Chapter 4
SOPHIE
The stone pathways of the quad glow under the pale morning light, the sun just starting to come up. Most of campus seems to still be sleeping, and I enjoy the walk in the closest thing to silence you’ll find at college, listening to the birds and the faint noise of muffled traffic in the distance.
Packing four years of college into just three has been nothing short of a challenge, but entering my final year here at PCU, it feels like I can finally see the light at the end of the tunnel. Between the cheer squad, clinicals, and extra volunteer time, I have minimal to no extra time in my days.
Some might look at my schedule and think I’m slightly insane. They wouldn’t be completely wrong, but I thrive in chaos and do my best when I’m busy.
Adjusting my bag strap on my shoulder, I press my phone closer to my ear as my sister, Claire, continues on.
Sidewalks bring me from the gym, down to the Student Services Center with its tall windows reflecting the morning’s peach and pink light, past a library with polished stone steps and a fountain tucked to one side, the water soft and familiar.
I pass posters for the surf club, environmental justice group, social work society—all pinned to cork boards outside classrooms.
“Tell me you’re not still taking classes that start at eight a.m.,” Claire groans in my ear.
“Gym first, of course.” I smile. “Then yes, eight a.m. is Abnormal Psych. I need it to graduate. Not exactly optional.”
“You and your serious planner brain,” Claire teases. “Remind me again why you didn’t just major in business like mom wanted?”
“Because I don’t want to spend my life in boardrooms, wearing heels I can’t walk in,” I say, stepping out of the athletics center, heading toward the cafe where I’m supposed to be grabbing a coffee before class with my best friend.
“Because I want to do something that matters,” I say more softly, and I mean it.
There’s a pause, and Claire’s voice softens. “You know Mom and Dad are going to bring up Zach again when they’re here for the wedding.”
My stomach twists. “Of course they are.”
“They think…” She hesitates. “They think it still looks bad. That you broke it off when everyone assumed—”
“That we’d end up engaged?” I finish. My voice feels flat against the hum of students beginning to file in.
“Yeah.”
“They can think whatever they want,” I mutter. “We both know they have zero care for the fact that he’s a disgraceful piece of shit who can’t keep it in his pants, and all the concern for saving face.”
Claire can tell I’m over this topic and hops right into listing everything that still needs to be finalized for her upcoming wedding.
Rehearsal dinner. Centerpieces. Family expectations, all packaged so tightly you can’t see the person inside.
But Claire’s tone shifts, and the wedding stuff follows—who’s wearing what, guest count, our mom’s outfit crisis. I nod along, half listening.
We hang up, and I tuck my phone inside my bag before grabbing a seat at one of the outside tables next to the cafe. I get out my laptop and notebook, pulling up the class syllabus and looking over my schedule for the day, reminding myself that each term brings me one step closer to my dream.
I’ve always had a deep passion for helping children.
The ones who get overlooked. The ones teachers write off as “difficult” or “lazy” when really, they just need someone to believe in them.
Maybe that’s na?ve, maybe I’ll burn out before I even make it to a master’s program, but I don’t care.
It’s the only future that feels like mine.
I’m halfway through the syllabus for psych when someone barrels toward me, waving like she’s flagging down a taxi.
“Sophie! Tell me you’re not already drowning.”
Ava Mitchell skids to a stop in front of me, dark curls piled on top of her head and scrubs peeking out from under her hoodie. She’s balancing a textbook the size of a brick against her hip and sipping from an iced coffee that’s mostly melted, looking an awful lot like water.
“Abnormal Psych, followed by Research Methods,” I say grimly. “It’s going to be the death of me.”
She snorts. “Try Anatomy Lab. I swear they expect us to memorize every nerve in the human body before the end of the first week. You’ll be fine—you’ve got your color-coded pens and psych-brain. I’m the one who’s screwed.”
I laugh despite myself, the tension in my chest loosening a little. “At least your handwriting’s legible. Mine looks like a crime scene when I’m stressed.”
“Good thing you thrive under pressure.” She bumps her shoulder against mine as we start walking toward the dining hall.
