Chapter 3
Her
The bell rings for the last time today, as I shove my notebook into my bag with a sigh that feels like it's been building all afternoon. Maddie slings her arm around my shoulders as we file out of the building, Al trailing behind with his sketchpad tucked under one arm.
The three of us move like a unit, feet syncing up without trying, even though my head's still buzzing from that text at lunch. Beautiful in blue. It clings, a sticker I can't peel off.
"Finally free." Maddie groans, tilting her head back like she's soaking in invisible sun. "Prof. Wellington droned on about symbolism like it was the cure for cancer. My brain's fried."
Al snickers, catching up and nudging my elbow. "Fried? Yours? I thought theater majors were immune. Y'all live for the drama."
"Ha ha." She shoots back, but she's grinning. "Says the guy who spent last week arguing with a lump of clay. How's the 'angry potato' sculpture coming?"
"It's avant-garde." Al defends, mock-offended. "You'll see at the spring show. It'll make you cry but in a good way."
I force a laugh, but it comes out thin. My mind's half here, half chasing shadows. The walk to the car park feels longer today, the chatter a buffer against the knot in my stomach.
We've done this routine a hundred times.
Last class dump, quick vent session, then split for the night.
Maddie and Al have their cars parked in the faculty lot, perks of family money that neither flaunts but both quietly enjoy.
Me? I used to ride the bus, until Ryan insisted on picking me up every day.
We hit the edge of the lot, where the luxury rides gleam under the lot lights. Maddie's sleek black Audi, Al's silver Porsche that he calls his ‘midlife crisis on wheels’, even though he's only twenty-three. Maddie unlocks hers with a beep, tossing her bag in the back.
"Text me if you wanna cram for Kingsley's quiz tomorrow." She says, pulling me into a quick hug. Her perfume, something floral and sharp, lingers as she steps back. "And seriously, Ree, don't ghost the group chat tonight. We need your vote on movie night picks."
"Guilty." Al adds, leaning against his car with that easy slouch. His eyes flick to me, softer than usual. "You seemed off at lunch. Is everything okay?"
"I'm good." I cut in, sharper than I mean. The concern in his voice tugs, makes me feel exposed. Al's always been like that. Picking up on the cracks without pushing too hard.
But tonight, I don't want to unpack it. Not here, with the lot emptying out and that prickle on my neck from earlier still itching. "Promise. Just buried in this assignment."
He nods, but his smile doesn't quite reach his eyes. "Alright. But if you need a study break, my door's open. Or, you know, clay therapy. Nothing fixes writer's block like smashing something."
Maddie snorts. "Clay therapy? Sounds like a scam. Ree, stick with me. We'll do face masks and trash-talk the plot holes in your rom-com drafts."
Their teasing wraps around me, warm and familiar, chasing the chill for a second.
I open my mouth to fire back, something about their "therapy" sessions always ending in wine stains, when headlights sweep across us.
A familiar blue sedan pulls up, engine humming low.
Ryan. Right on time, like always. He leans out the window, arm draped over the door, that grin flashing white against the dusk.
"Hey, gorgeous." He calls, eyes locking on mine. "Ready to ditch these artsy types?"
Maddie's eyebrow arches, but she plays it cool. Al straightens a bit, his casual lean gone stiff. Ryan kills the engine and hops out, all six feet of him in his work slacks and a button-down rolled to the elbows.
He's got that effortless look, hair tousled just right, like he stepped out of a cologne ad. Six months out of St. Alden, a junior editor at some indie film outfit downtown, and he still carries himself like campus king.
"Iris Whitlock." He says, rounding the car to pull me in. His kiss lands light on my lips. Quick, public, the kind that says we're good without saying much. Then he pulls back, arm snaking around my waist, and nods at my friends. "Madeline, Dominic. Keeping my girl out of trouble?"
"Always." Maddie replies, her tone bright but edged. She crosses her arms, glancing at me with that look. The one that screams, Seriously? Him? without a word.
Al smiles, but it's forced, his hands shoving deeper into his pockets. "Yeah, trouble's our middle name. You heading out to conquer Hollywood tonight?"
Ryan laughs, loud and easy, clapping Al on the shoulder a beat too hard. "Nah, just the grind. But hey, Iris tells me you're knee-deep in sculptures. Don't let the dust turn you into a gargoyle, man."
Al's jaw ticks, but he rolls with it. "Noted. Drive safe, you two."
