Chapter 3 Raelynn
THREE
RAELYNN
Public Finance is exactly as boring as I imagined it would be—maybe even worse.
Professor Lynn Andrews spends the first thirty minutes walking us through the syllabus in a voice so flat and lifeless it could probably sedate a rabid animal.
She’s middle-aged and dresses like a strict librarian—perfectly pressed slacks, a stiff white blouse buttoned all the way to her throat, and glasses that rest low on her nose like they’re perpetually disappointed in you.
Everything about her screams control. Her PowerPoint is color-coded down to the bullet points, her syllabus is a twelve-page manifesto, and her overall vibe suggests she alphabetizes her spice rack and sends back lukewarm coffee just for sport.
When she starts lecturing on how finance plays a “crucial role” in criminal justice—budgeting, resource allocation, grant writing—I try to care. Really, I do. I know it matters. I just wish it didn’t feel like being slowly smothered by a weighted blanket of boredom.
Seventy-five minutes of this, twice a week, and attendance is mandatory.
Of course it is.
By the time she clicks to her final slide and dismisses us—mercifully, twenty minutes early—I’m already halfway packed.
My notebook snaps shut, and I shove my laptop into my bag like it personally offended me.
I don’t even pretend to linger. The moment I’m in the hallway, I pull out my phone to check the time.
11:56 a.m.
I’ve got an hour to kill before lunch, and honestly, I’m grateful for it.
After barely surviving the soul-sucking monotony of Public Finance, the thought of real food and actual conversation feels like salvation.
I could use the break before Forensic Psychology—a class that actually sparks my interest. Something dark.
Layered. The kind of material that gets under your skin in the best way.
Definitely a far cry from budget spreadsheets and grant-writing lectures that make me want to jam a pencil into my eye socket just for stimulation.
I make my way across the quad, the heart of campus pulsing with midday energy.
Students spill out of buildings, clustering in groups, animated by caffeine and shared misery.
I weave through them, sidestepping the usual suspects—zombie-eyed freshmen staring at their phones for directions, overly confident skateboarders who think they own the sidewalk, and cyclists who seem to believe bells are optional.
A chime rings out over the loudspeakers, three short bells, followed by the university fight song. I don’t even flinch. It’s clockwork by now. I hum along as I saunter toward the Union, not really in a hurry.
I don’t head straight to the Cactus Grill, though. Tessa won’t be out of her art history class for nearly an hour, and I’m not sure what time the others are free. No sense staking out a booth like a desperate lunchroom gremlin just yet.
Instead, I take a detour into the campus bookstore.
It’s quieter in here—cooler, too. The air conditioning hits like a wall the moment I step inside, at least ten degrees colder than the lingering summer heat outside.
A shiver runs up my arms, goosebumps rising as I adjust to the sudden chill.
The chaos of campus life fades behind the thick sliding glass doors, replaced by the soft rustle of turning pages, the occasional ding of a scanner at the checkout kiosk, and the low murmur of voices drifting between shelves.
The scent of freshly brewed coffee curls through the air from the Starbucks tucked in the back—rich, warm, and dangerously inviting.
I head toward one of the oversized red leather chairs nestled near the balcony railing, which overlooks the lower level where students pick up their textbooks or seek help with their electronics. The chair lets out a soft creak as I sink into it, worn just enough to be comfortable.
From my bag, I pull out my current read—a dark romance I’ve been chipping away at between classes like it’s contraband.
The cover is curling at the corners, spine bent from overuse, the kind of book that’s clearly been dragged around and loved a little too hard.
I flip to the chapter I marked and skim the first few lines before letting myself sink into it completely.
Obsession. Violence. A dangerously charming man with a crooked smile and blood on his hands.
Precisely the kind of escape I need.
An hour slips by faster than I expect. I slide my bookmark into place, close the book, and drop it into my bag with just enough care to keep the spine from snapping. My phone is the next thing I reach for, and I check it out of habit more than urgency.
Two messages.
The first is from Khloe, ranting about how her juvenile delinquency professor is not hot and how disappointed she is. Shocking.
The second is from Tessa.
TESSA:
On my way.
I fire off a quick reply to Tessa and leave Khloe on read. I’m not about to encourage her thirst-fueled professor fantasies this early in the semester.
Tessa responds almost immediately.
TESSA:
Be there in five.
That’s my cue to get moving.
I stand, stretch out the stiffness from sitting too long, then head toward the exit.
The cool air inside clings to me for a second before the dry heat outside takes its place.
I make my way toward the stairs that lead up to the third floor, already anticipating the mixed scents of the different foods offered and the sound of my friends’ laughter waiting on the other side.
Marlena and Austin are already waiting by the doors, half-leaning against the metal railing, caught up in their own quiet conversation. Marlena’s laughing softly, her eyes bright, while Austin casually twirls one of her pigtails around his finger like it’s second nature.
“Hey, guys,” I say with a smirk as I saunter up to them.
“Howdy,” Austin drawls, flashing me a grin.
Before I can reply, I hear footsteps pounding behind me, followed by the sound of breathless giggles. Khloe and Tessa rush up the stairs, looking slightly winded but energized, like they just sprinted from opposite ends of campus.
“Oh, good—we’re all here!” Tessa beams, skipping the last few steps before launching herself at me. Her arms wrap around my neck, nearly knocking me off balance.
“Whoa!” I squeak, laughing as I steady myself. “Hey, Tess.”
She loosens her grip just enough to let me breathe, and I return the hug. Her enthusiasm is impossible not to love.
