13 Cassius #2
The drive to campus is loud, even in silence.
Zae sits sideways in the passenger seat, one knee up, hoodie sleeves covering her hands.
The morning sun catches on her freckles, which only makes me think about the way she counted mine earlier, and if I think about that too long, I’m going to drive into a pole.
“I meant it, you know.” I break the silence finally, eyes on the road. “I’m breaking up with her. Today.”
“I know.” She nods her head softly.
“You sure you don’t want to just stay at my house?” I try one last time. “Hang out with my mom. Eat leftover waffles. Avoid witnessing emotional carnage firsthand.”
“Tempting, but no.”
“Zae.”
She looks at me, eyes steady. “We are not having our first official ‘we’re both on the same page about the love thing’ moment in your childhood bedroom with your mom downstairs making snacks. That’s like… a therapy bill waiting to happen. Absolutely not.”
Heat rockets up the back of my neck. “Jesus, Zae.”
She grins, satisfied that she’s flustered me into silence.
“Besides,” she adds, quieter now, picking at a loose thread on her sleeve, “I want to be close by. Just in case you need… y’know. You need me. Or a hug. Or to scream into my shirt for a while. I can multitask.”
My chest does that tight achey thing again.
“Okay,” I say, because how the hell am I supposed to argue with that?
We fall into a more comfortable quiet as we hit the highway. She flips through her playlist until she finds something to fill the silence between us without being obnoxious, You Are Enough by Sleeping At Last.
Trying to tell me something, Zae?
By the time we pull into campus, my hands are sweating on the wheel. I park in our usual lot behind the dorms and kill the engine. Suddenly everything feels way too real.
“You ready?” she asks, turning toward me.
“No,” I answer honestly. “But I know it needs to happen.”
She studies my face for a second, then nods like she approves of the answer.
“Go be honest, skater boy.” She’s unbuckling her seatbelt already. “I’ll be in your room. Stealing your hoodies.”
“Don’t threaten me with a good time,” I mutter.
She leans over and presses a quick kiss to my cheek. It hits like a jolt straight to the heart.
“Good luck,” she whispers.
Then she’s gone, climbing out of the car and jogging toward the dorm entrance, hoodie sleeves flapping. She doesn’t look back, which somehow makes this easier and harder at the same time.
I sit there for a beat, forehead resting against the steering wheel.
“In,” I mutter, breathing deep for a count of four. “Out.”
I get down before I can psych myself out, shove my hands in my pockets, and head toward the Greek row.
The sorority house looks like every other sorority house on this street: white columns, manicured lawn, letters on the front, a couple of girls on the porch pretending not to stare at their phones.
Stacey is on the steps with three of her sisters. Her hair perfectly straightened, dressed like a live-action Barbie. Her smile is the only thing that’s not quite perfect.
“Cass,” she greets me, standing up a little straighter. “Hey.”
“Hey,” I say back, heart thudding. “Can we talk?”
Her friends immediately go silent. You can hear a pin drop, or a rumor start.
“We can talk here,” Stacey suggests, chin lifting like she’s bracing herself. “I don’t have a lot of time before chapter.”
I look at the three pairs of eyes watching me like I’m the entertainment, and I hate the way their gazes get a rise out of me.
“I’d rather do this in private.”
“Oh my God,” one of the girls mutters under her breath. “He’s totally breaking up with you.”
Another elbows her, whispering way too loudly, “Told you. No one broods that hard over one girl.”
Stacey shoots them a look, but she doesn’t tell them to leave. That tells me what I need to know. Something in my chest settles.
“Stace,” I start carefully, turning back to her. “I’m not going to drag this out. I think we both know things haven’t been working for a while.”
Her mouth twists. “So that’s it? You’re just… done?”
“It’s not ‘just’ anything,” I argue. “We’ve been trying to force something that doesn’t fit. You want a certain kind of guy, and I’m not him.”
“Oh, you think?” one of the girls—the one with winged eyeliner and an obvious hatred for me—snorts. “You show up to formals in black jeans and a band tee and act surprised when you don’t match.”
I ignore her, keeping my eyes on Stacey. “You’ve been trying to fix me since day one.”
“I’ve been trying to help you,” Stacey snaps. “You could be that guy if you wanted to. If you’d just put in some effort. I bought you those nice shirts—”
“Yeah, that’s the problem. I shouldn’t have to change to make you happy,” I cut in. “I shouldn’t have to look like every other Sigma Tu clone’s closet.”
She flinches.
“You didn’t ask what I like,” I go on, gentler but no less firm. “You just decided you knew what would make me better and pushed. Clothes, haircut, how I talk, how much I see my best friend. That’s not support, Stacey. That’s… wanting a project.”
Her friends bristle like I’ve insulted them personally.
“I supported you going to anger management,” Stacey argues, like that’s enough. “That’s not ‘project-ing.’ That’s caring.”
I let out a slow breath. “No. You posting about ‘dating someone with big feelings is so hard, but I’m doing my best’ was… something else.”
Stacey flushes. “That was one time.”
“It was enough,” I counter.
She crosses her arms, eyes shining now. “This is about her, isn’t it? Zara.”