Chapter 12
PIPER
Sushi Palace is humming—low jazz, conveyor-belt clatter, the soft whoosh of wasabi packets sliding past like tiny green meteors. I pick a corner booth, laptop in tow, intending to work on ClearMatch over a plate of salmon nigiri.
A flash of red catches my eye—someone in a football letterman jacket sliding into a booth across the restaurant. My pulse jumps. Is that Ethan? The broad shoulders look right, the way he sits with that casual confidence...
Then the guy turns and it's just some random freshman, probably trying to impress his date.
I shake my head, annoyed at myself.
What is wrong with me?
Two days ago I watched Ethan win a push-up contest on the quad—his shirt riding up, muscles flexing, that stupidly triumphant grin when he beat Troy—and, apparently, my brain filed that under “important data to randomly recall fifty times a day.”
I am not some primitive human meat sack who's attracted to the most alpha guy in the pack.
I refuse to be impressed by a few push-ups and the way his shoulder muscles moved when he—
Stop. Just stop.
Though his lopsided grin when he caught me watching was admittedly...
No. Focus. Code. Algorithm. Not Ethan's biceps.
The bell above Sushi Palace's door rings.
I breathe in salt, soy, and toasted sesame—reset in progress—and freeze.
Miles Carver is eight feet away, laughing at something the hostess is saying. His profile is so familiar my stomach twists.
Miles.
My freshman-year lab partner, my late-night coding buddy, the boy I loved in silence for years—right up until he introduced his “totally amazing” girlfriend to the group chat.
First week of freshman year.
“Is this seat taken?” a voice above me in the overcrowded CS lab asks.
I look up. Messy dark hair, crooked smile, holding a big water bottle. He’s the most handsome guy I’ve ever seen. Miles Carver, though I don’t know his name yet.
“All yours,” I manage.
He slides in beside me, immediately spills said water bottle on his desk. “Shit. Great first impression.”
I wordlessly hand him my pack of tissues. He grins like I’ve saved his life.
“I’m Miles. And you’re my hero.”
The thing is, no one ever really sees me. I’m the quiet girl in the corner, the one guys ask for homework help, not to hang out. But Miles? He looks right at me. Remembers my name and what I like. Texts me coding memes that make me snort-laugh in lectures.
By week three, we’re inseparable. He can’t code for shit, but he makes me laugh until I can’t breathe. I debug his disasters; he brings me caffeine at 3 AM. Everyone assumes we’re dating.
“Just friends,” we always say in unison, and I hate how easily the lie rolls off my tongue.
For two years, I perfect the art of almost. Almost touching when we reach for the same Red Bull. Almost kissing when he leans in to check my screen. Almost confessing when he drunk-texts me at 2 AM
“where would I be without u pipes?”
I’m sure he’s just waiting for the right moment. We both know this sort of love is rare, and he is scared of risking our friendship.
Last summer in the lab, everything feels different. Charged. He’s started playing with my hair when he’s thinking. Started texting me good morning every day. Started looking at me like—
“We’re an unbeatable duo,” he says one night, nudging a Redbull my way. That smile that makes my chest ache.
This is it. Finally. He feels it too.
Then it’s the end of August. Harper Briggs posts on Instagram. Miles has his arms around her waist. Caption “I love doing life with this one ”.
I stare at the photo.
I close Instagram and never go to study group again.
Said girlfriend, Harper, is currently on his arm—retro sundress, beachy waves. She’s gorgeous. I drop my gaze to the menu, studying the miso soup description like it holds the secrets of the universe.
Please don’t see me. Please don’t see me. Please don’t—
“Pipes?” Miles's voice cuts through the jazz, too close, too familiar, too everything.
I look up. He's already halfway to my table, Harper two steps behind, her hand on his elbow like she's trying to redirect him.
“Miles, our table's ready—” she says, but he's not listening.
“Just a second, babe. Look who's here!”
Harper's expression shifts minutely—a tightening around her eyes that suggests this isn't the first time he's ignored her attempts to steer him away from something. She follows him to my table.
“Hey!” My voice comes out an octave too high. The neon sign above us definitely isn’t hiding the flush racing up my neck.
“Long time.” He slides into the seat across from me before I can form any words. Harper follows, all graceful limbs and sympathetic smile. “Jack said you’re working on a new app? Without your trusty debugging partner?”
Harper laughs like this is charming, instead of a knife to the ribs.
I briefly consider drowning myself in my miso soup. The bowl’s too small. Story of my life.
“Beta’s great,” I lie through my teeth. “Just polishing the UX. Making it more... user-friendly.”
“User-friendly?” Miles’s eyebrows climb. “You? The girl who once made an app interface so complicated even the CS professors couldn’t navigate it?”
“People change.”
“Do they, though?” He’s grinning now, that familiar teasing that used to make me melt. Now it just makes me want to throw soy sauce at his face.
Harper tilts her head, probably practiced in a mirror. “Maybe you could demo it for us sometime? I’m always beta testing Miles’s projects, aren’t I, babe? He says I give great feedback.”
I used to give great feedback. I used to rebuild your entire codebase while you played video games. I used to—
“Yeah, maybe.” The words taste like battery acid.
