Chapter 31
ALFIE
I stare at the acceptance email from CalTech’s doctoral program. Early admission. Partial funding. Everything I’ve worked for.
And all I can think about is how Tara felt pressed against me in that dark hallway, and how I walked away. Again.
I call Gran. She answers on the second ring.
“Did I wake you?” I ask, realizing the time.
“Please.” She scoffs. “Your grandfather used to say sleep was for people without telescopes. I was just looking at Jupiter, actually. It makes me think of you and your project.”
Something catches in my throat. “Speaking of that... I got into CalTech.”
“Oh! Wonderful! I knew you’d get in! Harold always said you had the mind for it. Remember how he used to let you play with his old microscopes?”
“Yeah.” I swallow hard. “I wish he was here.”
“Oh, darling.” Her voice softens. “He’d be so proud. Not because of CalTech - though that too - but because you chose your own path. That’s all he ever wanted for you.”
“Mother doesn’t see it that way.”
“Your mother,” Gran says with characteristic bluntness, “wouldn’t recognize true passion if it hit her in the head. Now, tell me about Tara, how is she?”
“We broke up.”
“Nonsense. You’ll be back together.”
“What?”
“Don’t play dumb, dear. It doesn’t suit you. Harold and I watched you fall in love exactly once - with that first telescope he gave you. You get the same look in your eyes when you’re with her.”
“It’s over,” I manage. “It’s better this way.”
“For whom?”
“For her. You’ve seen how our family operates, what they do to people who don’t fit their mold.”
“Ah yes, because Tara seemed so intimidated by them.” Gran’s voice drips sarcasm. “That girl is a star, Alfie. Burning brighter than anyone in that room. Including you, when you’re being stupid like this.”
“But—”
“Did I ever tell you about when I first met your grandfather?”
She had. Many times.
“Gran—”
“His mother hated me,” she continues, ignoring my protest. “Said I wasn’t suitable. Too loud, too crude, too everything. Sound familiar?”
I think about Tara defending my research to Drake, making Gran laugh. “What did you do?”
“I married him anyway and he told them where to go. Because some things are worth fighting for.” She pauses. “Your grandfather didn’t let anybody control him.”
“I don’t want to hurt her,” I say softly.
“Then don’t. But pushing her away because you’re scared? Or letting her push you away without a fight? That’s just cowardice.”
I don’t answer. Just flip open a book I’m not going to read. My sketchbook sits beside me, full of her. No matter how many times I try to draw something else—anything else—it always comes back to Tara.
“I wouldn’t even know where to start.”
Gran makes a sound like she already knows I’m full of shit. “You’re an artist, aren’t you?”
I blink. I can’t believe she remembers. The last piece I must have shown her was over a decade ago, before I started hiding it away from the world.
“Then show her.”
When we hang up, I just sit there. Staring at the pages, at every version of her I’ve sketched without meaning to.
Tara, biting her lip in concentration, completely lost in her work. Tara, laughing too loudly, always on the verge of causing trouble. Tara, asleep at my desk, the kind of peaceful that makes something in my ribs crack wide open.
And then it hits me. Fuck.
I love her.
Not in the clean, careful way Spencer men are supposed to love. Not like my parents’ cold, strategic arrangement or Drake’s effortless ease. This isn’t effortless. It’s fucking terrifying.
She’s chaos. She’s every color I never knew I wanted. She makes me want.
And I’ve been so afraid of wrecking it that I might have already let it slip through my fingers.
I grab my phone, ready to call her, to tell her everything. But words aren’t enough. She deserves more. She deserves something real. Something that lasts.
My gaze flicks to the blank page in front of me.
I pick up my pencil.
I don’t start with her face, though I know every angle by heart. I start with her hands—paint-stained and reckless, always reaching, always creating. Then the tilt of her head, like she’s seeing the world in a way the rest of us never will. And finally, I sketch her eyes. Wide open. Fearless.
A girl reaching for something just out of grasp. Not afraid of falling. Not afraid of fire. Just brave enough to try.
I draw until my fingers ache, until the sun rises, until she’s there in front of me in black and white.
Because Gran’s right.
Some things are worth risking yourself for.
And Tara Hawkins is one of them.
“Hey! I was totally winning that round!”
Ethan’s shout from downstairs snaps me out of my haze. I’ve been at this for hours, stopping only when my pencil snapped and I realized my sharpener was at home.
With a sigh, I set the pencil down, flexing my cramped fingers. Graphite stains smudge my skin.
