Chapter 7 Isla #2
Sebastian: Wear something comfortable. This is supposed to be relaxing.
Me: I only own comfortable. Rich boy problems aren't my problems.
Sebastian: Touché. See you tomorrow.
I fall asleep thinking about tomorrow, about being alone with Sebastian in his space. About what that means. About how three dates ago, I would have rather walked through fire than spend voluntary time with him.
Now? Now I'm nervous for entirely different reasons.
Friday arrives and I spend the day in a state of low-level anxiety. My morning class drags. My library shift feels endless. By the time I'm back in my dorm room at five, I have less than two hours to get ready and I have no idea what to wear.
"It's not a real date," I mutter to myself, standing in front of my closet. "It's a contract obligation. What you wear doesn't matter."
But I still try on four different outfits before settling on leggings and an oversized sweater. Comfortable, like he said. Nothing that suggests I'm trying too hard.
I leave my hair down. Minimal makeup. My usual silver earrings—thrift store finds from freshman year.
At 6:30, my phone buzzes with texts from both Ivy and Lennox.
Ivy: Remember to text us. And keep your phone charged.
Lennox: Have fun but not too much fun. We need details tomorrow.
Me: You're both ridiculous.
Ivy: We're both concerned friends. There's a difference.
At 6:45 exactly, there's a knock on my door.
I take a breath. Check my reflection one more time. Grab my phone and keys.
This is it. Date three. Alone with Sebastian at the Legacy House.
Nothing to be nervous about.
Except everything.
I open the door. Sebastian stands in the hallway wearing jeans, actual jeans, not expensive slacks and a dark sweater. His hair is less styled than usual, falling slightly into his eyes. He looks... normal. Almost human.
"Ready?" he asks.
No. Not even close.
"Let's go," I say instead.
His car is waiting outside, that same black Mercedes that screams money.
But when I slide into the passenger seat, I notice things I didn't before.
A worn copy of a poetry collection in the side pocket.
A coffee stain on the center console. Small imperfections that make it feel less like a show piece and more like something actually used.
"Nervous?" he asks as he starts the car.
"Should I be?"
"No. I promise tonight is just movies. No pressure. No games." He glances at me. "Just us figuring this out."
Us. There's that word again.
The drive to the Legacy House takes five minutes. I've passed it dozens of times but never been inside. It looms on the edge of campus, three stories of stone and history, windows glowing warm against the February night.
Sebastian parks in the private lot. Leads me to a side entrance instead of the front door.
"We're avoiding your housemates?" I guess.
"They're having a party in the main house. I thought you'd prefer privacy."
"You thought right."
He leads me up a back staircase to the third floor. Opens a door to reveal... not what I expected.
His room is huge—the size of my entire dorm suite—but surprisingly personal. Books everywhere. A desk covered in papers. Windows overlooking the campus. And in one corner, a leather journal I recognize from his texts.
"This is your room?" I ask stupidly.
"This is my room." He seems nervous, which is weird. Sebastian doesn't do nervous. "The theater room is through here."
He opens a connecting door to reveal a small private screening room. Plush couches, a projector screen, shelves of movies.
"Of course you have a private theater," I mutter.
"Family perk. I barely use it." He gestures to the couch. "Make yourself comfortable. I've got snacks, drinks, whatever you want."
I sink into the couch, it's absurdly comfortable, while Sebastian fusses with the projector and a mini fridge I hadn't noticed.
"I've got the classics queued up," he says, handing me a bottle of water and a bowl of popcorn. "Double Indemnity, The Maltese Falcon, Sunset Boulevard. Your choice."
"You actually found film noir?"
"You said you liked it. I pay attention." He sits next to me, not too close, but close enough that I'm aware of every inch of space between us. "So? What are we watching first?"
I choose The Maltese Falcon because it's my favorite. Because Humphrey Bogart's Sam Spade is complicated and flawed and somehow still heroic. Because the whole movie is about people lying to each other and themselves.
Feels appropriate.
Sebastian dims the lights and starts the film.
The opening credits roll, and I try to focus on the screen instead of the fact that I'm alone in Sebastian Thornhill's private theater, sitting on his couch, about to spend the next several hours in forced proximity. Not thinking about what’s under the sweater at all.
This is fine. Totally fine.
Absolutely nothing to worry about.
The movie starts, and for a while, I actually relax. Get lost in the story. Almost forget where I am and who I'm with.
Then, about thirty minutes in, Sebastian speaks.
"Can I tell you something?"
My heart rate spikes. "What?"
"I've been working on something. Since the auction. Since you agreed to give me a chance." He pauses the movie. "And I want to show you. But I'm terrified you'll hate it."
"What is it?"
"Come here. To my room."
Every alarm bell in my head goes off. But something in his voice, vulnerability, hope makes me nod.
"Okay."
He leads me back through the connecting door to his bedroom. Goes to his desk and picks up that leather journal.
"I told you I wrote poetry," he says quietly. "About you. This is it. Two years worth. And I want you to read it."
He holds out the journal.
And I have to decide, do I trust him enough to look inside?