Chapter 26
Hidden In Plain Sight
Harlee
The weighty library door, as old as the institution itself, groaned in protest as it swung shut behind me.
I stepped into the crisp October air, a sharp contrast to the musty warmth of the stacks.
Chicago has a way of making you feel both vibrantly alive and utterly insignificant at the same time.
The skyline looms, all ambition and shadow, and somehow that contradiction feels familiar.
Especially when you’re drowning in graduate-level coursework.
The material is fascinating and relentless, like trying to drink from a firehose. The city hums around me, an undercurrent I can’t escape even when my head is buried in equations and proofs.
I adjust my glasses, clearing the fog from the temperature change as the wind cuts through my coat. My mind is still racing. Numbers. Theories. Loose ends that refuse to settle. It feels like everything I’ve learned this semester is packed too tightly, threatening to burst open at the seams.
“Get it together, HQ,” I mutter, forcing my attention forward.
Magna cum laude matters to me. It always has. But lately, the pressure of being excellent feels heavier than the achievement itself.
I weave through the late afternoon campus crowd, laughter and conversation washing over me. And just like that, my thoughts drift back to August. Not work exactly. Not the audit. But the shift. The subtle change I can’t quite name.
Something has been off since Cypress.
Not the decision itself. I understand why it had to happen. But whatever followed it didn’t land cleanly. I can feel it in August’s pauses, in the way he’s been louder with his affection, more insistent on closeness. Like he’s outrunning something.
“Hey!”
I barely stop in time, coffee sloshing dangerously close to disaster.
“Watch where you’re going!”
“Sorry,” I blurt, stepping aside as my face warms.
I exhale once he’s gone. This is exactly what I don’t need. More static. More noise. My brain is already crowded enough.
It’s not guilt exactly. Not anymore.
It’s the not knowing.
I didn’t hear a fight. I didn’t hear raised voices or accusations. But I overheard enough to know something fractured. A tone. A tension. A resignation that didn’t belong to a simple work disagreement.
“Stop spiraling,” I whisper. “You don’t have the whole story.”
Still, the unease lingers.
A few days after the fallout, I’d caught a sliver of a conversation I wasn’t meant to hear. August on the phone with Sadie. A comment about Kristi requesting separate flights. A sharp remark about immaturity.
It stuck with me.
Later, tucked quietly inside his bathroom, I froze instead of flushing. I don’t know what I expected to hear, only that my body went still before my brain could intervene.
August paced the ensuite, frustration threading through his voice.
“If he wants to act like a child, fine. I’ll fly commercial.”
I perched there longer than I should have, heart thudding, catching fragments. First class. Direct flights. Timing. Logistics layered over irritation.
“He’ll probably want his own car too,” he muttered. “As long as he’s not late.”
It wasn’t what he said. It was how tired he sounded saying it.
When his tone shifted back to neutral, I flushed and slipped out, carrying more questions than answers.
The next time I tried to bring it up, he deflected. Smoothly. Skillfully. He insisted our time together shouldn’t be wasted on anything heavy. He made a point of it, clinging to me, distracting me, kissing me breathless until thinking felt optional.
And I let him.
But the feeling didn’t go away.
It wasn’t about Cypress. It was about August carrying something alone. About the way his attention felt generous and urgent at the same time. Like compensation.
I wish he’d just talk to me. Tell me what’s sitting behind those beautiful green eyes. But I don’t push. I don’t want to be the one to crack whatever fragile truce he’s holding together.
Instead, our conversations stay safe. My grades. His hands. Desire and encouragement in equal measure.
And while I’m not complaining, I know avoidance when I see it.
Maybe he’s right. Maybe I should focus on school. Finish strong. Get through this semester before I start pulling at threads I can’t unspool.
I chew the inside of my cheek as my phone vibrates in my bag, forcing me to stop short near a lamppost. I dig through the chaos. Glove. Socks. Calculator. Hot sauce packet.
There it is.
“Hey, mi vida. How’s your day going, beautiful?”
August’s voice settles something in my chest. Warm. Familiar. Steady in a way he hasn’t been lately.
“Same old.” I sigh, stepping into the crosswalk. “Drowning in books.”
He laughs softly. “Take breaks. Don’t burn yourself out.”
“Easy for you to say,” I tease. “You’re not juggling four exams.”
“I’ve got deadlines too,” he counters gently.
I smile despite myself.
