CHAPTER EIGHT
LINA
It hasn’t since the funeral. It’s the type of overthinking I never experienced before my mom’s death. Like grief followed me from Boston to New Haven and unpacked its bags without asking.
Yale is supposed to be my way back to normal. But I’m still dragging around the weight of home like a second skin. Nothing has changed since I got here. Nothing has gotten better.
And I’m still unwilling to accept that fact.
So I throw on a hoodie, lace up my sneakers, and slip out into the foggy New Haven morning.
It’s October. The chilly morning air slaps against my skin as I continue running.
The streets are quiet—a few delivery trucks and the occasional flicker of an old streetlamp. My footsteps are the only sound. It’s not smart. I know that. But running helps. At least until I can force the burn in my lungs to be worse than the ache in my chest.
Eventually, I made it to campus. I’m rounding the edge of the football field when a door slams behind me.
It startles me for a second, but I’ve decided the only thing I can do is keep running. Whether it’s to remain unnoticed or outrun whoever’s behind me.
“Lina?” I hear, followed by a tortured groan. “Are you serious right now?”
The voice stops me cold. Not because it’s loud or angry—though it’s definitely both—but because it’s familiar.
And I especially remember that voice. Deep. Sharp. Pissed off and bored in that infuriating Grant Vandenberg way.
I turn, already bracing myself.
As I suspected, there he is. Grant stands a few feet away, wearing a Yale football sweatshirt and a pair of athletic shorts, as he so commonly does.
His hair is damp and messy, clinging to his forehead like he just showered.
The kind of effortlessly disheveled that most people have to try for, while also looking effortlessly expensive.
His calves flex when he shifts his weight, and his jaw is tight with what I assume is judgment.
He always looks like he’s halfway to a fight or halfway through one. All muscle and impatience.
There’s a duffel slung over one shoulder and earbuds dangling from around his neck. He must have just finished a workout.
Or maybe he fought a bear. Probably won, too.
This is the first time I’ve talked to him since the morning he and Braxton crashed our breakfast at the diner, which was a few days ago.
My classes have kept me preoccupied. Now that we’re finally in the bulk of the semester, things have started to pick up. It doesn’t bother me. I like the distraction.
Economics is still a pain. International Law is dense with material but fascinating nonetheless.
Kara likes hearing about my Global Health class—this week we’re covering the intersections of climate change and disease burden, and I haven’t shut up about it since Tuesday.
I’m also halfway through outlining a case study on post-coup transitional governments for my Comparative Politics class.
I’ve still seen Grant, though. He’s the kind of guy who holsters attention like a gun strapped to his waist. Grant is hard to avoid, and it doesn’t help that our circle of friends are intertwined.
Everyone close to us seems to love our tiff. I heard Eden and Kara joking about it last night. How Grant and I will “inevitably break under all the sexual tension,” as Eden put it.
Kara had laughed so hard that she nearly choked on the spoonful of ice cream she was eating, while Meredith rolled her eyes and fought a smile.
They treat it like it’s movie-night entertainment, but I shut it down immediately. Not because I hate Grant. In all reality, I don’t. But I also can’t see myself giving Grant—the most notorious playboy on campus—any reason to view me as something convenient.
I blink. “What?”
He starts walking toward me, slow and reluctant, like he doesn’t want to be seen with me.
There’s a faint sheen of sweat on his neck, catching the early light.
His sleeves are pushed up to his elbows, forearms tanned and veiny, littered with tattoos.
The only one I can make out in the dark is the artsy-looking picture frame.
I can’t help but narrow in on them, wondering what the difference between his forearm flexed and relaxed looks like.
He’s also chewing gum. He’s always chewing gum.
“Is this a normal thing for you?” he asks. “Running in the middle of the night instead of sleeping?”
I cross my arms. “Why is it any concern of yours?”
And how does he know I didn’t sleep?
It’s a stupid question. Even I can acknowledge the bags under my eyes and the slump in my shoulders. It’s a logical conclusion.
“You’re out here, alone, in the dark, with headphones in, and no clue who’s behind you.”
“I was aware of you.”
“Yeah? And what if I were someone else?”
“Then this would be a very different conversation.”
He lets out this half-scoff, half-laugh noise. “Jesus. No wonder Meredith has been so worried about you.”
