Chapter 9
HARLOW
Tuesday feels like someone hit a reset button and forgot to warn my nervous system.
The sidewalks are packed. People are awake in a way that feels aggressive.
Coffee lines wrap out the door, and everyone’s walking like they have somewhere important to be—which is rude because I’m still adjusting to the idea that I have somewhere important to be that requires me to actually wear pants.
A month ago, my biggest Tuesday problem was whether my Wi-Fi would glitch during a Zoom lecture.
Now it’s…this.
A real backpack. Real hallways. Real people who make eye contact and expect you to say something back.
I keep my head down and follow the map on my phone like it’s a lifeline.
My first class is Intro to Psych in a lecture hall that smells like dry-erase markers and someone’s peppermint gum. I pick a seat near the aisle—easy exit, easier breathing—then pull my notebook out and line my pens up in a neat row.
One black, one blue, and a highlighter.
Dr. Reed tells me that order is not the same thing as control.
But it helps.
The professor starts talking about biopsychosocial models, and I try to focus.
I do—for fifteen minutes. Then my brain drifts because it's a traitor and decides to replay yesterday. Kai’s apartment.
The bagels. Weston’s chaos. Kai’s hovering.
The way the hockey guys treated my presence like a normal part of their life, instead of a fragile object they might break.
And Grayson.
Nothing he did was flashy. Nothing that should’ve stuck. And that’s the problem. He didn’t do anything wrong, didn’t do anything that demanded my attention—yet my brain keeps reaching for him like it’s trying to solve a puzzle.
The rink over the weekend. His voice low and quiet, like he understood the rules of silence. The way he offered to leave without making me ask. The way he looked at my face first, not my body.
It should have been nothing.
It wasn’t.
Across the aisle, a girl whispers something to her friend, and they both laugh. I flinch before I can stop it, even though it probably has nothing to do with me. My skin feels too thin today. I tap my pen twice, then force my focus back to the front.
When class ends, everyone stands at once like they’re part of a coordinated evacuation.
I wait until the room thins, then slip out, letting the crowd pass so I don’t have to navigate bodies and voices all at once.
Outside, the sun is bright, and the air is warm for October.
A light breeze carries the smell of eucalyptus from somewhere.
California is pretty.
California is also loud.
I check my schedule and see my next class isn’t for another two hours, which means I have a choice.
Choice is another thing my brain likes to pretend I don’t have. I could go back to my dorm, curl up with my book, and hide from the world like a responsible introvert. Or I could prove to myself I’m not just surviving campus—I’m living on it.
My stomach does a small, unhelpful flip.
I turn toward the coffee shop on Main because it’s become my halfway point between hiding and trying. Familiar enough to feel safe. Public enough to count as “being a person.”
Apparently, everyone on campus has decided caffeine is the only acceptable coping skill because the line is already stretched to the door. I stand near the back, phone in hand, staring at the menu even though I always order one of two things.
On good days, I order an iced vanilla latte, extra sweet, topped with vanilla cold foam.
On not so good days, I get a sugar free, iced vanilla latte with almond milk, extra sweet.
My brain likes the ritual. The certainty.
The girl in front of me bounces on her toes. A guy behind me is talking loudly about protein macros like that’s a normal conversation to have at 10:13 a.m. I breathe in slowly through my nose, then out through my mouth. It’s just coffee. It’s just noise. You can do hard things.
My phone vibrates with a message.
Wren: Why are they so obsessed with me?
Attached is a picture of a ton of birds covering most of a sidewalk and a grinning Wren right in the middle of them all. You can tell by the bag hanging from her pocket that she just fed them and has bribed her new friends with treats.
I love how she looks at life. She can truly find a positive in nearly any and every situation, and her timing this morning is no different.
Harlow: I would assume it has something to do with the treats you gave them.
Wren: I’d never do such a thing. They love me for my personality.
Shaking my head, I put my phone back in my pocket as the line inches forward.
A body brushes past my shoulder, close enough that I catch a familiar scent—clean soap and something crisp like mint. My head snaps up before I can stop it.
Grayson Bennett is at the pickup counter, reaching for a coffee cup.
My body tenses slightly, that sense of awareness once again coming to the surface. I don’t know why I’m curious about him, but I am.
He looks softer in a PCU hoodie and sweats, hair pushed back like he ran his hands through it ten seconds ago. He turns slightly, gaze flicking toward the line as if it were pulled there, and his eyes meet mine.
