Chapter 16 Harlow
HARLOW
Friday hits like my nervous system never got the memo that the week is over. Midterms are no joke, and sadly, I don’t think I was well prepared.
My body is technically fine. My heart rate is normal. It’s not as if I’m actively dying.
But my brain is awake in that sharp, vigilant way—like it’s waiting for someone to yell my name from across a room again, like it’s braced for the next Are you okay? that isn’t really a question so much as a diagnosis.
I make it through the morning on autopilot.
Shower. Clothes. Backpack. Walk.
I sit through a lecture and take notes I can barely remember writing.
I laugh once at something the professor says and immediately wonder if it was too loud, too weird, too noticeable.
I say sorry to someone who bumps into me, even though it was their shoulder that hit mine, and then I hate myself for apologizing for existing.
By the time my last class ends, my brain is a clenched fist.
A tight, tight fist.
I should go back to my dorm and rot for the weekend.
Instead, I find myself walking toward the student bookstore because my syllabus has been glaring at me all week about a workbook I still haven’t bought.
I tell myself it’s responsible.
My therapist would call it exposure, but my brain calls it stupid.
Rows of shelves full of color-coded textbooks and PCU merchandise that make my eyes feel like they’re buzzing.
I stop just inside the entrance and immediately regret this decision.
There are too many people. Too many choices. Too many things I’m supposed to know how to do without my brain turning it into a game of survival.
I take a breath and scan for the section sign.
ACADEMICS → all the way in the back, of course.
I weave through a group of girls holding hoodies and laughing, keep my eyes forward, and make it to the textbook section.
Workbooks, study guides, spiral-bound nightmares.
I find the title I need and pull it off the shelf—only to realize there are two versions. Same cover. Same authors. Different editions.
My stomach twists.
Of course there are; nothing ever seems to be one simple thing.
I turn the books over, comparing ISBN numbers like I’m decoding a bomb. My fingers tighten on the covers.
The worst part is I can already feel my brain starting to do its thing.
If you pick the wrong one, you waste money. If you waste money, you’re careless. If you’re careless, you shouldn’t be here.
My throat tightens.
I take a breath. I can do this. I can ask someone. This is normal. But the idea of walking up to the counter, talking to a stranger, admitting I don’t know which book I’m supposed to buy—
My shoulders rise.
I stand there too long, frozen in front of a shelf, pretending to be a normal student browsing when really I’m stuck.
A voice I recognize comes from my left, “Bookstore got you too?”
My body jolts.
I look up.
Grayson Bennett is standing two feet away with a folded piece of paper in his hand and a book tucked under his arm. Hoodie, sweats, and hair slightly messy like he ran his hand through it without thinking. He looks tired. The kind of tired that lives under your skin.
I blink like my brain can’t quite accept him existing in the same places I do.
“What are you doing here?” I ask, and it comes out sharper than I mean.
Grayson doesn’t flinch. He just lifts the paper slightly. “Picking up a rental.”
His gaze flicks to the books in my hands. “You look like you’re doing math.”
“I hate math,” I say automatically.
His mouth quirks. “Same.”
I glance down again, because eye contact feels like too much. “There are two versions.”
Grayson leans a fraction closer—still not invading, just enough to see. “What class?”
“Intro to Psych.”
“Yeah,” he says, like he’s thinking. Then, matter-of-factly, “Show me the syllabus line.”
I blink. “What?”
Grayson nods at my backpack. “It’ll say edition or ISBN. We match it. Done.”
It’s not a big thing. It’s not heroic.
But the way he says it—simple, like it’s obvious, like there’s a path through the fog—makes my chest loosen half an inch.
I swallow and unzip my bag with hands that aren’t shaking quite as much as they were thirty seconds ago. I pull out the syllabus, flip to the textbook section, and shove it in his direction before I can overthink the intimacy of sharing paper.
He scans it quickly. Then he taps one line with a blunt finger. “Second edition.”
I look back at the covers. My eyes bounce between them.
“Oh,” I say, like my brain just found solid ground again.
Grayson steps back, giving me my space back like it’s a thing he does on purpose. “There you go.”
I place the wrong edition back onto the shelf and clutch the correct one to my chest like it’s proof I’m capable of basic human tasks.
“Thanks,” I mutter.
Grayson shrugs like it’s nothing. “No problem.”
A beat of silence stretches between us.
But I’ve realized I look forward to them.
Then Grayson’s gaze flicks briefly over my face, and I hate that he can read me without trying.
“Busy day?” he asks.
I huff. “Is that your polite way of asking if I’m functioning?”