“Seriously, Soph, you’ve got this year locked down.
Cheer, classes, saving the world one social work paper at a time…
” She shakes her head like I’m some kind of superhero.
“If you don’t slow down, the rest of us are going to look even worse. ”
“I don’t have the luxury of slowing down.” The words slip out sharper than I mean them to, but Ava doesn’t flinch. She just gives me a look that says she gets it and won’t press.
Instead, she pivots. “So, your sister’s wedding. Are we picking dresses soon? Because if you think I’m letting you wear something boring and beige, you’re insane.”
I roll my eyes. “You’re not even in the wedding party, and Claire ordered my dress six months ago.”
“Doesn’t matter. As your plus one, my best friend duties include heckling you into looking hot. Especially if he who shall not be named is going to be there.”
My stomach twists, but I force a smile. “I don’t care what he thinks.”
“Good. Because he’s a walking red flag, and not in a good way. If he even looks at you sideways at this wedding, I’ll personally key his car.”
I snort out a laugh, shaking my head as we near the dining hall doors. “Remind me to never get on your bad side.”
“You wouldn’t last five minutes,” she teases, holding the door open for me.
The heaviness from Claire’s call lifts, if only a little. Ava has that effect.
For a moment, with the smell of coffee drifting out from the café and the chatter of students rising around us, it almost feels like I can breathe again.
Almost.
We quickly dip inside and grab drinks, iced coffee for me and a hot one for Ava. We fall into step beside each other before she speaks again.
“All right, superhero,” she says, eyeing the buildings ahead. “Where to first?”
“Abnormal Psych,” I say, tucking my drink into my bag’s side pocket.
She groans dramatically. “Yikes. I’ve heard that professor is brutal. Half the pre-meds avoid it unless they’re forced.”
“Comforting.”
“Hey, you’ll kill it.” She smirks. “Color-coded notes, remember?”
I shake my head, but her grin is infectious, pulling a smile out of me anyway.
We reach the psych building, its sandstone walls climbing high with ivy snaking along the edges.
The glass doors gleam under the late-morning sun, reflecting clusters of students sprawled on the grass outside.
The air smells faintly of eucalyptus from the trees dotting the courtyard, sharp and clean under the heat.
Inside, the halls buzz with voices and the squeak of sneakers on tile. Flyers line the walls—advertising study groups, mindfulness workshops, even a flyer for the cheer squad’s next fundraiser.
Ava slows as we reach the stairwell. “Second floor for me,” she says, gesturing with her chin. “Text me if your prof tries to scare you off with horror-movie case studies.”
“Only if you text me back when you get buried under lab reports.”
She laughs, giving my arm a quick squeeze. “Deal. Good luck, Soph.”
I nod, shouldering my bag a little higher as she disappears up the stairs. Then, I turn down the hall toward my classroom.
My stomach tightens, but I push through it, fingers tightening around the strap on my shoulder.
New semester. New class. New chance to prove I can carry everything at once without cracking.
At least, that’s what I tell myself as I step into the room.
The room is big, with tiered rows of long desks and chairs that creak when you sit down. I slide into a spot near the middle, unpacking my notebook and pen. A few clusters of students are already chatting, but there are still plenty of open seats scattered around.
I take a sip of my coffee, trying to shake off the weight of Claire’s call, when something shifts inside me—a strange awareness crawling up the back of my neck.
I glance toward the door.
Even in a crowded doorway, he stands out. Broad shoulders, hair still damp like he didn’t bother to dry it completely, and those eyes—clear, sharp, the exact same shade of green I remember from the other night.
Beck Harrison
For a heartbeat, I think maybe he won’t notice me. That I can stay anonymous in the sea of students.
But then his gaze sweeps the room, finds mine, and holds.
That flicker of recognition hits me straight in the chest.
He grins—small, almost private—and it pulls a smile out of me before I can stop it.
My stomach twists, equal parts nerves and something else I can’t name.
Beck makes his way up the aisle, every step steady, like he’s completely at ease here while I’m scrambling just to breathe normally.
When he stops at my row, his voice is low.
“This seat taken?”