Chapter 13 It’s Complicated… Like, Really Complicated #3
I follow her lead.
The first inhale catches, sharp at the edges, like my lungs don’t quite trust it yet. But I try again. Slower this time.
In.
Out.
The tightness in my chest doesn’t disappear, but it loosens—just enough to make room for something softer.
The air goes down easier.
“That's it. Good,” she says. “Now, I’m clicking again. Don’t panic. I’m doing recon.”
“How are you finding all this information?” I ask, half horrified.
“The internet,” she says, like I’m the one being dramatic. “Sis. Google is free and you clearly don’t use it.”
“Wynn…”
“No, listen,” she says. “No kids. No baby mama rumors. Been publicly single forever. And he’s got that community hero PR package. Like… the articles are kissing him on the forehead.”
I blink. “Why are you telling me this?”
“Because you’re spiraling,” she says. “And when you spiral, you start rewriting reality. I’m giving you facts so you don’t float off the planet.”
My throat tightens again. I swallow hard. "How are facts about my boss supposed to keep me from spiraling?"
"Because, the more you know…." is all she says, like I am supposed to just know where she's going with that. But in typical Wynter fashion she continues. “Anyway, the biggest fact is this: you didn’t know who he was when you slept with him. That matters.”
“It doesn’t feel like it matters,” I mutter. “He’s the Co-Founder of the fucking company I am employed at. Which means he’s paying my bills. All this makes me feel like some weird co-dependent sugar baby.”
“He’s thirty-three,” Wynter says dryly. “Relax. Not old enough to be your sugar daddy. Also, you’re not a sugar baby. You’re a student with a job and a nervous system of a deer trying to cross the interstate."
I breathe out, shaky.
“And you can’t quit,” she adds, like she’s writing on a whiteboard with a Sharpie. “Because you need this job to graduate in May.”
“I know,” I say, voice tight. “I’m already weeks in. I can’t switch now.”
“Exactly,” she says. “So here’s what we’re not doing: spiraling, romanticizing, or shoulda-coulda-woulda-ing. He was your rebound. Not your future. It can be like it never happened. Remember decentralizing.”
My eyes sting. I blink hard.
“Say it,” she demands.
“Decentralizing.”
“Again.”
“I am decentralizing men.”
“That’s my bitch,” Wynter says, proud like she just coached me through a championship. “Now you’re gonna go back in there, do your job, get your hours, get your degree, and act like the boss ass motha fucking bitch I know you are.”
I inhale. Slower.
“Eyes on the prize,” I say, mostly to myself.
“Yes,” Wynter says, softer. “Eyes on the prize. You straight?”
“I’m good.”
“You sure?” she asks. “Because if you need me to pull up and stare at somebody aggressively, I will. I’ll bring earrings and everything.”
A laugh slips out of me, small but real.
“I’m sure,” I say. “I’m going back.”
“Okay,” she says. “I love you. Text me if you need me.”
“I won’t,” I lie automatically.
Wynter makes a sound. “Sure, girl.”
The call ends.
I look at the time on my phone: 1:15.
Four hours left.
I can do four hours.
The day after yesterday’s emotional match, I wake up to a quiet apartment and a rare, sacred thing: a day off.
No HR. No practicum panic. No accidental eye contact with a man who technically signs my paperwork now.
Just me. A little sunlight. And the kind of silence that makes you realize how loud your brain has been.
I roll over, grab my Rubik’s Cube off the nightstand, and start twisting like it owes me money. Two colors solved before I’m even fully awake. Coping mechanism. Don’t worry about it.
In the bathroom, I brush my teeth one-handed, still turning the cube like this is normal behavior and not a warning sign.
I pull on high-waisted jeans and a cropped hoodie that says: DOPE BLACK WOMEN IN STEM. My phone buzzes on the counter.
Seriously, do not answer: I miss you.
I stare at it.
Boy bye.
You miss me… while dating someone else? And still texting like you’re a wounded poet?
I don’t reply. I don’t even “lol.” I hit delete and toss my phone onto the bed like it’s contaminated.
Not today. I’m booked.
