Chapter Eighteen #2
At two in the morning, the questions got worse.
I’d sit hunched over my desk, notes scattered everywhere, some math problem staring back at me like Satan and a bored Greek philosopher had personally designed it.
I was convinced the teacher had beef with me specifically.
Or maybe it was just my sanity he wanted to see ruined.
My chest would tighten until I caved and grabbed my phone.
Hannah answered once, her voice thick with sleep but gentle. “Breathe, Holly. Walk me through the problem.”
I contemplated faking a bad connection. I eyed the discarded chocolate bar wrapper that would make a very convincing static sound. Then I closed my eyes and forced myself to breathe like a semi-functioning, self-respecting adult.
Another time it was Maria, who didn’t even bother pretending to know what a unilateral equation was.
“Hell if I know, chica. But I’ll stay on the line while you figure it out.
Maybe Jewel will wake up and give us both the answer.
” We laughed until my shoulders finally unclenched. And then I finished the damn equation.
They were small things, maybe insignificant to anyone else. But to me, they were proof I wasn’t drowning. Proof I could keep going.
And then life threw in Dalton.
It was a Thursday morning, already too hot for March, the Georgia sun pretending it was July as I hustled toward the science building. My backpack strap cut into my shoulder, my sneakers slapped against the pavement, and my heart was pounding—not because of exercise but because I was late. Again.
And then the sun vanished. I nearly smacked into him.
Dalton Mills. Six foot of smug jock, leather jacket slung over his shoulder like we weren’t all sweating through our clothes. He stood square in my path, grinning like he’d been waiting for this exact moment just to derail me.
“Morning, Malibu.”
I blinked. “What—”
Before I could finish, he shoved a cup into my hands. Not coffee. No. This thing was a monstrosity, the Starbucks version of a sugar-loaded middle finger. Whipped cream piled a mile high, caramel dripping down the sides, condensation already soaking the cardboard sleeve.
“What’s this?”
“Your breakfast.” He looked far too pleased with himself. “Courtesy of yours truly.”
Suspicion flared so fast I almost dropped the cup. “Did Jackson put you up to this?”
Dalton cocked his head, feigning confusion so badly I wanted to slap him. “Who?”
I narrowed my eyes. “Don’t start.”
“Never heard of him.” His grin sharpened. “Tall guy, buzzcut, likes to boss people around? Nope. Doesn’t ring a bell.”
My stomach did an irritating little flip I refused to acknowledge. I clutched the cup tighter. “How did you even know what I drink?”
Dalton leaned in just close enough for me to smell leather and aftershave, his voice dropping into a conspiratorial drawl. “Maria.”
“She wouldn’t,” I frowned, though deep down I knew she absolutely would.
“Oh, she would. Turns out your girl’s easy. Promised her I’d babysit Jewel this weekend, and suddenly she’s singing like a canary.” He smirked. “You should be thanking me, really. Now you get your coffee, and Maria gets a night off. Everybody wins.”
I stared at him, speechless, and briefly contemplated dumping it over his head and slapping the shit out of him. But that was probably the exhaustion talking.
He nodded at the cup. “Go on. Don’t waste it. You look like you need it.”
I hated that he was right. Against my better judgment, I took a sip. Cold, sweet coffee hit my tongue, caffeine sparking through my veins. My eyelids fluttered, and a sound escaped—half sigh, half groan.
Dalton’s grin went feral. “Knew it. Got the Malibu stamp of approval.”
I scowled up at him. “Not yet.”
“Yet, she says.” He started walking backward into the crowd, still smirking like he’d just won something. “You’re welcome. And don’t forget to tell Maria she owes me the title of world’s best babysitter.”
And then he was gone, swallowed by the flood of students, leaving me clutching a cup big enough to drown in and wondering what the hell just happened.
Shaking my head but not stupid enough to refuse free caffeinated goodness, I resumed the trudge to class.
Just as I stepped inside, met with the blessed rush of cold air, my phone buzzed with an incoming text.
I checked it, expecting Maria. It was not.
Jackson: Morning Malibu. Enjoy the coffee?
Me: Stalker. I am perfectly capable of taking care of myself.
Jackson: Don’t I know it.
What was that supposed to mean?
Me: Aren’t you supposed to be running laps or something?
Jackson: I can take a second to say good morning.
I tried desperately to ignore the butterflies in my belly and frowned at my phone. I typed a response. Deleted it. Typed another. Deleted that too.
