sleeves still covered my hands. I cuffed them twice.
North Point smelled like fryer oil and cinnamon waffles—two things the human brain shouldn’t process simultaneously. I threaded through noon traffic, acquired soup and saltines, then scoped for Maya.
She waved from a corner booth, laptop open, highlighter between teeth. Red beanie today—signal flare. I slid in opposite her, balancing the tray on sticky laminate.
“Your text said, ‘emergency caloric intake.’“ I unwrapped a cracker. “I brought sodium.”
“You’re a prince.” She set the highlighter down. “You sleep?”
“Define sleep.”
“REM cycles where your face looks less haunted.”
“Then no.”
She eyed the hoodie. “Wardrobe change?”
“Laundry backlog.” I stirred the soup. Broccoli cheddar clung to the spoon.
Maya flipped her laptop shut, attention fully mine—terrifying upgrade. “You’re humming.”
“I don’t hum.”
“You are today—that guy from Frozen in the sauna scene.”
“I don’t know the reference.”
“Sure.” She rested her chin on both fists. “Something happened.”
“Many things happen every day.”
“Specific thing.” She tapped the hoodie cuff. “Spill.”
Heat flooded my ears. I focused on aligning crackers. “Not classroom appropriate.”
“North Point is a cafeteria, not a confessional.”
Exactly. Too many ears, none caring until one word lit their gossip receptors. I shook pepper into the soup.
Maya waited—a talent forged over years of me stalling. She said, “Did you do the thing you’re terrified to want?”
I swallowed broth. “Maybe adjacent to the thing.”
“And you’re… what? Happy? Panicked?”
“Quantifying.” I broke a cracker, shards sinking. “System variables shifted. Observation window too small for conclusions.”
Her stare softened. “You like him.”
“Don’t psychoanalyze.”
“Math-analyzing then: is wanting this inside the margin of error?”
I opened my mouth, closed it. The honest answer tasted like the soup—thick, too hot. “I’d need a bigger sample.”
“Then gather data.” She nudged my foot. “Don’t pretend you’re running a double-blind when he clearly sees you.”
I flicked soup off the spoon. “He acts normal. That’s… disorienting.”
“Maybe normal is good.”
“Or maybe normal means temporary.” The words escaped before I could reroute them.
Maya’s expression went gentle; she didn’t pounce. “Temporary like every foster placement?”
I kept my eyes on the bowl. “Past is prologue as they say.”
She sighed. “Austen, he clearly likes you and you clearly like him. The hard part is over.”
I snorted. “Hallmark called; they want the slogan back.”
“Fine. I’ll keep the royalties.” She pushed her tray aside, elbows on table like a coach in a timeout. “Question: are you still tutoring him?”
“Of course not, he passed financial accounting last semester. He doesn’t need me anymore.”
“Whoa, that sounded loaded,” Maya said. She looked around and lowered her voice.
“Just because you’re not tutoring him doesn’t mean he doesn’t need you anymore.
You have a lot more to offer than strategic tutoring.
And from what I know about gay men in their early twenties, tutoring is the last thing on their minds when they’re together. ”
I hesitated half a beat too long.
Maya’s smile was small, satisfied. “Run your study. Remember the null hypothesis: you deserve constants too.”
I hated how much that landed. I drained the rest of the soup to have something to do.
She gathered her backpack. “Office hours. Text if you need a pep talk.”
“I hope that’s code for something.”
“It’s exactly what it sounds like.” She stood, squeezed my shoulder—short, not pitying—and vanished into the press of students.
Across the room, the TVs looped Luke’s glove save from Caribou State. The caption read CARTER WALL. My chest tightened—not pride, not fear, something between.
I dumped the tray, hoodie sleeves brushing the trash rim, and headed back to Ridgeway.
My afternoon tutoring session was horrible. I was on complete autopilot. My pulse raced, I almost hyperventilated at one point. One student asked me if I was coming down with the flu. I half expected her to pull out a surgical mask. I promised her I was just sleep deprived.
Hoodie pocket buzzed—text.
Luke: Radiator 69.4. Intro to Management at 4:45. Available after 8?
Me: I’ll be there.
Luke: Nice. Need anything?
Need. Dangerous prompt. I considered answers—pens, coffee, certainty.
Me: Just you and maybe a couple of oat bars. Probability of survival improves with carbs.
Luke: Copy. See you.
I slid the phone away, stared at the board until the letters blurred. Want wasn’t the problem. Trusting that want had a half-life longer than one semester—that was the variable singing off-key.
Clock ticked toward four. Students trickled in and out of my office hours.