Chapter 5
The rest of my first week of college goes by as I expected. No surprises, at least.
Classes are interesting—nothing like what NYU probably offers, but still. Professor Jones’s vocal studio is amazing, and I secretly love having French with Hayes. And yes, just like he said, seeing his pretty face in class kind of makes my day.
Not that I’d tell him that.
But beyond the more challenging coursework, college is exactly what I imagined: a slightly shinier version of high school.
No new friends. No sudden shift in social gravity.
No buzzing invites or spontaneous party offers.
Just me, floating on the fringes like always, smiling politely while everyone else moves around me like I’m invisible.
It’s not active hate or dislike or even avoidance. More like… irrelevant ambivalence. Maybe that’s even worse.
Like yesterday. I passed a table in the quad where a group of sorority girls were handing out flyers for rush week. They gave one to every girl in sight—except me. I stood there for half a second, just long enough to feel the sting, then kept walking like I hadn’t noticed.
Not that I really cared.
I’d never survive in a sorority. An entire house full of Ambers? No, thank you.
Still, it would’ve been nice for it to be my decision, not theirs.
Hayes, of course, is already thriving at LHU.
Between football practices and fraternity pledging, I barely see him outside of French class.
Most afternoons, I’m either holed up in the campus library or stretched out on his apartment couch with the dog, doing everything I can to avoid going to my own home and facing Amber.
She’s living her dream—lead in the community theater play, queen bee at school, and on the verge of getting back with her hot college ex.
The last thing I want to do is listen to her humblebrag every night at dinner about her amazing life.
And honestly? Hanging out alone with my dog is fine by me.
I like him better than most people anyway.
By Saturday afternoon, I’m more than ready for a much-needed movie date with Hayes.
That morning, he threw the winning touchdown in the first game of the season, leading the LHU Chimeras to a blowout victory.
The crowd went wild, chanting his name like he was some kind of god.
I watched it all from the stands—alone—surrounded by screaming fans decked out in face paint and head-to-toe red and gold.
Now, hours later, the adrenaline has faded, and it’s the two of us again, like old times. Just Hayes and me at his parents’ house, the absolute best place to watch movies.
On the lower level of the house is not one, but two, state-of-the-art theaters. The “summer” outdoor theater is across from the Olympic-size pool and has heaters and a larger screen, but we choose the “indoor” theater because it has an industrial-size popcorn maker, and I’m starving.
We grab bottled waters from the kitchen first and then head toward the movie room, with Hayes pausing to scoop up a bowl of freshly stuffed olives off the counter. He pops a few into his mouth, then plucks one out and dangles it in front of my lips.
“Open up,” he teases.
I duck away, swatting his hand. “Ew. You know I hate olives.”
Something about the texture has always grossed me out. Too slick, too weirdly firm. Technically a fruit, but not even sweet or sugary. Basically useless.
“You sure? Even when I’m hand-feeding them to you?” he jokes, arching a dark brow.
“Especially then.”
He just grins and pops the olive into his own mouth instead, chewing happily as we walk down the hall. It’s harvest season, and the olive groves on the Vassilios estate are bursting. Hayes eats the stuff like candy, tossing back a few more as I follow him into the movie room.
It’s one of my favorite places in the house.
More luxury theater than anything you’d expect in a private home.
A massive nineteen-foot screen dominates the front wall.
Hayes’s father calls it his pride and joy.
I still can’t believe the man left it behind for the summer to go to Greece.
When they first installed the projector last Christmas, Hayes’s dad didn’t leave the room for an entire week.
Facing the screen are three rows of plush, stadium-style leather recliners, each one equipped with a built-in cup holder and adjustable headrest. Blackout curtains and a high-end surround sound system complete the meticulous design.
I load the popcorn machine in the back and the room fills with the rich, buttery scent—warm and familiar, like comfort wrapped in nostalgia.
After filling a bowl to the brim, I carry it to the front row and settle into one of the recliners.
With a twist of the knob, the seat leans back, and the dog curls into a cozy ball at my feet, already dozing off.
Before I even ask, Hayes tosses me my favorite cashmere blanket, the one I used to steal during sleepovers back in junior high.
We decide on Evil Dead, one of our favorites. It’s a classic horror flick: college kids, remote cabin in the woods, bloodthirsty demons, plenty of gore.
