Chapter Sixteen Pretending
HADLEY
I fall into a school routine so quickly that it kind of freaks me out. I’m apparently so used to doing what I’m told that I didn’t miss a beat when I transferred to a new university half a world away from my old one.
Halfway through October, the truth about how much I still hate my major starts to eat away at me again.
I wake up very early most mornings, before my alarm even goes off.
For a few minutes I just lie there, staring at the ceiling, trying to convince myself to get up.
I can honestly say I'm happier in Colorado than I was in England.
Between the girls and Julian, it's nice having friends and being close enough to them to do more than just FaceTime with each other.
That said, the problem of my major has yet to be resolved, and I'm starting to lose hope. Sometimes I check the time and calculate how long I could stay in bed if I skipped just one class. I never do it. That would require a kind of rebellion I haven’t figured out how to have yet.
So I drag my ass out of bed and get ready for the day.
The apartment is quiet when I step out of my room. I drift into the kitchen, pulling my hair into a loose bun as I reach for my electric kettle.
“Good morning to me,” I mumble, flipping the switch. The machine hums to life.
When the water’s done, I make a cup of English Breakfast. I pick up my phone to mindlessly scroll through emails, notifications, and messages I don’t feel like answering yet.
I open one of my class portals, stare at the list of assignments for a second, then close it again.
It’s too early for that. Too early for anything, honestly.
This teacher likes to post her assignments before that day's class, as if she thinks that helps.
Honestly, it just stresses me out because I'm even more aware of the boredom I'm about to embark on for the day.
I understand everything the professor is saying in class today. That’s the frustrating part. None of this is hard for me. I can follow along, keep up, and do the work. I know what the terms mean, how they apply, how to structure an argument, and how to break something down until it makes sense.
I just don’t care.
Around me, people are typing on their laptops and scribbling in notebooks, nodding and asking questions. They all want to be here, and I stare down at my notes, heart sinking.
“Miss Sullivan?” the professor suddenly says, glancing in my direction.
I blink and straighten. “Yes, sir?”
“Would you like to walk us through that last point?”
A few heads turn, and I feel the attention settle on me. I clear my throat and sit up a little straighter.
“Um…yes,” I nod. “It’s about risk distribution in contractual agreements.” I pause a moment, organizing my thoughts. “The idea is to minimize liability by clearly defining responsibility between parties, so if something goes wrong, it’s already established who’s accountable and to what extent.”
The professor grins. “Exactly. And why is that important?”
“Because it prevents ambiguity,” I answer. “It reduces the chance of disputes escalating into litigation.”
“Good,” he says. “Very good.”
A few students glance at me before turning back to their notes. I nod once and look down again.
The fact that I’m able to rattle off the information so easily is part of the problem, because it feels like I’m good at something that doesn’t belong to me.
I’m playing a role I didn’t choose but somehow perfected anyway.
Is this how it’s going to be for the rest of my life?
Succeeding in a career that doesn’t fulfill me?
Pouring all my effort into a life I hate?
The idea is so damn depressing.
I can’t do that, though…so I keep paying attention. I keep taking notes.
I keep playing the obedient student, because I can’t do anything else.
“Well, well, well,” Lainey answers when I call her that night, her tone teasing. “Look who finally decided to check in.”
I roll my eyes and chuckle. “I’ve been busy.”
“Mm-hmm. Busy thinking about your sexy lumberjack? You haven’t given me any details about your drunken escapades the other week. All I got is a couple of barely coherent texts? I’m your best friend!”
I groan. “We’re not starting with that.”
“Oh, we absolutely are,” she insists, her tone gleeful. “You got drunk…”
“I did not get drunk…” I don’t mention how I ended up on the floor of my bathroom, puking my guts out.
“You got drunk, he called you sweetheart, and then he took care of you. I’m sorry, but I need more details.”
I drag a hand down my face. “There are no more details. He was just being nice.”
“Men are not just nice for no reason,” she shoots back.
“How would you know?” I counter, turning the tables on her before she can drill down any further. “Finally land yourself a man I don’t know about?”
“Well…no,” Lainey sighs, her defensive, playful tone melting away as she handles the deflection. “I’m getting way less action than you, and that’s why you’re supposed to be giving me all the juicy details!”
I sit up, rolling my eyes. “We’re just friends.”
“Sure you are.”
“We are,” I insist. “And even if we weren’t, he’s off limits.”
“Off limits?” she repeats, letting out a burst of laughter. “What does that even mean?”
“It means,” I begin, trying to find the right words, “that he’s not…he’s just not someone I should go there with.”
“Why?”
God damn, she’s as stubborn as a toddler.
“Because…” I falter slightly. “Because it would complicate things.”
“Everything worth doing complicates things,” she counters.
“You’re not helping.”
“I’m being realistic.”
“You’ve never even had a boyfriend,” I point out.
“Excuse you!” she exclaims. “That is not the point.”
“It kind of is,” I shrug.
She huffs. “Just because I don’t know how to attract men doesn’t mean I can’t recognize when one is clearly into you.”
My heart starts to race, but I try to ignore it and act like her words have no effect on me. “He’s not.”
“Hadley,” she snorts.
“He’s not!”
She sighs dramatically. “You are exhausting.”
“And you are delusional,” I hiss back.
“Fine,” she relents. “But when you inevitably fall in love with him, I will be saying ‘I told you so’ at the wedding.”
I purse my lips together as sweat breaks out along my forehead. “That’s not happening.”
My voice sounds steady enough, but the second the denial leaves my mouth, my traitorous mind betrays me and vivid images flash behind my eyelids before I can stop them.
I see Julian leaning over me in my kitchen, his massive, broad shoulders blocking out the rest of the world.
I imagine those heavy arms wrapping around my waist, pulling me flush against the solid wall of his chest.
A fierce blush creeps up my neck.
My chest tightens when I think of that intense, piercing gaze…and his hands. God, those strong, calloused hands that could crush a hockey stick but are so gentle when they touch me.
A sharp, sudden tingle pools deep between my thighs, a heavy, aching warmth that leaves me momentarily breathless. I squeeze my eyes shut, gripping the throw pillow tighter against my stomach to try to dull the sensation.
“We’ll see,” she hums.
“Whatever,” I grumble, hating how easily the image of Julian in a suit waiting down the end of an aisle pops into my head. “Julian and I are not a thing.”
As confident as I sound, I can’t ignore how bitter the words taste on my tongue.