My stomach growls, reminding me I haven’t eaten since... This morning? It’s now 9 PM, I should probably raid Troy’s meal-prep containers - he always makes extra and lets us steal it.
The living room is a cave of empty energy drink cans and discarded pizza boxes.
Ethan and Freddie are sprawled across the couch, deep in what appears to be hour twelve of their gaming marathon.
Freddie’s stubble has reached mountain-man territory, and Ethan’s strawberry blonde hair is defying gravity in impressive ways.
“Jesus, you two need sleep,” I mutter, navigating the debris field to reach the fridge.
“You don’t look like the picture of health yourself, ass,” Freddie shoots back without taking his eyes off the screen. I snort, because he’s not wrong. I probably look as wrecked as I feel.
“What’s that all over your hands?” Ethan asks. They’ve actually paused their game, both pairs of bleary eyes now focused on me with surprising intensity.
I glance down at my charcoal-stained fingers, and try to hide them behind me. “Oh, uh, pencils.”
They exchange a look I can’t quite read. Then, in perfect unison, “Cool.”
Just like that, they’re back to their game, shouting about spawn points and kill streaks. But I catch Freddie’s small smile, the way Ethan’s shoulders relax.
As if summoned by the noise, Troy appears in the doorway, fresh from the gym. He takes in the scene - his roommates in various states of dishevelment, me with charcoal-stained hands hovering over his meal prep.
“Good session?” I ask, leaning against the door frame.
“Trying to decide if I should punch you.” He doesn’t break eye contact. “You’re my best friend, but she’s my sister.”
“I know.”
“Do you?” He finally stops, sitting back on his heels to look at me. “Because from where I’m standing, you both lied to me for weeks. And then had some weird fake dating fling and now apparently, don’t like each other at all?”
“It wasn’t...” I run a hand through my hair, frustrated. “It started as something simple. Just helping each other out. Well, she was helping me out.”
“And now?”
I meet his eyes, owing him this honesty at least. “Now it’s not simple at all.”
He studies me for a long moment, and I see the war playing out on his face - best friend versus protective brother, trust versus fear.
“You remember freshman year?” he asks suddenly. “When my dad showed up on campus out of nowhere?”
I nod. I remember finding Troy at the gym at 3 AM, destroying a punching bag.
“You didn’t ask questions. Just spotted me while I benched way too much weight and then bought me terrible coffee.” His lips quirk. “That’s when I knew we’d be friends. Real friends.”
“The coffee was really bad.” I agree.
“My point is...” He stands, and I brace myself for either a punch or a lecture. “You’ve always had my back. Even when I’m being an ass. Even when I probably don’t deserve it.”
“Troy—”
“Let me finish.” He fixes me with that intense stare that probably terrifies people.
Heck, terrifies me a little right now. “I need to know if you’ve got her back the same way.
Not because she needs protecting - God knows she’s stronger than both of us - but because she deserves someone who sees that strength.
Who isn’t going to try to dim her light. ”
The weight of his words, of his trust, settles heavy on my shoulders. “I see her,” I say quietly. “All of her. And I’m trying to be worthy of that.”
He nods once, decision made. “Good.” Then his expression turns dangerous. “But if you ever hurt her—”
“You’ll kill me?”
“Nah.” His grin is sharp. “I’ll tell her about the time you cried watching Finding Nemo.”
“I was drunk!”
“Still counts.” He heads inside, pausing at the door. “And then I’ll kill you after. Whatever happened between you guys, fix it.”
“I really messed up, Troy.”
“Maybe. But that’s between you and her.” He looks at me directly. “I’m done playing overprotective brother. She’ll figure out what she wants. Who she wants. It’s her choice, not mine. I’ll be there when she needs me. But I’ll get out of the way.”
Something tight in my chest loosens. “Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me. I’m not giving permission because it’s not mine to give.” He stands, stretching. “Just... be honest with her. About everything. She deserves that much.”
I think about my sketchbook upstairs, about all the things I want to show her, tell her. “Yeah. She does.”
Troy pauses at the door. “And Alfie? I trust her judgment. Even when it comes to my best friend.”
I follow him inside, something settling in my chest. Not permission, not a blessing, but understanding. Respect for Tara’s right to make her own choices, her own mistakes if that’s what they turn out to be.
Now I just have to figure out how to show her that I see her - all of her - and I’m ready to let her decide if I’m worth forgiving.