“Hey, Rae,” Tessa greets warmly as I fall in step with her and Khloe. “How were your classes?”
“Criminology was solid,” I say, brushing a strand of hair out of my face. “Public Finance, though? Absolute ass.”
Khloe perks up instantly, a hopeful glint in her eye. “Was your professor at least hot?” she asks with a giggle as we weave toward the growing line outside The Cactus Grill.
I shake my head, holding back an eye roll. “Not even close. Picture a strict librarian with a monotone voice, glasses sliding down her nose, and zero tolerance for joy. That’s her.”
Khloe groans dramatically. “Ugh, the worst kind. What a waste.”
“Seriously, she reminded me of Mrs. Wade,” I add with a visible shudder. “Remember sixth-grade math? The way she’d just… stare at you until you wished you could disappear?”
Tessa makes a face. “Don’t remind me. That woman hated everyone. Like she woke up every morning actively choosing misery.”
“I lost count of how many times I got in trouble with her,” Khloe chimes in.
I give her a knowing look. “Khloe, you were always in trouble with everyone. But yeah… I think she hated you the most.”
She grins, unfazed. “True.”
We all laugh, that strange kind of middle school trauma bonding that somehow never loses its sting—or its humor.
The line shuffles forward faster than expected, and before long, we’ve swiped our meal cards and stepped into the buffet-style dining hall.
Usually at this hour, all the booths are filled (typically by a single person who could have sat anywhere else but chose not to), but we score big because there’s an open booth in the back corner by the big bay windows that overlook campus.
It is partially shaded by the heritage tree outside, but sunlight filters through just enough to give the table a soft, warm glow.
We toss our bags into the booth to claim it before scattering in different directions, each of us heading toward our preferred section of the buffet.
Forensic Psychology is a breath of fresh air after the slow death that was Public Finance. It’s a hundred times more bearable—maybe more. Doctor Howard Lowell is sharp, animated, and actually seems like he wants to be there, which already puts him in the top five percent of professors I’ve had.
He doesn’t waste time with the syllabus either. “You’re adults,” he says, pacing in front of the whiteboard. “You don’t need me to walk you through information you’re perfectly capable of reading.”
Instead, we dive straight into a quick lecture on how television absolutely butchers forensic psychology.
He throws out examples from Criminal Minds and Mindhunter, pointing out all the inaccuracies with just the right balance of sarcasm and actual insight.
I’m hooked almost instantly. Fifty minutes fly by, and before I know it, the class is over.
When I step outside, the sun is lower in the sky but still blazing. The air has that sticky, post-monsoon weight to it, like the heat is clinging on for dear life. Just ahead, I spot Tessa perched on a stone bench a few feet from the building entrance, earbuds in, completely in her own world.
She’s bobbing her head and singing—loudly—to “Nightmare” by Halsey. Her voice is unmistakably off-key, but it’s full of conviction. I’ve heard the song enough times to know the lyrics by heart, even from her slightly tone-deaf rendition.
Tessa’s amazing at a lot of things. Singing is not one of them. And thank God she knows that and still doesn’t care. Sing your heart out, baby—even if you sound like a dying cat.
Giggling softly to myself, I approach her.
I gently tap my fingers on her shoulder.
She jumps, startled, before pulling one earbud out and turning.
When she sees it’s me, her whole face lights up.
“Hey!” she grins, yanking out the other bud and stuffing both into their pink JLAB case.
Without missing a beat, she tucks the case straight into her cleavage like it’s a built-in pocket.
I raise an eyebrow. “Is that the official headphone storage unit now?”
She smirks. “Hey, it works.”
I have to agree with her there. God didn’t give us cleavage to not shove shit into them. It’s not like we get pockets in our clothes anyway.
“How long have you been sitting out here?” I ask as she stands up, swinging her strawberry-printed book bag over her right shoulder.
“Not long, maybe ten, fifteen minutes?” she replies as we start moving toward our garage. “How was your class?”
“It was a thousand times better than Public Finance,” I say with a dramatic sigh as we fall into step beside each other. “It was actually interesting. Doctor Lowell knows how to keep people awake—shocking, I know.”
Tessa grins. “So it wasn’t soul-crushing? Progress!”
She suddenly skips a few paces ahead of me, then spins into a couple of light twirls. She moves like someone who can’t stand still for too long, like the world might lose momentum if she doesn’t add a slight motion to it.
Chuckling, I pick up my pace to catch up.
“What about you?” I ask. “How were your classes?”
She shrugs, but she’s smiling. “Honestly? Not bad. Studio was fun. My professor actually has a personality, which is rare, apparently. Art History, though? Bit of a drag. I think the only exciting part was when someone in the back fell asleep and snored so loud the professor stopped mid-sentence.”
I laugh. “At least it wasn’t you snoring this time.”
She gasps, hand over her chest in mock offense. “Excuse you! I don’t snore. I breathe with style.”
Rolling my eyes, I grin. “That’s what you’re calling it now?”
“Absolutely.” She links her arm with mine and leans into me dramatically. “But seriously, I think this semester’s going to be good. I can feel it.”
I nod, tipping my gaze up toward the sky as we walk. The sunlight’s gentler now, filtered through the late afternoon haze, casting everything in a soft, golden glow that makes the campus look almost peaceful.
“I hope so,” I say with a slight chuckle as we exit the bypass and cross the street toward our parking garage. “It’s our last year. I’m seriously praying it doesn’t go to hell.”