Chapter 33
Chapter Thirty-Three
PENELOPE
By the time my coffee kicks in, I’ve convinced myself I can fake being a normal TA.
Talon falls into step beside me on the main path through campus.
He has his sleeves pushed up, backpack hanging from one shoulder, hair doing that intentionally messy thing.
I had to hold in a laugh when he slipped his Birkenstock slides on.
Talon Grant does not give me Birk vibes, but who am I to judge?
He keeps a careful half-step between us, not touching, not crowding, just there. Close enough that my arm feels his heat whenever our strides sync.
“Did you sleep okay last night?”
“A little,” he says. “You?”
“Kind of. I was pretty wiped after the fitting and the bedroom. But it was a restless sleep.”
The Sociology Building looms ahead. I feel my shoulders roll back automatically; my face shifts into TA-neutral. The shift must show because his fingers flex on his backpack strap like he wants to grab my hand and then remembers where we are.
“Remember the rule,” I murmur.
He smirks. “No flirting in class, no touching behind Brose’s back, no calling you baby by the board.”
“And campus is Switzerland,” I remind him. “Neutral ground. We are normal adults and students who do not have feelings and uncle situations.”
“That is way too many words,” he says. “But yeah, I got it.”
We reach the front doors. He slows, puts his arm out like he’s going to open the door for me then aborts at the last second, shoving his hands into his pockets instead. The restraint punches straight through my rib cage.
“I’ll go in first,” he says. “You follow a minute later.”
“You’ve done this before?” I ask.
He gives me a crooked smile that is more tired than cocky. “I’ve been hiding things from adults since I was six. I’m annoyingly good at it.”
The glass door swings open, swallowing him into the building. I wait until he disappears before I follow.
The lecture hall smells like burned coffee from Brose’s ancient travel mug. Students chatter and scroll on their phones, oblivious to the fact that their TA is living in a soap opera.
Talon sits two rows from the front, eyes on his notebook. He doesn’t look at the door when I walk in, which shouldn’t hurt as much as it does.
I move behind my desk, drop my bag, and pull out my laptop. My fingers hover over the mouse for a second, then shift to the keyboard.
Email.
New message.
To: Professor Brose
Subject: Absence tomorrow
Professor Brose,
I wanted to let you know I will need to miss tomorrow’s class due to an unexpected family obligation. I have prepped the slides and notes for you and attached them here. Please let me know if you need anything else from me ahead of time.
Best,
Penelope
My chest tightens on the word family.
I hit send before I can overthink it. One more piece in place for tomorrow. One more lie built on top of the truth that my “family obligation” involves an extraction and a girl who hasn’t seen her brother in lord knows how long.
Brose shuffles in a moment later, rumpled and oblivious. Class starts. I move through the motions, writing key terms on the board, answering questions, pretending the world is not tilting.
Every thirty seconds my senses trip over Talon. The way his jaw flexes when he’s concentrating. The way his hand tightens around his pen when the topic veers near systems of power and control. The way his eyes flick to me sometimes, quick and hungry, before he drags them back to the textbook.
He obeys every boundary.
No flirting.
No lingering.
No smirks.
It should make this easier.
It doesn’t.
When class ends, students spill out in clusters. Talon takes his time sliding his notebook into his bag, letting everyone else go ahead before he stands. He doesn’t come to my desk. He doesn’t brush my hand. He just catches my eye for a single, loaded second and tilts his head toward the door.
Then he’s gone.
I pack up slowly, heart doing a strange staccato against my ribs. When I step outside, he’s leaning against a tree across the way, pretending to scroll through his phone. The minute he sees me, the pretending drops.
“Culver’s?” he asks.
The question is so normal it almost knocks me over. “Yeah,” I say. “God, yes. If I don’t get food in the next thirty minutes, I’ll start gnawing on students.”
He laughs, and some of the haunted look in his eyes eases. “Come on, then.”
We walk side by side until we get off campus. As soon as we’re not on college grounds, I take his hand in mine and intertwine our fingers. The farther we get from the university, the easier my lungs work.
Culver’s appears like a greasy blue and white mirage. We step inside and order at the counter. I don’t have to think about it when it’s our turn to order.
“How can I help you?” the older woman at the cash register asks.
“Chicken strip basket, Dr Pepper,” I say.
“Deluxe cheeseburger basket, root beer,” Talon adds behind me.
We carry the little numbered stand to a corner booth by the window. He sits opposite me, stretching his legs out under the table until his knee knocks mine.