I hesitate before asking, then let it slip. “You okay? You’ve just seemed… busy.”
A pause. Not long. But noticeable.
“I’m fine,” he says easily. “Just handling things.”
And there it is again. That careful answer.
He changes the subject moments later. Dinner. Tonight. Casual. Hopeful.
“Weren’t you in Boston?” I ask.
“Was,” he says. “I can multitask.”
I laugh, already knowing I’ll say yes.
The line cuts out just as I turn onto my street.
“How about now?”
August’s voice catches me mid-step.
I look up.
He’s parked along the curb, leaning against his car like he’s been there all along—arms crossed, shoulders easy, that familiar, dangerous smile in place. Like nothing in the world weighs on him.
For a beat, I just stare.
Then I’m moving.
I close the distance in seconds, crashing into his open arms. He laughs as he lifts me off my feet, spinning me once before setting me down, my hands still locked around his neck like I might float away if I let go.
“Impressive entrance,” I say, breathless, trying to reclaim some composure.
“I aim to please.” His grin is all confidence, all charm.
He reaches up and tucks a loose strand of hair behind my ear, his thumb lingering just long enough to make my pulse jump.
The air between us tightens, charged and humming, pulling us closer until there’s barely space to breathe.
His hands frame my face, warm and steady, and when I rise onto my toes, he meets me halfway.
The kiss is brief but unguarded—soft, hungry, promising more than it gives.
“Let’s make a deal,” he murmurs when we part, his forehead resting against mine. “I feed you. No distractions. Booty rubs and great conversation. Until you fall asleep.”
I smile, already undone. “Deal.”
He seals it with another quick kiss, then slides a hand to my booty, squeezing just enough to make me laugh.
We lace our fingers together, and suddenly I’m sixteen again—standing on a quiet street with a stupid grin on my face, like this is a crush and not a grown-up relationship with assumptions and responsibilities attached.
We linger there longer than we need to, talking about nothing at all.
The easy kind. The kind that makes time blur.
Eventually, he opens the passenger door with a small, exaggerated bow, like he’s escorting me somewhere important. I roll my eyes, still smiling, and slide into the seat.
He closes the door gently, flashing that look that always makes my chest tighten.
I settle in, warm and giddy, already looking forward to whatever comes next.
I let out a heavy sigh, my fingers tracing slow circles at my temples as I squint at the endless stream of job listings glowing on my phone.
It’s late, a few nights later, and the soft hum of our favorite playlist is the only sound filling the apartment.
Warm lamplight pools over the living room, a sharp contrast to the glare of my screen.
Wynter and I sit on opposite ends of our worn velvet couch, each tucked into our own corner.
She’s absorbed in her phone, incense smoke curling lazily around her like a halo.
“Here’s one,” she says, foot tapping against the cushion. “Entry-level accounting. Accounts payable. One to two years’ experience. Bachelor’s in accounting or math.” She pauses. “Pay’s trash. Twenty-five an hour. But still better than half these listings asking for ten years and your soul.”
My stomach tightens. Graduation is getting closer, and with it the reality that my father’s financial safety net disappears. Wynter leaving for L.A. isn’t a hypothetical anymore. The idea that I might not even be able to afford this apartment on my own presses in hard.
And worse—I know I’m part of why she’s still here.
“Well damn,” I mutter. “Guess I’ll just be one of your roadies.”
Her face lights up. “You could be. Travel the world with me.”
“Herman Prince would lose his mind.”
She drops into her spot-on impression of my father. “Princes don’t quit. After everything I’ve sacrificed—”
I groan, but the laugh doesn’t fully land. The job my father lined up waits patiently at the end of graduation like a pre-written ending I never chose. The listings blur together, every option starting to feel like a compromise.
“All these companies are the same thing in different fonts,” Wynter says, stretching. “You’re either overqualified or not experienced enough.”
“Because I’ve been in school since birth,” I snap. “Should’ve started working at sixteen.”
“Why not stay at James Wilde after graduation?”
I shake my head. “It’s a co-op. There was never any talk of full-time.”
“But you’re banging the boss.”
I flip her off. “That’s exactly why I won’t ask. I want whatever I do next to be mine. I want to do something that matters. Something with purpose.”
She studies me. “Then do that.”
“Sounds easy when you’ve got golden pipes.”
“And you can calculate pi to death. Same thing.” She smirks. “You’re already a badass. Own it.”