Chapter 11
DELILAH
Ihate my bike.
Not because it’s old—though it is old—or because the gears skip every time I shift, or because the chain needs oil, or because the stupid seat never stays at the right height.
No. I hate my bike because it’s not a car.
And I know, I know—biking is great for the environment, UMS students are so eco-conscious, blah blah blah.
Most people I pass on the way to Lacey’s place probably feel smug about pedaling around town. They probably post about their choice to give up their comfortable four wheels for two. Me?
I’m freezing.
My fingers are numb, my nose is about to fall off, and I’m pretty sure if I hit one more pothole, my ass is going to be permanently concussed.
I need a car. A heater. A comfortable seat.
A windshield that shields against wind, which seems like such a basic concept that I’m personally offended my current mode of transport doesn’t have one.
But cars cost money. And that is something I don’t have.
Well, I have some savings. My mom wasn’t exactly reliable growing up, so I learned early on that I needed to look after myself, and after so long of building up my savings, I could probably afford a car now.
But then I won’t have enough money to make myself feel safe.
So I keep pedaling, imagining that every rotation of my stupid frozen wheels is bringing me one step closer to never having to do this again.
Lacey’s apartment is one of those nicer, newer places that UMS students with richer parents or better luck manage to snag.
A three-bedroom with modern appliances and a couch that doesn’t look like it was salvaged from the side of the road.
I slam my bike against the railing outside, rub my cold fingers on my jeans, and knock once before pushing the door open.
“It’s open!” Lacey calls.
Inside, the warmth hits me instantly, and I resist the urge to just stand in the doorway and defrost. Lacey is on the couch, legs draped over her boyfriend Carter’s lap, scrolling through her phone.
Chloe is sitting on the floor painting her nails, and Brianna—half-dressed in what is clearly a pre-going-out outfit—is fixing her hair in the mirror by the TV.
“Oh my god, you look like a corpse,” Chloe says, wrinkling her nose when she looks up.
“Thanks, really boosting my confidence,” I mutter, kicking off my boots.
Lacey grins as I flop down next to her. “It’s cold out, huh?”
“Oh, wouldn’t know. My bike has heated seats and climate control,” I say, deadpan.
Carter snorts. Lacey pats my knee sympathetically.
“Bitch, you should just get a car,” Brianna says, adjusting her top in the mirror.
I stare at her.
“Oh, wow. You fixed it. I’ll just manifest one out of thin air.”
Brianna rolls her eyes. “Okay, whatever, sorry. Anyway, we’re going out later, but you can stay and pregame if you want.”
“Nah, I have stuff to do,” I say.
Chloe tilts her head. “Ugh, is it for your super smart thing?”
I sigh.
“Yes, Chloe, it’s for my super smart thing.”
Brianna turns away from the mirror. “Wait, is that the competition thing? With the scholarship?”
“Grant,” I correct.
“Right, right. And you’re doing it with—who again?”
I hesitate for a second too long and Lacey immediately catches it.
“Oh my god!” She gasps, sitting up. “Wait. Who’s your partner? Is it Baxter? Are you going to have to work with him again?”
“No, it’s just…” I exhale, hating that this is my life now. “It’s Troy Hawkins.”
The room goes silent.
Then, all at once, erupts.
“Wait, Troy Hawkins?!” says Chloe
“You’re joking,” says Brianna
“Oh, fuck,” says Lacey
Carter, who has been mostly silent, raises a hand.
“Sorry, I don’t get it. Who’s Troy Hawkins?”
Lacey whips her head toward him. “Babe. The Troy Hawkins.”
I try hard not to roll my eyes. He’s not a freakin’ celebrity.
“Ohh! Hawk. I know him, he’s always in the gym. Pals with Jared and the Omega Phi guys.”
“His nickname is Hawk?” I ask.
Chloe waves a hand. “He’s, like… UMS royalty. All the guys want to be him, all the girls want to bang him.” She giggles.
“Ew,” I mutter.
“Troy Hawkins? God, he never stays with anyone longer than a weekend. My friend last year thought she was special—he called her 'sunshine' and everything, until he ghosted her after three dates,” Chloe says, “But have you seen his face? Totally worth the heartbreak.”
“Is that all anyone cares about? His dating history?” I ask.
“Yep… I sort of know him,” Brianna chimes in, perking up. “Met him a couple of times. He’s ripped.” She tilts her head, like she’s considering something. “Oh, and he’s best friends with Freddie Donovan.”
Carter raises his hand again.
“Carter, do you live under a rock?!” Lacey groans.
“I know who Freddie is,” Carter defends. “I just don’t get how Bri knows him.”
Brianna grins. “I fucked him. Best sex of my life.”