I want to ask how he knows that. I’m shocked Meredith would talk to Grant about her concerns for me, but she does go over to his and Braxton’s apartment. It shocks me even more to think about Meredith being concerned at all.
She’s too indifferent to care. Too complacent.
“Thanks for the concern.”
He follows. Of course he does. Which is annoying but weirdly not at the same time.
“I just don’t want to be the last person to see you alive before your missing person’s report is being shown all over the news.”
“You’re really bad at expressing basic decency.”
“And you’re really bad at staying alive, apparently. It stresses me out.”
I slow a little, just enough to side-eye him. “Why are you even out here?”
He cocks his head slightly, like the answer should be obvious, and it makes the fabric of his hoodie pull across his chest, showing off the outline of his ridiculously broad shoulders. “We have mandatory weightlifting before class. I’d rather get it done and over with.”
We fall into step together. A minute passes. Quiet enough that our quick footsteps sync, and it’s only then that I really think about the fact that he’s still running with me.
“Why are you following me?” I say.
Grant shoots me a sideways look. “Someone has to make sure you don’t go sprinting into oncoming traffic.”
“Wow. You really are God’s gift to women, aren’t you, Grant?” I say, feigning a dreamy sigh.
“I guess you could say I'm gifted in many areas. Especially when it comes to women.” He winks, and it shouldn’t work, but it does. Smug looks good on him. It’s infuriating.
“Gross.”
“You asked.”
“I really didn’t.”
“You’ve got a real smart mouth for someone willing to run by themselves in the dark.”
I snort. “You say that like you’re not doing the same exact thing.”
“Yeah, but I think I have a way better chance of holding my own against late-night serial killers,” he says, like that settles it.
“Impressive. Truly. Must be hard walking around with all that upper body strength weighing your brain cells down.”
“I think you’re forgetting I got into Yale just like you did.”
I would make a joke about how he doesn’t even believe I could get into Yale, but it feels a bit much. Like beating a dead horse. I go for something more original instead.
“Really?” I mock confusion. “Is that what the millions of dollars they’re paying you are for? Your big ole brain?”
He chuckles under his breath, eyes flicking over to me like I’ve surprised him. Maybe I have.
I pick up my pace, seeing if maybe he’ll give up and go his own way. Of course he doesn’t.
“Whatever,” I say, putting my headphones back in my ears. “You can follow me, but I still have fifteen minutes of my podcast, so I’m at least running that much longer.”
“What kind of podcast?”
“It’s Greek mythology.” I pretend to be annoyed, even though I love an excuse to talk about it. “The host has a PhD in classic studies, so it’s really interesting.”
The first time I ever read a Greek mythology book, I was in the fifth grade, and it had a cartoon cover with Zeus throwing lightning bolts and Aphrodite blowing kisses. Since then, I’ve wanted to know everything there is to know about all the different gods and goddesses.
I’m sure some would say it goes against my factual approach to life, but I’d argue there is always knowledge to be found in tragedies.
He looks more interested than I’d expect him to. “I’ll have to check it out.”
I’d be lying if that didn’t make me the tiniest bit excited. “I’ll send you—” My voice quickly falters.
Grant instantly understands why. “If you want my phone number, all you have to do is ask for it, Lina.”
“It sounds like you want my phone number.”
“Is it that obvious?” he counters, all grin.
I roll my eyes at his flirting, yet I can’t help the smile that grows on my face as I hit play on my podcast, continuing to run alongside Grant.
We round a corner. The stadium lights are behind us now. The quiet is settling back in. It’s too late for the world to be awake and too early to still call it night.
Right before we get back to our apartment complex, a sorority house’s front door opens, making both of us glance toward whoever’s exiting. That’s when I notice it’s the Tri Delta house we’re standing in front of.
Another figure steps out—tall, blonde, still looking disgustingly perfect at 5 a.m. I immediately recognize her from the suite in the stadium. From the party last week.
Savannah Sinclair.
I’ve seen her in passing since that night. Usually with Grant and the rest of their friends. A lot of the time, she’s touching his arm like she knows she’s going to follow him straight to bed.
She’s not alone, though. Kenzie and Delaney are following her out the door. They’re all dressed in skirts and tiny tank tops. I assume they’re going out to the bars.
“Is that Grant?” I hear Delaney ask.
It causes Savannah to glance our way. “Yup, it sure is.”
“Grant! Hey!” Kenzie yells.