“We miss you at study group, Pipes.” Miles leans forward, all earnest concern. “Come back? We’re hosting a little party thing at our place this weekend.”
Our place.
The words land like a gut punch.
They moved in together?
I can’t think about Harper in his apartment. In the space where I helped him build that Swedish nightmare of a desk, where we ate Chinese food on the floor because he didn’t own chairs yet.
Where I stupidly thought—
“Can’t.” I grab for my go-to excuse. “Extra shifts at Dora’s. Saturday brunch is basically the Hunger Games with pancakes.”
Miles winces. “That sucks.”
“Devastating,” I agree, mentally adding: So devastating I'd beg Marco for every single Saturday shift rather than watch you two share inside jokes in front of people who used to bet on when we’d get together.
Harper’s face crumples into a pout that probably works on puppies and Miles. “Oh no! Right when I finally get to meet the famous Piper! Miles talks about you all the time.”
Great. I’m dinnertime conversation.
Pass the salt—oh! and remember my pathetic friend who used to fix all my homework?
“You know what?” Harper's eyes light up. “We could move the study group to Friday. That way, you could come! It’s so sad that you’re always alone on weekends.”
Always alone.
The words hang there like a neon sign.
PIPER RENNER, TRAGIC SPINSTER.
I mean, she’s not wrong.
But did she have to say it out loud?
My chopstick creaks under pressure. “Actually... I’m not totally free, I just remembered. I have plans Saturday night.”
Both their heads tilt in sync.
Disgusting.
“Plans?” Miles’s voice sharpens.
“A party.” The lie builds momentum. “With someone. A guy. We’re... It’s a whole thing.”
Harper practically vibrates. “Oh my god, who? Do we know him?”
“Ethan. Prescott.” Why am I still talking? “We’re going together. To this party. As a... we’re sort of...”
“Casual?” Harper supplies helpfully. “That’s so fun! I mean, I’m way too needy for casual—totally monogamous—but good for you! Get it, girl!”
Miles’s jaw tightens. Since freshman year, he’s never seen me with anyone else. Never seen me want anyone but him.
Petty satisfaction burns through my chest.
And now I’m pretty determined to piss him off.
“Yeah,” I hear myself say. “It’s casual but also... not. We’re figuring it out.”
“That’s wonderful!” Harper gushes.
But Miles—Miles looks like someone changed his WiFi password. “Ethan Prescott? The game design guy?”
“The ex-quarterback,” Harper adds, eyes wide. “Oh, he’s gorgeous. Those shoulders!”
I shrug like I hadn’t noticed. Like I don’t think about those shoulders approximately every five minutes.
“How long has this been going on?” Miles asks with that fake-casual voice—the one he used when fishing for information he had no right to want.
“Few weeks.” I stab a piece of pickled ginger with unnecessary force. “We’re keeping it low-key, but he’s... he’s great.”
Why am I doing this? Why can’t I stop talking?
“That’s so wonderful!” Harper reaches over and touches my wrist. I fight the urge to jerk away. “I’m really happy you found someone.”
She’s so goddamn sincere it makes my teeth hurt.
I want to hate her. Want her to be some vapid mean girl who stole my best friend. Instead she’s sitting here genuinely celebrating my fake relationship with her perfect manicure and her perfect smile and her perfect boyfriend who used to be mine.
Not mine mine. But mine adjacent. Mine in every way that mattered except the one that did.
Miles doesn’t echo Harper’s enthusiasm. He’s doing that thing where he drums his fingers—index to pinky, repeat—which means his brain is churning. Processing. Recalculating.
A plate of salmon rolls glides by on the belt. Nobody moves.
“Well.” I force brightness into my voice like I’m programming a chatbot. “Should let you two enjoy date night. Code waits for no one.”
I snap my laptop closed with finality.
“Wait—” Miles sits forward. “We should get coffee. Just us. Catch up properly?”
The words hang between us. Harper’s perfectly shaped eyebrows draw together as she looks between us, and I watch her trying to solve an equation she doesn’t have all the variables for.
“Maybe.” I’m already sliding out of the booth. “Things are pretty crazy right now.”
“Right.” He’s still drumming those fingers. “Crazy.”
I grab my untouched sushi order—twenty dollars of fish I’m too nauseated to eat—and navigate through tables on autopilot. Pride is the only thing keeping my spine straight.
At the door, I make the mistake of looking back.
Harper’s talking, animated about something, one hand on Miles’s arm. But he’s not listening. He’s watching me leave with an expression I can’t decode and don’t want to.
For one perfect second, it feels like winning. Like finally being the one who walks away first.
Then reality sucker-punches me. I have exactly forty-eight hours to convince Ethan Prescott to be my fake boyfriend. Because if Miles sees through this lie, I’ll never recover from the humiliation.
Outside, March air slaps my heated face. I fire off a text to Alex.
Party still happening? Need costume ASAP
YES!!! Thrift store on Madison has good stuff!!
Can’t wait to catch up properly
Anything but clothes.
Because this situation needed to be more awkward.
I shove my phone away and start the walk back to campus, sushi bag swinging like a twenty-dollar reminder of my poor life choices.
“Not my type,” I tell the empty street, thinking of Ethan’s ridiculous plant and terrible jokes and 90% compatibility rating. “But desperate times.”