Chapter 6 Plan BMaybe C? #3
He scribbles my name on a cup. “Your money’s no good here.”
I narrow my eyes. “We starting a punch card system without me now?”
“New policy,” he says. “After your hundredth cup, you’re basically staff.”
“You definitely made that up.”
He just grins and waves away my card when I reach for it.
My phone buzzes.
August: Do superheroes have to keep their identity a secret? Or can the world know who they are and still let them save it?
My stomach flutters.
Me: Depends. Tony Stark and Cap are out in the open. Spider-Man stays masked.
August: Good point. How’s your day going?
I stare at the screen for a second, then answer honestly-ish.
Me: It’s… going.
August: That’s it?
Me: Just got out of a meeting that wrecked my six-year plan. Brains fried.
August: How about we move our dinner up to tonight and you can tell me about it over real food?
I bite my lip. Today alone has convinced me I don’t have time for anything extra, especially a walking distraction with pretty eyes.
Me: Actually…
August: Don’t tell me this is your way of bailing already. It’s two days from now.
I wince.
Me: Something came up today. I can’t do this right now.
Dots appear. Disappear. Appear again. Then nothing.
The guilt settles low in my stomach. I slide the phone into my bag and pretend that means the whole situation is out of sight, out of mind.
Sam passes my drink over. “You look like you want to fight your latte.”
“Just my degree,” I say, taking a sip. “The latte’s innocent.”
He snorts. “Well, the chair in the corner is free if you wanna glare at your future in peace. I’ll bring you something sweet. You look like you need sprinkles.”
I give him half a smile and claim my usual armchair by the window.
The leather is cracked and familiar, hugging my body in all the right places.
I pull out my battered Tayari Jones and try to read, but the words dissolve.
All I can see is my degree audit, that big ugly “24 credits remaining,” and August’s unsent reply.
Twenty minutes and one surprise cake pop later, I still feel wrung out. The sugar helps, but only a little.
By the time I get back to Aurora, the sky is that perfect lavender-blue that makes the whole neighborhood look like a painting. Big Mama’s car is gone, so she’s probably at bingo threatening strangers over her lucky card.
Inside, the house is quiet. I kick off my shoes; the tape on my half-dead heel finally gives up and peels away. Straight to the trash.
I peel off my jeans, flop on the bed in an oversized tee, and fish around in my bag for my phone. It’s never where I need it, when I need it.
“Got you,” I mutter when my fingers close around the smooth case.
Notifications light the screen. Two missed calls from Wynter. One text from my dad that I delete without opening. And, of course:
Spence: You up? Slide through.
I roll my eyes so hard I see my brain. “Boy, please.”
He hasn’t heard from me since I stood him up, and somehow he still thinks I’m a DoorDash order he can summon with two words and dick confidence. Absolutely not.
I clear the notification, then my eyes drift to the thread with August.
I told him I couldn’t do this right now. I meant it. Kind of. For about five minutes.
Now, lying here with the weight of Option A, Option B, rent math, and my father’s voice crowding my head, the idea of talking to someone who’s not already invested in my academic disaster feels… nice. Dangerous, but nice.
The dangerous part is why I should leave it alone.
Because dinner turns into laughter. Laughter turns into comfort. Comfort turns into me forgetting I’m one bad semester away from my whole life sliding sideways.
And I don’t have time for sideways.
But I also don’t have time to spend the night staring at the ceiling doing credit math like it’s a prayer.
“If I call, he’s going to think I’m unhinged,” I tell my ceiling.
My thumb hits his name anyway.
It rings once. Twice. Three times. Four. I exhale, half-relieved he’s not answering. I can blame the universe and go back to my regularly scheduled panic.
Then the line clicks.
“Well, hello.”
His voice is warm silk, threaded with surprise.
“Hi,” I say, suddenly stupid. I clear my throat. “Hey.”
“You are the last person I was expecting to hear from,” he says, and I can hear the smile.
“Yeah. I… I wanted to apologize,” I say, staring at the cracks in my ceiling. “For earlier. For canceling our date.”
A beat of silence. The kind that feels like he’s smiling with his whole body.
“I thought it wasn’t a date,” he teases.
Heat rushes up my neck. “It wasn’t. I mean… it was dinner. Technicality. Still… I’m sorry.”
“Mmh.” I can hear the grin widen. “You said you wanted to apologize. I’m still waiting on the part where you actually do.”
My mouth falls open. “Excuse me?”
He laughs, low and rich, and my stomach does that annoying flip. “Relax, Harlee. I’m kidding. It’s fine. You can just make it up to me.”
“How?” I ask, even though I already know I’m in trouble.
“By having dinner with me.”
“I literally just told you I can’t,” I protest, weak even to my own ears.
“You can’t Friday,” he corrects. “How about right now?”
I sit up, heart pounding. “Right now?”
“Don’t think,” he says, voice soft and coaxing. “Just say yes.”
And my brain tries. It really does.
It drags out a clipboard.
Pros: Food. A break. A conversation that isn’t Dr. Healy’s face saying twenty-four.Cons: Time. Distraction. The possibility that I’ll like him, and liking people always costs me something.
Also: logistics.
Because if he expects me to drive, I can’t. My body hears steering wheel and goes straight back to nine years old and Christmas Eve and headlights and screaming.
“I just got home,” I say carefully, buying myself one last second. “It would take me at least an hour to even meet you.”
“Okay,” he says, like it’s nothing. “I can meet you in ninety minutes.”
“It’s already after seven.”
“I’ve never been a fan of early dinners,” he counters. “I’ll finish what I’m doing and meet you. Say… the park where we met. Neutral ground. In case you’re still running your serial killer background check.”
A breathy laugh escapes me. “You do give strong Netflix-doc potential.”
“Is that a yes?” he asks, and I can hear the grin.
My reflection in the dresser mirror looks wrecked—hair frizzy, eyes tired, T-shirt definitely not date-worthy. But under all that is this strange, fizzy pull I haven’t felt in a long time.
And Wynter’s voice from earlier slips into my head: Rest is a birthright.
Maybe dinner isn’t a derailment. Maybe it’s maintenance.
“Yes,” I hear myself say. “But—”
“But what?” he cuts in. “I said don’t think.”
“Too late,” I say. “Can we meet at the North Avenue train station instead?”
He pauses. “You afraid of the park at night?”
“I’m afraid of being chopped up in the park at night,” I correct. “The station has lights. And cameras. And witnesses.”
A beat of silence. Then, amused: “Are you sure you’re not the serial killer? That’s very specific.”
“Take it or leave it, James Bond.”
He chuckles. “North Avenue station it is. Ninety minutes.”
I exhale, tension and excitement tangling.
“Ninety minutes from when?” I ask.
“From…” He lets the moment stretch, then, “Now.”
The line stays open for a second, both of us breathing on either end of it.
Then we hang up, and I sit there for a beat, staring at my reflection.
My life is one giant, terrifying variable right now.
But I chose the door labeled chaos this afternoon.
Guess I’m leaning into the theme.