“Sorry,” he says.
He doesn’t move his leg. Neither do I.
The food arrives on a blue tray, all golden and bad for our arteries. I dunk a chicken strip in ranch and bite. Grease and salt flood my tongue, and for a second my brain just shuts off in gratitude.
Talon watches me, amused. “That good?”
“You have no idea,” I say around my straw as I take a long pull of Dr Pepper. “I haven’t had Culver’s in weeks. Been a little busy hoping students don’t spread my secrets and that skeletons don’t burst out of my closet.”
He takes a huge bite of his burger, chews, swallows, then points a fry at me. “I’m still really fucking sorry about that. I promise, given this chance with you, I’ll do better, be better.”
“I didn’t say that to make you feel bad.” I tilt my head, looking at him. “Was trying to make light.”
We eat in companionable silence for a few minutes, letting the grease do its magic. Outside, cars slide through the drive-thru, people move through their perfectly normal days.
“How are you really?” I ask.
He stares at his fries for a second, then picks one up and tears it in half. “Do you want the real answer or the Penelope answer?”
“Both.”
“Real answer,” he says. “I’m terrified. I keep imagining a dozen ways this can go wrong. I keep hearing that woman’s voice in my head saying ‘foreseeable future’ like it’s a prison sentence. I keep seeing Minx in that ugly uniform, wondering if she thinks we forgot about her.”
My chest aches.
“And the Penelope answer?” I ask.
He forces a smile. “Tomorrow is the day. We have a plan. I’m not alone. You’re fucking sexy when you threaten to burn institutions down, and your chicken strip obsession is charming.”
I roll my eyes, but warmth curls low in my stomach. “You’re deflecting with charm.”
“It’s one of my only skills,” he says. “That and pissing off my mother.”
“You’re good at more than that,” I say before I can stop myself.
His brows lift, interest sparking. “Yeah?”
“You’re annoyingly good with people,” I tell him.
“You read a room faster than most therapists. You’re loyal to the point of self-destruction.
You notice everything and pretend you don’t, which is infuriating because it means I can’t hide when I want to.
You would burn your own life down to save your sister, which is both noble and incredibly stupid, and I’m trying very hard to make sure you don’t actually have to. ”
He stares at me like I just recited a poem.
“Penelope,” he says quietly. “You’re going to make me cry in Culver's.”
“Please don’t,” I say. “I can’t handle being banned from the one place keeping me sane.”
He laughs, the sound rough and real. He takes a sip of his root beer and watches me over the rim of the cup.
“And you?” he asks. “How are you really?”
I trace a circle in the condensation on my Dr Pepper cup. “Tired. Angry. Terrified, I'm going to lose my dad. Terrified, we'll not get to Minxy in time. Terrified that I’m dragging all of you into a reverse harem mess.”
“You didn’t drag us.” His gaze softens. “We walked in. On purpose. And you’re allowed to be scared. Your dad seems like a great guy, and he doesn’t deserve to be in Abi’s web.”
“What about you? You just found out that your dad didn’t die like you thought he did.” I take a breath before moving forward. “Thinking he took his own life because life was too much is a lot different from your mom murdering him or having him murdered.”
He nods slowly. “Honestly, I’m holding on to hope, but assuming she killed him and Todd is a stretch. I don’t know what else she’d be worried about leading from Todd to my dad but… I don’t know, I can’t wrap my head around most of my life being a lie.”
We finish our food, slower now, prolonging the normalcy. When the fries are gone and my sauce cup is just streaks, I lean back and sigh.
“Thank you,” I say. “For this. For food. For being… here.”
“Thank you for not kicking me out of your life when I was a dick,” he says. “And for not making me eat cafeteria spaghetti.”
I check my phone, making sure I haven’t missed any calls or texts.
“I don’t know about you but I don’t feel like spending the rest of the day in class. Wanna skip with me for the first time?”
His eyes widen. “You’ve never skipped class before? Ever? What about high school?”
“Nope. Never. So what do you say? Take my skipping v-card.”
“Hell yeah.” He smiles. “Want to go back to the dorm?”
My pulse jumps. “To… hang out?”
“We can sit on opposite sides of the room and talk about the weather if you want.” He pushes his glasses up his nose. “I just… I don't really want to go back and be alone yet. And I like being around you when it doesn’t feel like the world is falling apart.”
It’s such a simple ask.
“Okay,” I say. “Your dorm it is.”