Jackson: Don’t over think it, Malibu. I can see you typing. And I don’t have to imagine it too hard to see that cute, little line you get between your eyebrows when you’re thinking. Have a good day.
My thumb hovered over the screen for a stupidly long time after his dot went gray.
I had half a dozen replies drafted—sharp, sarcastic, defensive—and I deleted every single one.
Telling him off would be easier. Telling myself off for caring would be easier still.
But I couldn’t get the image of him waiting somewhere, rough and impatient and earnest, out of my head.
The butterfly thing in my stomach did not care for my dignity.
I shoved the phone into my pocket and stumbled into class, late again.
The professor said something about primary sources, and I pretended to take notes while my brain replayed the text like a bad song on loop.
I kept checking my phone and eventually realized I was acting utterly pathetic which resulted in me turning it off and shoving it into the bottom of my bag.
The week fell into a rhythm. Jackson’s messages were short but steady. I had come to expect a good morning, and the occasional good night. When I showed Maria the string of simple messages, she had a total fangirl moment and squealed loud enough it woke up Jewel.
Dalton kept appearing like an inconvenient traffic cone—there when you needed to swerve around, impossible to ignore.
Hannah called a couple of nights to make sure I wasn’t dissolving alone, that old-fashioned voice soft around the edges that kept me grounded and focused on the mission. Her words, not mine.
One night I stayed up until three trying to parse a chemistry problem that might as well have been a riddle written in a cipher. I texted Maria a picture of my scrawl. Her reply was a string of angry emojis and a single sentence.
Maria: Stop making my brain hurt, come over. I’ll feed you until you stop yelling at molecules.
I went.
Maria’s kitchen was chaos: a loud radio, two pans sizzling, a tiny person in the center of it all who thought splatting into a bowl was the highest form of art.
Jewel handed me a soggy tamale and grinned like I was a god for existing.
Sure, I visited my parents often. Was starting to look forward to seeing them, which was weird.
Almost like I missed them. But this was my happy place.
Then it was back to my too quiet apartment and hovering thoughts.
Eventually, I had to admit Dalton wasn’t just a dumb jock.
The guy was smart—like weirdly, might actually solve world hunger if he stayed focused long enough smart.
Most weekends, we holed up in the clubhouse back room, folding chairs and busted tables buried under textbooks and highlighters like the detritus of an academic camping trip.
But the Friday before a big test, Maria pitched a different idea. Hannah volunteered to babysit Jewel, and Maria lit up like someone had handed her a week’s vacation. She wasn’t going to waste it in the clubhouse basement. So we ended up at my apartment.
Dalton stepped inside, whistling low. “You weren’t kidding. This place is bigger than my mom’s kitchen.”
“Behave,” Maria snapped, smacking his arm as she claimed the couch. “She already feels weird about it.”
“I do not,” I lied, dropping my backpack on the coffee table.
Diego came in with a box of snacks like reinforcements, and Mac slipped through the door last, muttering that his dad could handle things for one night.
He didn’t say much else, just claimed a chair in the corner—but somehow the whole room shifted quieter, more focused, like his presence set the tempo.
By the time Maria clapped her hands, snacks were spread across the table and half a forest’s worth of flashcards stacked in front of us. “All right. No whining. No excuses. Holly, eyes up. Dalton, stop pretending you know the answer before I even flip the card.”
Dalton smirked, leaning back in his chair. “I do know the answer. It’s always C.”
I groaned, dropping my head into my hands. “God, you’re insufferable.”
“Insufferable and passing.”
A pen flew across the table. He caught it just in time, grinning wider. “What? You tolerate it from me sometimes.”
“Key word: sometimes,” I warned, aiming for the bowl of pretzels next.
Diego snorted from the couch. “Better watch it, hermano. She’s got good aim.”
“Please.” Dalton tipped his chair back further, utterly smug. “She wouldn’t kill the only guy keeping her awake with my quality jokes.”
“Quality?” I muttered. “That word doesn’t mean what you think it means.”
Mac rolled his eyes but smiled a little, dragging the bowl of pretzels away from me and my quick hand. Maria slapped the next card down. “Focus, children. Save the flirting for after you pass this damn test.”
Dalton’s chair thunked back onto all fours. “Flirting? Absolutely not. I like my balls attached, thank you. And I don’t even know who’d get to them first if I tried it—Holly, or Jackson.”
I froze mid-chew, an Oreo hanging half way out of my mouth. “Excuse me?”