Chapter 21 Sophie
SOPHIE
Monday comes faster than I want it to. I tell myself it’ll feel normal, just another day of class. But the second I spot Beck across the quad, butterflies explode in my stomach.
He falls into step beside me just like most mornings for the last few weeks. “Morning,” he says, voice low, still slightly rough around the edges, like he hasn’t been awake long.
“Morning,” I echo, hugging my notebook to my chest.
For a few strides, we just walk, sneakers scuffing the stone pathway, the early sunlight painting long shadows across the grass. Then—without warning—his arm comes up and settles across my shoulders.
My whole body goes warm, every nerve suddenly aware of how broad he feels next to me, how warm his hand is where it brushes my arm. To everyone else, it probably looks simple.
To me, it feels anything but.
“How was your Sunday?” he asks, as if this contact is having zero effect on him.
I clear my throat, trying not to sound as flustered as I feel. “Pretty good. I volunteered at the center in the morning after someone else had to call out sick, then caught up on homework. Ava came over last night—we had a chick flick marathon.” I smile faintly. “And ate way too much popcorn.”
His mouth curves, the hint of a smile lighting up his otherwise calm expression. “Sounds solid. Is Ava your friend on the cheer team?”
“Yep. She’s finishing up her nursing degree. We met in the fourth grade and have been best friends ever since. What about you? Any big Sunday adventures?” I ask, glancing up at him.
A grin takes over his face, causing that dimple on the left side to pop out. “Spent the afternoon with Alyssa and Joey. My little brother’s obsessed with football right now, so we played in the yard until he passed out.”
Something about the way he says it makes my chest squeeze. He doesn’t offer details unless you ask, but when he does, you see it. The softness beneath all that control.
I tuck the thought away quickly, trying not to read too much into it.
“How old are they? It must be a fun age to get to play with them where they can participate.”
We reach the psych building, Beck removing his arm from my shoulders and opening the door for me before answering.
“Alyssa is five, and Joey just turned eight a few weeks ago.” He puts his hands in the front pocket of his hoodie as we make our way toward the lecture hall.
“I was honestly really nervous about the age gap between us, but it’s awesome.
In their eyes, I’m the cool big brother.
It’s been really neat watching them grow up.
Let me tell you, though, when they were first born, I was terrified of holding them. ”
Professor Nelson starts calling out names and handing over folders one by one. The shuffle of papers mixes with quiet murmurs as groups figure out what diagnosis they’ve been assigned.
It doesn’t take long before I hear both of our names. “Sophie and Beck,” he announces, holding out a manila folder. “Here you are.”
Beck reaches forward to take the folder, and the second he opens the packet, something in him shifts. His shoulders go rigid, his jaw tightening just enough for me to notice.
I lean closer, lowering my voice so only he can hear. “Hey…you okay?”
His eyes stay fixed on the folder like it’s something poisonous, ready to strike at any given second. For a heartbeat, I think he might actually tell me what’s wrong—but then he blinks, sits up a little straighter, and shakes his head quickly. “Yeah. Fine.”
He’s anything but convincing.
I nod slowly, even though I don’t believe him. “Okay, well…when do you want to meet up to get started? We could do later this afternoon if you’re free—”
“Actually,” he cuts in, standing abruptly and shoving the folder onto my desk. “I, uh…forgot I have an important meeting this morning. Can we talk about it later?”
Before I can respond, he’s already halfway to the door. “I’ll text you,” he says, and then he’s gone before Professor Nelson has even finished handing out the packets to the rest of the groups.
I sit there for a moment, blinking after him.
Something is definitely not fine.
I stare at the door long after it swings shut behind him, my mind scrambling to make sense of what just happened. Beck doesn’t do abrupt. He’s grounded—he doesn’t just bolt.
I glance down at the folder Professor Nelson handed out to everyone, pulling it closer. Maybe whatever spooked him is in here.
I flip it open.
Schizophrenia.
The word stares up at me in bold, black letters, clinical and unassuming, but something about it makes my stomach twist. I skim the first page—project objectives, presentation requirements, key diagnostic criteria—but nothing explains why Beck reacted like someone pulled the floor out from under him.
It’s not like I expected him to jump for joy over a group assignment, but this? This was different.
I tap my pen against the folder, replaying the way his jaw tightened, the way he stood so suddenly it made a couple people look up. And the excuse—“an important meeting”—was weak.
He’s not the type to forget something like that.
By the time practice rolls around that afternoon, the sun is low, throwing a warm haze over the field. I’m sitting on the sideline, tightening my cheer shoes, when I spot the football team across the way.
The players are running through the last of their walkthroughs. The rhythmic thud of cleats against turf blending with the whistle blasts from coaches. My eyes flick over almost on instinct.