For a second, everything stills.
Then his mouth quirks—small, quick—like a smile that doesn’t want attention.
I hate that it makes me want to return it.
He steps away from the counter and moves toward the door. Disappointment creeps in, irritating and stupid, but it doesn’t have time to take hold because he slows when he reaches my spot in line.
“Hey,” he says, low enough that it’s just for me.
I blink once. Twice. “Hi.”
He nods at the menu board like he’s been studying it too. “This place always this insane?”
“Only when students are awake,” I say, because sarcasm is my default when my brain is overloaded.
Grayson exhales a quiet laugh. “So, always.”
“Yeah,” I confirm.
Silence stretches between us. Not awkward. Not comfortable. Just…space. And I don’t know what to do with space when someone is looking at me. Grayson doesn’t rush to fill it. He just stands there with his coffee like he’s deciding something.
Then he asks, “How’s your day going?”
The question is normal. Casual. Friendly.
Still, my stomach tightens. Because if I answer honestly, it’s a lot. It’s too much. It’s not just classes and majors. It’s my brain and my history and the way every dining hall feels like a test. But if I answer like a normal person, it’s fine. It’s good. I’m adjusting. I’m thriving.
I pick the middle.
“It’s loud,” I say.
Grayson’s eyes soften, like he understands that answer more than he should. “Yeah. Tuesdays can be…a lot.”
I don’t know what to do with the understanding, so I change the subject.
“Do you ever get tired of people?”
“Yeah,” he says immediately. No hesitation.
Relief hits my chest like a warm drop.
“Good,” I mutter. “Because sometimes I feel like everyone is aggressively social.”
Grayson glances around the crowded shop. “Aggressively is the right word.”
I look at him for a second longer than I mean to. He’s calm in a way that doesn’t feel fake. Like he isn’t performing for the room.
My shoulders drop without permission.
“Your coffee order,” I say, because my brain needs a safe topic, “is that your usual?”
He lifts the cup like it’s evidence. “Yeah.”
“What is it?”
He hesitates like he’s embarrassed. “Vanilla latte.”
I blink. “That’s not embarrassing.”
He snorts. “Tell that to my teammates.”
“Your teammates would make fun of you for breathing,” I say. “Especially Weston.”
Grayson’s grin flashes quickly. “True.”
The barista calls out a name, and someone yells, “That’s me!” like they won something.
Grayson shifts, glancing toward the door again. “I should go.”
“Oh,” I say, and my chest does something small and irritating. Disappointment again, which is stupid.
Grayson pauses like he caught the tone.
Then, softer, he says, “For what it’s worth…you look like you’re handling a lot.”
My throat tightens.
I stare at him. “You don’t know that.”
“No,” he says simply. “I don’t know your story.” A beat. “But I can see the effort. That counts.”
It lands better than a speech would have. Still kind. Less invasive.
I swallow hard and look away before my face betrays me.
“Thank you,” I mutter.
His mouth quirks again. “You’re welcome.”
He starts to turn, then adds, casually, “Weston says hi.”
My brows lift. “Why?”
Grayson’s grin widens. “Because Weston says hi to everyone. He also asked if you hated him yet.”
I snort. “I don’t hate him.”
“Give it time,” Grayson says, dead serious.
A laugh slips out of me before I can stop it. Grayson looks like he wants to savor that moment—like he’s pleased he got it out of me—but he doesn’t make it a thing. He just nods once, then finally heads for the door.
I watch him leave, and my brain immediately tries to dissect every second of that interaction like it’s evidence in a case file. Why did he talk to me? Why did it feel easy? Why did he make my chest feel warm in a way I don’t trust?
I don’t have answers. Only the annoying fact that I’m still watching the door after he’s gone.
“Next!” the barista calls.
I blink like I’m waking up from a dream and step forward.
By the time I have my coffee—iced, sweet, safe—I find a small table in the corner with my back to the wall.
My phone buzzes.
Kai’s name flashes on the screen.
Kai: you get breakfast?
My stomach tightens automatically.
I stare at the question like it isn’t simple even though it’s written simply.
I type back the least triggering truth I can manage.
Harlow: Grabbed coffee. Had a bagel earlier.
A pause.
Kai: good. thanks for telling me.
Kai: proud of you for showing up today. we have an away game tonight so i am about to head for the bus. it’s only a couple hours away, so we’ll be back late tonight. text me later when you’re back in your dorm for the night?