Chapter 9 She’s a Runner, She’s A Track Star #2
“August,” she says, and I can hear the grin forming. “As in Tall. Green eyes. Annoyingly polite.”
“That’s him.”
“And?”
“And we got dinner,” I admit. “We talked. Like… actually talked. Then he drove me home.”
“And is this before or after you were at his place for five hours?” she says flatly.
I freeze.
Busted.
“Yeah,” Wynter says, voice low. “Because when you didn’t answer my first three calls, I checked your location and saw your aura posted up in some high-rise downtown for five hours.”
“Oh,” is all I can manage.
“Yeah?” She stretches the one word until it becomes a whole sentence. “And then what happened.”
“And I stayed.”
There it is.
Wynter exhales, long and measured. “Okay,” she says. “First of all, I’m glad you’re alive. Second of all, I’m proud of you.”
I stare at the wall, surprised by how much relief that brings. “For… sleeping with him?”
“For going,” she corrects. “For letting yourself have a night where you weren’t being careful or self-sacrificing or managing everybody else’s feelings. You let a man show up for you. That’s growth.”
My chest tightens, then loosens. I swing my legs over the side of the bed.
“It was… a lot,” I admit.
“That’s allowed,” she says. “Now tell me the aftermath. We can come back to the highlights. How do you feel now.”
I consider it.
Sleepy. Still buzzing. A little guilty. A little powerful. Like I remembered something about myself I’d set down for too long.
“I feel wired,” I say slowly. “And also… guarded. Like I need space before my brain starts romanticizing.”
“Mmm,” Wynter hums. “That’s your nervous system unclenching. Let it do its little stretch.”
“I don’t regret it,” I add. “I just don’t trust myself not to turn one good night into a pattern.”
“Then we don’t. Let it be one good night and not a pattern.”
I swallow. “He was considerate.”
“That’s bare minimum behavior,” Wynter says. “Not a sign from the universe. Just proof you’ve been settling.”
I lean back on my hands, stretching, the ache between my legs making me wince and smile at the same time.
“I told him it was a one-time thing,” I say. “I left.”
Her voice brightens. “That’s my best friend.”
“It felt rude.”
“It felt necessary,” she corrects. “You can smash and still not build a condo in his chest,” Wynter says. “We love liberation.”
I laugh, real and warm. “You’re ridiculous.”
“And correct,” she says. “Now. Important question.”
I brace.
“Government name?” Wynter asks. “Because I’m about to do a wellness check on his entire internet footprint.”
I freeze.
“I… don’t know.”
Dead silence.
“…Harlee,” Wynter says, genuinely impressed. “You let a man rearrange your guts and never once asked his government name?”
“It didn’t come up!”
“You were busy fucking.” She sighs. “Okay. We’ll solve that later. For now, drink water, eat something, and stop replaying the man’s mouth like it’s a thesis topic.”
“I hate you.”
“You love me. Go best friend.”
We hang up.
I drop the phone onto the bed and let myself fall back with it, staring at the ceiling.
My body still hums. My head feels clearer than I expected.
All of it still there.
But now it feels… contained.
A week passes, and I do what I always do when life gets too loud.
I run. Not physically.
God no.
Mentally. I turn my fear into a checklist and throw myself into internship and job applications like I can out-math my emotions.
August texts. Not a flood. Not needy. Not demanding. Just… steady.
AUGUST: Morning. Eat something.
AUGUST: You don’t have to answer. Just checking your pulse.
I stare at it longer than I should. The “you don’t have to answer” part is the problem. It’s respectful. It’s careful. It’s the kind of care my brain will try to turn into destiny if I let it.
Two days later, I’m on the bus watching the city blur past, when my phone buzzes again.
AUGUST: Saw something that made me think of you. Nerd shit. Don’t laugh.
My mouth twitches before I can stop it. I type What was it? Delete.