Ryan's grip tightens on me, thumb rubbing my side like he's claiming territory. "Appreciate it. Iris here gets all insecure when I'm late picking her up. Thinks I'm off charming extras on set."
He winks at me, but the words land like a jab, light but pointed.
Insecure. Like it's a cute quirk, not the raw nerve he knows it hits. My smile stays in place, practiced and automatic, but something tightens in my chest. I hate how easily he says it, like it’s harmless.
Like he hasn’t watched the way it crawls under my skin every time.
Heat floods my face, and I duck my head, forcing a smile. "Shut up, Ryan."
It's playful on the surface, but inside, it stings. That old echo of when we met, freshman me wide-eyed and alone, him the senior swooping in with confidence that felt like rescue.
My parents have been gone barely two years now. It happened just as I was entering university. Twisted metal on a rain-slick highway, the cops’ voices flat and careful over the phone, like they were afraid the words might shatter if they said them too loudly.
I remember standing there afterward, holding the phone, waiting for the part where it would feel real. It never really did. Not the way people say it should. Grief is supposed to flood you, drown you in it. Mine just… lingered, quiet and heavy, like something misplaced inside my chest.
No family left. Just scholarships, paperwork, and a life that suddenly had too much space in it.
I couldn’t stay in our family home after that. Every room was a landmine of memories. Their mugs still in the cupboard, my mother’s scarf hanging where she’d left it, my father’s shoes by the door like he might walk back in any second. The house felt frozen in the last moment they’d been alive.
So I moved into the university halls instead. Sterile walls. Shared bathrooms. Noise at all hours. It was easier than drowning in ghosts.
Ryan filled the gap fast. Two months into dating, he offered his place like it was the most logical thing in the world. ‘Why pay rent when you can just stay with me?’ Sensible, right? Safe. Convenient. Kind, even.
Maddie and Al exchange a glance. Quick but loaded. Their smiles stay plastered.
“Anyway,” Ryan says, steering me toward the passenger door, “don’t expect an invite to the wrap party. Iris here likes to keep all the good stories to herself.”
He opens the door with a flourish, like it's a grand gesture. "Your chariot, milady."
I slide in, buckling up as he circles back. "Night, guys." I call, waving through the open window. Maddie blows a kiss, Al gives a half-salute, but their eyes linger on Ryan as he climbs in. The engine turns over, smooth and low, and we pull away, their cars shrinking in the rearview.
The silence stretches for a block, Ryan's hand drumming the wheel to some classic rock humming from the speakers. I stare out the side window, city lights blurring past. Streetlamps, shop signs, and the occasional pedestrian huddled against the chill.
That knot from lunch tightens again, the text replaying: You look beautiful in blue. Stupid, I tell myself. Probably a wrong number, some bored freshman pranking. But then my phone buzzes in my lap, sharp and insistent.
I snatch it up, heart already tripping. Same unknown number. My thumb hovers, breath shallow.
‘Stay away from Ryan. He's not good for you.’
The words hit like ice water, short and slicing. Not good. Ambiguous enough to burrow deep. What does that even mean? Terror spikes, cold and electric, flooding my chest until I can't breathe right.
My eyes dart to the window, scanning the pavement, the shadows between parked cars. Nothing. Just a guy walking his dog, a couple arguing under an awning. No one watching. No face matching the voice in my head.
"You okay over there?" Ryan's voice cuts in, his hand finding mine across the console. Warm, callused from set work, squeezing just firm enough. "Looks like you saw a ghost."
I flinch, then cover it with a swallow. "Yeah.
Nothing. Just... jumpy." The lie tastes bitter on my tongue, but now isn’t the time to explain.
Especially not in the car, with him glancing over at me every few seconds.
The fear tightens in my stomach like a coiled snake. Two texts today. Two. From nowhere.
He chuckles, thumb stroking my knuckles. "Jumpy? I’m the one who should be on edge, babe. Directors breathing down my neck all day."
He doesn't push, just squeezes once more and lets go to shift gears. Relief mixes with dread. Grateful he drops it, but guilty for the secret gnawing at me.
The drive drags after that, my pulse a drum in my ears, every red light a chance for eyes to linger on the car.
But nothing happens. We turn into our complex, rows of tired brick buildings with peeling paint and flickering hallway lights, the kind of place people pass without looking twice.
Ryan’s held onto the same cheap unit since his senior year.
"Home sweet home." He says, leaning over for another kiss. This one lingering, his hand cupping my jaw. It's soft, familiar, but tonight it feels off-kilter, like the text tainted it. I kiss back anyway, chasing normalcy.