Carter makes a face. “Jesus Christ, Brianna.”
“What?” she says innocently. “I speak my truth.”
“Yeah, well, maybe don't speak it so much,” Carter mutters.
Chloe snorts. “Wait—does that mean Troy is, like, an in for you?”
Brianna taps a finger against her chin, thinking. “You know, that’s actually not the worst idea. Maybe if I sleep with his best friend, it’ll make him jealous.”
“That’s some psycho shit, Bri,” I say, reaching for a throw pillow to smack her with.
“Thank you,” she says proudly.
Carter groans. “You’re such a slut.”
Brianna gasps dramatically. “Carter! That was so misogynistic of you.”
“It’s only misogynistic if it’s not true,” Carter shoots back, raising a brow.
“That’s… not how misogyny works,” I mutter.
Brianna tilts her head. “And you’ve got a tiny cock. It’s not an insult if it’s accurate.”
Lacey drops her face into her hands. “Oh my god.”
Carter’s face goes bright red, making me wonder if there’s truth to it.
Brianna grins. “Anyway, if I’m such a slut, maybe Delilah should sleep with Troy instead. I’m pretty sure like 90% of campus has been with him, anyway. Then you can report back on how delicious his abs taste.”
“Absolutely not,” I say so fast, it makes Carter snort.
Lacey frowns now. “Seriously, though. Why are you working with him? I thought you hated him. Weren’t you guys at camp together?”
I force my face into a neutral expression. “I don’t hate him.”
Lacey gives me a look.
I sigh.
“Fine. I strongly dislike him. But I needed a partner, and he was… there.”
And also, terrifyingly competent. But mostly, just there when I was running out of time.
I still think he cheated to win on the last day of camp and I haven’t forgiven him for it, but that’s a grudge for another time.
“And you think you can work with him without, like… committing murder?” Lacey asks, only half-joking.
“Highly doubtful.” I sip my drink. “But the grant is more important than my feelings, so I’ll make it work.”
Chloe, who’s been carefully blowing on her freshly painted nails, finally looks up. “Okay but like… what is the competition, actually?”
“We have to design a sustainable infrastructure project.”
“Like… a green building?”
“Sure.”
Brianna tilts her head. “And if you win, you get… money?”
“Ten grand.”
That gets a little reaction. Even Chloe looks mildly impressed.
Chloe shrugs. “Still, would rather go party. Last year of being hot, unhinged college students before we’re all married and baking sourdough and wiping tiny asses.”
That mental image makes my stomach clench.
Is that Chloe’s idea of adult life?
God, I hope that's not what awaits me. I've never seen myself on that path—married young, babies, domestic bliss in the suburbs. Not that there's anything wrong with it, but my future looks different in my head.
I see blueprints and construction sites. Travel opportunities to study sustainable architecture around the world. Maybe a small apartment in a city where I can build a reputation, prove myself. Adventure and independence and creating something that lasts.
I don't think too far ahead—that feels dangerous, like tempting fate—but whenever I do let myself imagine the future, it's always full of work I'm proud of and new places.
I drop my head into my hands.
“You guys are so helpful.”
“Hey, we support you,” Lacey says, grinning. “Just… from afar. With minimal brain usage.”
“Very minimal,” Chloe echoes, reaching for her phone.
“So minimal I’ve already forgotten what we were talking about,” Brianna adds. “Where are we going tonight?”
I groan.
This is my support system.
This is what I have to work with.
And honestly? For all his flaws… Troy Hawkins might be less of a headache.
“This is worse than I remembered,” I say, frowning at the crumbling concrete cube of sadness in front of us.
Troy lets out a low whistle beside me. “Yeah. It’s giving... post-apocalyptic prison chic.”
He’s not wrong.
Graffiti covers every surface. The door to the men's side is hanging off one hinge like it tried to escape. And someone has absolutely desecrated one of the toilets—I'm talking full roll of toilet paper shoved in, like a tiny mummy made its final stand.
I mutter something vaguely horrified and pull out my phone to take photos. Evidence. Proof that this place deserves to be bulldozed and possibly exorcised.
Meanwhile, Troy’s just standing there, all annoyingly tall and golden and grinning, like this is some kind of fun team-building exercise and not the kickoff to the most important project of my academic career.
I need to focus.
Measuring tape in hand, I start circling the perimeter, noting dimensions, angles, general vibes of despair.
“It’s around five hundred square feet,” I call. “Could extend south if we had to.”
He hums. I don’t know why it bugs me that he doesn’t argue. I expected pushback. A joke. Something. But he just nods, eyes scanning the area like he’s actually paying attention.
Weird.
“This spot’s got decent sunlight,” he says, pointing. “And it’s in the middle of two main buildings—see how people keep cutting through?”