His mouth twitches. “Maybe.”
I shift my grip on the workbook. “I’m fine.”
Grayson’s eyes narrow slightly, like he doesn’t buy it. But he doesn’t call me out. Doesn’t make me explain. Instead, he nods toward the front. “You checking out?”
I glance at the line and instantly regret existing.
“Unfortunately,” I mumble.
We walk toward the registers. Grayson doesn’t take over my space. He doesn’t guide me with a hand on my back. He just keeps pace, slightly to the side, like he’s there if I need him and invisible if I don’t. It’s stupid how much that matters.
We get to the line. It moves slowly. And then—
A voice behind us says, laughing, “Dude, Tyler’s gonna lose his mind when he sees the crowd tonight.”
My body reacts before my brain does. My stomach drops like an elevator cable snapped. The fluorescent light gets harsher. The air gets thinner. The sound of people talking turns sharp, like it’s being piped directly into my skull.
I don’t turn around. I don’t have to. The name is enough.
Tyler.
My fingers clamp down on the workbook so hard the corners bend.
Tyler.
Locker room.
Hands.
Hospital bracelet.
Kai’s face when he found out.
The line inches forward, and my vision tunnels.
A laugh bursts behind us again, like it’s nothing.
As if Tyler is just a name, like it isn’t a giant scar that takes up most of my mind.
My throat feels like it’s closing. I swallow, but it doesn’t help.
The guy behind us keeps talking. “Nah, he thinks he’s untouchable.
Always has. He’s gonna run his mouth and then—”
My chest squeezes with panic so hard it hurts.
My brain says to bolt while my body says to freeze. My skin goes too aware, like a siren turned on under it. My gaze flies to the counter, to the gum display, then to a rack of PCU lanyards, focusing on anything except my shaking hands.
Grayson shifts beside me, like he noticed the change in my body and adjusted without making it obvious.
His voice drops low enough that it doesn’t carry. “Hey.”
My head snaps slightly.
Grayson’s eyes flick over my face, then hold mine, steady.
“You want to step out?” he asks like he’s offering a choice, not giving an instruction.
My mouth opens, but no sound comes out. The line moves forward again, and the cashier says, “Next!”
My chest spikes. My legs feel wrong. My hands feel numb. My brain is already halfway out the door and—
Grayson carefully reaches for the book I’m holding in my arms, gently taking it and moving toward the register.
“Let me,” he says quietly.
I should say no. I should grab it back. Instead, my fingers let go like they were waiting for permission.
Grayson steps forward, sets his own rental down, scans my workbook, and pays for both with an ease that makes my throat burn.
I hate it.
I love it.
I don’t know what to do with how safe it feels to have someone take the wheel for ten seconds without taking me with it.
He takes the bag from the clerk, acting as if I didn’t just nearly break in the middle of a bookstore.
Then he nods toward the door. “Come on.”
He doesn’t pester me with questions, doesn’t force me to tell him what’s wrong or make me explain my reaction.
He just gets me out.
Outside, the air hits my face, and I inhale too fast.
Grayson stops a few feet away, giving me space like he knows the shape of it.
When I finally look up, his gaze is on my face—not intense, not pitying.
Just…patient. Waiting.
“You want to walk?” he asks.
Not where are you going?
Not do you need me?
I nod once, letting him know I’m okay for now.
We start moving.
The sidewalk is crowded, but not to the same extent as the bookstore.
The sun is lower, softening campus into something a little less sharp.
My heartbeat slows. The shake in my hands doesn’t go away, but it stops feeling like a threat and starts feeling like adrenaline draining.
Grayson doesn’t push for conversation. He just walks with me like he’s matching my pace on purpose.
After a minute, he speaks, his voice still low.
“Do you want to tell me why that name did that to you?”
I flinch.
Because he noticed. Of course he noticed.
My instinct is to shut down. To say nothing. To make it smaller. But my throat is already tight and my body is already rattled and somehow—somehow—his question doesn’t feel like a trap.
I keep my gaze forward. “It’s…history.”
Grayson nods once. “Okay.”
Not what kind?
Not how bad?
Not who is he?
Just okay.
We walk another block. My breathing steadies.
I swallow hard. “My brother…doesn’t like him.”
Grayson’s jaw tightens slightly at the mention of Kai. It’s subtle, but I see it.
He keeps his voice calm. “Yeah. I would bet not.”
A laugh tries to escape me—brittle and sharp—but it doesn’t make it out.
I press the paper bag closer to my chest. “I didn’t think hearing a name would—”
He glances over. “Do that?”
I nod.