Beck’s easy to spot, his eyes meeting mine for just a second, but something’s different. Usually, he’ll give me a grin or at least a quick nod when he sees me.
Today, it’s just a small, distracted wave before he looks away.
“You’ve got a weird look on your face,” Ava says beside me, stretching her arms overhead.
I straighten up quickly. “Do not.”
She gives me a knowing smile. “You totally do. What’s going on?”
I glance back toward Beck. “He’s just…quiet today. Didn’t really say hi. He barely waved.”
Ava follows my gaze, brows lifting. “He doesn’t look thrilled to be here, that’s for sure.”
“He wasn’t exactly himself this morning, either,” I admit, lowering my voice. “We got assigned our psych project, and the second he read the diagnosis, he went completely still. Then he bailed. Said he forgot about some ‘important meeting.’”
Ava tilts her head, thoughtful. “What’s the diagnosis?”
“Schizophrenia.”
She lets out a low whistle. “Oof. Maybe it hits close to home or something?”
The thought had never really occurred to me, but now I can’t seem to stop spiraling, even as Jordan claps her hands together at the front of the squad. “All right, ladies, circle up! Warm-ups are done—let’s run through the halftime routine twice before moving to formations.”
Ava nudges me lightly. “You’ll figure it out,” she whispers, before jogging toward the group.
I follow, forcing my brain to switch gears. We cycle through our stunts, pyramids, and transitions—muscle memory kicking in even when my mind drifts. But every time I catch a glimpse of Beck across the field, that tight feeling in my chest returns.
Something’s definitely off.
I toss my water bottle back into my bag after practice ends and wave Ava off when she calls goodnight, but instead of heading for the locker room, my feet carry me toward the parking lot.
Beck’s truck is easy to spot—older, clean, and parked in the same spot he always claims near the end of the row. A few players filter out, laughing and shoving each other as they pass. I lean against the side of his truck, arms folded, pretending to scroll on my phone.
Really, I’m just waiting.
More of the team trickles out slowly. A couple of guys glance my way with mild curiosity, but no one says anything. It’s not exactly subtle—me hanging out by Beck’s truck like this—but I can’t shake the way he looked today. Or should I say the way he didn’t look at me.
Finally, he appears, hoodie back on, his hair damp from a quick rinse. He slows when he sees me, surprise flickering across his face.
“Hey,” he says, voice rough from practice.
“Hey.” I push off the truck and take a step closer. “You okay?”
He shifts his weight, eyes flicking to the ground for a moment before meeting mine again.
“You kind of disappeared this morning,” I add, softer this time.
For a second, he just looks at me, like he’s trying to decide whether to brush it off or actually tell me something.
He exhales slowly, shifting his bag to his other arm. “Yeah. About this morning…” His voice is lower now, quiet and careful. “Sorry I dipped like that. It wasn’t fair to leave you hanging.”
The apology catches me off guard—not because he owes me one, but because Beck doesn’t usually explain himself.
I shrug, trying to play it cool, even though my chest tightens. “It’s fine. I just wasn’t sure what happened. One second you were there, the next…”
“Yeah,” he says quietly. “I know.”
A beat passes. The parking lot has emptied out, the night air soft around us. And before I can stop myself, my thoughts start to unravel.
Maybe I’ve put too much on him. Between the fake dating mess, Zach, my parents, and now the project—it’s a lot. I hadn’t thought about what it might feel like from his side.
I bite my lip, glancing down at the ground. “If it’s…too much,” I start, forcing the words out. “The fake dating thing, or any of this—I won’t be mad if you want to back out. I didn’t exactly give you a choice in the beginning.”
He steps just a little closer, close enough that I catch the faint scent of soap and turf. He reaches up and gently tucks a loose strand of hair behind my ear, his fingers brushing my skin so lightly it makes my breath hitch.
“Hey,” he says, eyes locked on mine. “This has nothing to do with you. I promise.”
Something about the way he says it—like he means every word—makes the knot in my chest loosen just a little.
“It’s just my own stuff,” he adds. “Stuff I’m not ready to talk about yet.”
I nod slowly.
“Okay,” I say softly.
His hand drops back to his side, but the warmth from his fingers linger long after.
Beck nods toward his truck. “C’mon. I’ll drive you home.”
I open my mouth to tell him he doesn’t have to, but the look he gives me shuts the protest down before it starts.
“Okay,” I say instead.
He unlocks the doors and pulls open the passenger side for me. I climb in, the familiar scent of his truck wrapping around me—clean and woodsy, with an undertone of citrus.
As he rounds to the driver’s side, I find myself watching him through the window, my pulse steady but undeniably aware.
Somewhere between a fake boyfriend and a complicated project, Beck Harrison has started to matter more than I intended.