Outside, Chicago is in late-summer mode—warm wind, loud streets, the L rattling overhead. Somebody’s music spills out of a car window. A vendor is yelling about fruit like he's an auctioneer.
And for a second, it works. The city pulls me out of my head.
By the time I hit campus, the math building greets me with that familiar scent of expo markers and stale coffee. It smells like ambition and regret. Home.
Lecture is optimization problems, which is basically my version of a spa day. My professor talks, but it’s background noise. My brain locks in. Numbers behave. Variables make sense. Nothing flirts with me, ignores my texts, or becomes my boss overnight.
After class, I’m packing up when I notice Rachel still sitting there, shoulders tense, staring at her notebook like it personally betrayed her.
“Hey,” I say, sliding into the seat beside her. “You good?”
She shakes her head. “I’m stuck.”
She shows me her work. One look and I see it—she’s close. Just missing the bridge.
“Okay,” I tap the page. “You’re not dumb. Your brain just took the scenic route. Watch.”
I walk her through it, clear and direct. Five minutes later, her eyes widen.
“Oh.” She blinks. “That’s it.”
“That’s it,” I confirm. “You were one step away.”
Rachel exhales. “Harlee… you should tutor. Seriously.”
I wave it off, cheeks warming. “I’m not a genius. I just have… aggressive patience.”
She laughs. “That’s actually unfair.”
“Tell that to my student loans,” I mutter, and she laughs again, lighter this time.
When I step into the hallway, I feel good. Useful. Like the version of me that shows up when I’m not distracted.
Which is hilarious, because the second I pull out my phone, my thumb hovers over Wynter’s name like muscle memory.
Me: On my way. About to save the world with math. Need coffee first.
Bestie: Good. I’m at the usual spot. You’ll see me. I’m finna be the only one with melanin in this bitch.
I snort, earning a look from a passing grad student who definitely owns too many cardigans.
The coffee shop is aggressively cold. I spot Wynter immediately, tucked into our usual corner, completely in her own orbit.
Headwrap stacked high like a crown, oversized hoops catching the low light, and her fingers—inked in those minimal, delicate tattoos she never explains—curving around her phone like they’ve got secrets in them.
I slide into the seat across from her.
Without looking up, she goes, “Saving the world with math?”
“I try,” I say. “Where’s my coffee?”
She glances up, smirking. “Relax. I already ordered.”
A barista drops my drink off a second later. I take a sip and let the iced latte hit my soul like forgiveness.
Wynter leans forward, the smell of her peppermint tea wafting between us.
“So,” she says casually, “you thought about what you’re gonna do when you go back to the office tomorrow?”
And there it is.
The elephant. In a suit. With a sharp jawline.
I force a shrug. “I’ll… figure it out.”
“Figure what out?” she presses. “How to avoid him? Or how to act normal after you… you know.”
My face heats. “Wynter.”
“Harlee.” She says my name the way she says girl be serious.
I exhale, staring into my cup like the foam might offer guidance. “I didn’t plan any of it. And I definitely didn’t plan the part where he’s my boss.”
Wynter’s expression softens, but she doesn’t let me off easy. “Okay. So what’s the plan?”
“The plan is,” I say slowly, like I’m talking myself into it, “I show up. I do my job. I focus on graduation. I do not get… emotionally kidnapped.”
“Mhm.” She nods. “And the ghosting?”
I wince.
Wynter taps the table once. “You have to compartmentalize. Whatever happened between you two? That can’t live at work. That practicum is your lifeline, Lee.”
She’s not wrong. It’s the thing standing between me and another year I can’t afford.
“I know,” I murmur. “I just… I don’t know how to pretend it didn’t happen.”
“You don’t pretend it didn’t happen,” she says, gentler now. “You pretend it didn’t happen in the office. There’s a difference.”
I swallow. Nod once.
The rest of my day passes in a blur of work and numbers. By the time I’m walking home, my brain feels wrung out. But there’s something in my chest that’s lighter.
Not because August is gone. He’s not.
But for a few hours, I remembered who I am. I’m still good at something. I’m still on track.