Because I know myself. I know how easy it is for me to turn “he’s kind” into “he’s mine.” And I’m not doing that again. Not when my heart is already bruised. Not when my life is already unstable.
Another message comes later.
AUGUST: Hey, you good?
Three words. No pressure. Still somehow heavy.
I read it. I don’t respond. And that’s the part that scares me. Not that he’s texting. That I want to.
So I make a decision that feels adult and awful at the same time. I don’t block him like he’s a villain. I mute him like he’s a temptation I can’t afford to romanticize.
Quiet. Clean. An exit strategy.
I’m closing up at Page Turner in Aurora, finishing the last round of shelving, when my phone buzzes in my back pocket like an angry hornet.
I ignore it.
It buzzes again.
I sigh and check it, smiling despite myself when I see Wynter’s goofy contact photo.
“Hey,” I answer, wedging the phone between my shoulder and ear while I head to the register. “I’m closing up.”
“Good,” she says, voice bright with secrets. “Because I have something to tell you.”
“Oh?” I start counting the till, sliding bills into the deposit bag. The routine steadies me. Gives my hands something to do besides shake.
“I had an epiphany,” Wynter announces. “In the shower. While shaving my legs.”
I snort. “Of course you did.”
“And these showers have AMAZING acoustics, by the way.”
“I’m sure they do,” I say dryly. “What’s the epiphany?”
“I’m getting there,” she says. “Remember my cousin’s half-brother’s stepsister? The one with that insurance company branch?”
I pause mid-count. “Yes.”
“She needs part-time help,” Wynter says, triumphant. “One of her girls is on maternity leave and she’s drowning.”
My chest loosens a fraction. “Okay…”
“And she pays,” Wynter adds quickly. “Like actual money. Not ‘experience.’ Not ‘exposure.’ Money.”
I laugh, the sound catching in my throat. “Wynter…”
“Don’t get emotional,” she warns. “I’m just saying. You need something steady while you figure out the practicum mess, and I’m tired of watching you stress-eat granola bars like they’re a food group.”
The warmth in my chest is immediate. Familiar. Safe.
“Thank you,” I say softly.
“Of course,” she replies, like it’s obvious. “That’s what best friends are for.”
My other line beeps.
“Hold that thought,” I interrupt, eyes narrowing at the unknown number flashing on my screen. “I’m getting another call.”
“Ugh,” Wynter groans theatrically. “Fine. But I’m not done. Call me back.”
“I love you too,” I tease, heading toward the back office. “Hello?”
A crisp, professional voice answers. “Hi, can I speak with Harlee Prince, please?”
My heart stutters.
“This is she.”
“Hi Harlee, my name is Virginia Wu from James Wilde Media Group. How are you doing today?”
I freeze, deposit bag still in my hand, like someone just hit pause on my whole life.
“I’m good,” I manage. “I’m sorry, where did you say you were calling from again?”
“James Wilde Media Group,” she repeats, calm as ever. “Dr. Healy passed your name along.”
Of course he did.
Dr. Healy, you beautiful, connection-having unicorn.
“Anyway,” Virginia continues, crisp and measured, “we partner with a few select programs in the area to offer high-performing students hands-on experience that bridges classroom theory into real-world work. I’m calling about the Wilde Engineering Fellowship, our post-grad apprenticeship track, and I’d love to speak with you briefly if you have time. ”
“The what track?” I ask before I can stop myself. Not rude. Just… precise. My brain grabbing a handrail.
Virginia’s tone warms, professional but not sugary.
“The Wilde Engineering Fellowship. Internally, we call it WEF. Small cohort. Highly selective.” A beat.
“I pulled your résumé, Harlee, and I’m calling because it’s rare to see this kind of technical range and discipline at your age. Is now a good time?”
Heat flashes behind my eyes, sharp and embarrassing.
Is now a good time?
I’d cancel my own funeral for this conversation.
“Yes,” I say, and my voice steadies like my spine just clicked back into place. “Yes, absolutely. Now is a perfect time.”