With a single tap on the iPad, the lights dim, and the haunting opening notes of the movie begin. The screen fades in on a shadowy lake shrouded in mist just as Hayes drops into the seat beside me, even though there are two completely empty rows behind us.
I try to focus on the movie, but it’s impossible.
He’s so close.
Too close.
The kind of close that makes my whole body buzz with awareness.
Our arms and legs are nearly touching. Every time he reaches for the popcorn bowl lying between us, his fingers graze the bare skin of my knee.
It’s light enough that I know it’s accidental, yet every brush sparks like a live wire, sending a shock straight through me.
I feel all of it—his warmth, his scent, the casual ease of his presence—each sensation doing unspeakable things to my insides.
I sneak a quick glance over when I can tell he’s focused on the movie. The flickering screen throws shadows across his face, making his cheekbones look almost too perfect, his jawline sharp as glass. He’s so stupidly handsome, it’s offensive.
His nearness is so distracting I consider moving to the back row, just to breathe and clear my head. But no—that would look weird. Besides, this isn’t exactly new territory.
I’ve been doing this for years, pretending I don’t feel anything when I’m around him. That I don’t notice the way my heart gallops every time he’s near, or the way my body leans into his like it’s gravity.
Hayes, for his part, has never given me a single sign of mutual interest.
Not one.
In all these years, he’s never shown any indication he sees me as anything more than a friend. Never looked at me the way I’m sure I look at him. Never paused just a second too long. Never leaned in like he might kiss me.
Nothing.
He’s always been too preoccupied with other girls—dating my sister, flirting with strangers, falling into whatever girl is next in line.
I shift the blanket over my legs and try to concentrate on the movie. I need to stop thinking about Hayes like this. He’s just another hot guy. Big deal. Southern California is crawling with them.
Not that I’ve ever met anyone else quite like him.
Or who matches my elite taste in rock music and scary movies.
Or who can beat me at Resident Evil.
But still.
“Where do they come up with this shit?” Hayes mutters with a low laugh, shaking his head as the girl on screen gets possessed, stabbed, reanimated, and then hacked up into little pieces with an axe.
“Oh, shut up. You love this movie.”
“I used to.” His voice shifts, thoughtful. “I don’t remember it being so… over-the-top. It’s kind of laughable.”
“Hard disagree. Demons are terrifying.”
“Uh, you know they’re not real, right?”
“Says who?” I shoot back. “You don’t believe in the devil? Heaven and hell and some epic showdown for our souls?”
He gives me a look—a smile that’s soft, but also just a little sad. “Not really.”
“You think there’s nothing else then? Just us?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“Then what?” I press.
“Well, you know how my dad’s always going on about Greek mythology?”
“Obviously.” I grin. “Pretty sure the last time I saw him he was telling me about some flying monster with six heads and a wicked vendetta.”
“Yeah, that tracks.” Hayes chuckles. “Anyway, he’s always made a point of teaching me the old Greek ways.
They didn’t believe in a black-and-white, Judeo-Christian idea of good versus evil.
There wasn’t one god, but many, and they could do incredible good and terrible harm.
Sometimes both at once. Like nature.” He shrugs slightly.
“And the Greeks believed in daemons, not demons. Spirits. Some helpful. Some… not so much.” He pauses, gesturing toward the screen as a geyser of blood erupts from a body.
“I believe in something, sure. Just not this.”
I toss popcorn into my mouth, chewing slowly, thinking about the research I did over the summer for my Hercules audition.
“What about Hades then?” I ask. “Didn’t the Greeks believe in him? Wasn’t he basically Satan?”
Hayes groans. “I told you not to watch that stupid Disney movie. It’s a complete bastardization of mythology.”
I grin and lob a piece of popcorn at him.
“You’re just salty your parents named you after the villain.”
Hayes’s mother once told me they picked his name because of the Greek god. That Hades was powerful, determined, and loyal to the end—qualities they hoped their son would one day grow into. I always thought being named after a god was cool. Way better than my own name anyway.
“Hades wasn’t a villain.” Hayes smirks, brushing the popcorn off his lap. “He may have ruled the Underworld, but he wasn’t evil. Didn’t torture souls or any of that bullshit. Honestly? He was one of the better gods.”
“Sure.” I shake my head. “Just a regular ol’ nice guy in charge of hordes of the dead.”