Chapter 4 Alex
Ethan walked beside me, sipping his iced oat-milk latte. The whole unsanctioned sprint with Liam had scrambled my head. Over the last few months, my feelings for Liam had started to fade. But seeing him this morning brought everything back like we’d just kissed for the first time.
“Okay,” he said, lifting his cup at me, “you look like you’re plotting arson.”
“I’m not plotting anything.”
“Alex,” Ethan said, “your eyebrows are trying to stab each other.”
“They’re not.”
“Oh, they are.” He grinned.
I shoved my hands into my pockets. This morning’s race with Liam kept replaying in flashes—river spray, oar pulls, forearms flexing, the fire in his eyes.
Ethan nudged my shoulder. “What’s up with you today? You seem off.”
“Just stressed about the scrimmage.”
“Mm.” He didn’t push. That was the thing about Ethan—he knew when to let things sit.
We crossed through the main quad. Morning light cut through the ancient oaks, scattering shadows across the brick pathways. Students streamed past us.
“Hey, you never told me about your summer, you were in Berlin, right?”
His whole face changed. “Oh my god, yes. So I was supposed to be doing this documentary internship—filming civic infrastructure projects…”
“Sounds thrilling.”
“It was not. But then I met this group of filmmakers doing underground art parties in abandoned spaces. Warehouses, old factories, this one condemned theater. They needed someone to do video documentation.”
“So you ditched the internship?”
“I did it for four days,” Ethan said, grinning. “Then I spent the rest of summer following these artists around. There was this one night in an old train station—they’d set up projection mapping, live music, people painting murals in real time. Pure chaos. Beautiful chaos.”
We turned down the path toward the law building. The stone walls rose up on either side of us, ivy climbing the brick in thick tangles. Ethan’s voice had gone quieter, more real.
“Nobody cared about anything except what you were creating in that moment. No résumés, no family names, no five-year plans. Just... what you brought to the space.”
Something tightened in my chest.
“Anyway,” Ethan continued, his tone lifting again, “I got some insane footage. Probably gonna use it for my senior thesis. My parents think I was building my professional network the whole time, so everyone wins.”
I smiled. “The perfect crime.”
“Exactly.” He took a sip of his latte, then glanced at me. “What about you? How was your summer? I know you did those rowing camps.”
The question hit different than I expected.
“It was fine. Two high-performance camps. Back-to-back. Barely had a week off between them.”
“Jesus. That sounds brutal.”
“My dad set them up. Said I needed the edge going into sophomore year.”
Ethan raised an eyebrow but didn’t comment. We reached the steps of the law building, and he slowed.
“Bet that was fun,” he said.
“Yeah. Real fun.”
He studied me for a second—not interrogating, just checking in. “You good?”
“Yeah,” I said. “I’m good.”
“Cool. You know where I am if you’re not.”
“I know.”
We climbed a few steps together. The morning light pushed through the stained glass above us, scattering color across the stone floor inside the archway. Blue, gold, red. Everything filtered and beautiful and untouchable.
“Hey,” Ethan added, stopping at the top, “that footage I got in Berlin? Some of the best stuff was people just being themselves. No performance. Turns out that’s rarer than you’d think.”
He said it light. Threw it away like a joke. But it hung in the air between us.
Then he grinned. “Anyway. Go learn about tort law or whatever fresh hell pre-law throws at you today.”
“Thanks, Ethan.”
He gave me a two-finger salute and headed toward his own building, loose and unbothered, humming under his breath.
I stood there for a second. Watched him disappear around the corner.
Then I took a breath and went inside.
The lecture hall wrapped around me in cool air and dark wood. Tall windows. Rows of seats rising up like theater seating. I slid into a middle-row seat and dropped my bag beside me.
Dr. Merritt strode in a minute later. Everyone sat straighter. She dropped her bag on the desk and swept the room with a quick, cutting gaze.
“If you are in this class because someone else wants you to be, you will fail.”
My spine locked.
“The law is built on identity,” she continued. “On choice. On knowing what you stand for—and what you stand against.”
The words landed heavy.
I thought of Liam’s raw energy, his anger, his power.
I thought of Ethan’s ease.
Even Marcus, insufferable as he was, lived like himself.
Me?
I was the mask my father and his money taught me to wear.