Chapter 1 #2
I’ve tried playing her “Summer Sad Girl” playlist (yes, that’s really what she called it), but it’s not the same when it’s not accompanied by her off-key singing from the next room.
Still, I’m determined to make the most of my first real night alone. I’ve got pasta boiling on the stove—actual pasta, not the instant ramen noodles that get me through finals week—and there’s a bottle of wine on the counter that cost more than eight dollars.
I’m crushing life right now.
“Carbonara,” I announce to nobody, reading from the recipe on my phone. “How hard can it be?”
Truthfully, I don’t usually cook. Troy and Alex usually handle that department and I let them. But I am not doing that anymore. No siree.
I am looking after myself now. I am being a badass independent boss bitch.
I prop my phone against one of my celebration wine bottles, rewatching the cocktail tutorial for the fifth time.
The bartender makes the perfect pour look effortless, liquid streaming in a graceful arc between shakers.
I’ve been binge-watching these videos since I got the job offer—three hours of “Basic Bartending Skills” and “Top 50 Cocktails You Need to Know.”
You can basically learn anything in 3 hours with an internet connection.
My orientation packet from Luzia sits on the counter, already coffee-stained and dog-eared from repeated reading. I like to be prepared.
The dress code alone is three pages long.
All black everything, but not just any black – “sophisticated black attire that reflects our establishment’s premium status.
” No logos, no patterns, no cheap fabrics.
I glance down at my current outfit, cozy pajamas covered in dinosaurs.
Besides my sleepwear, my entire wardrobe is basically a color explosion.
I like to think of clothes as my self-expression, and my self-expression is very rarely black.
I’ve already ordered two black button-downs that I definitely can’t afford, but they’ll be worth it once those rich-people tips start rolling in.
This is why I am cooking carbonara tonight. You know, something fancy and sophisticated.
The initial batch of sauce failed because apparently you can’t simply dump hot pasta into beaten eggs.
Who knew? But the second attempt actually works, and soon I’m twirling perfectly creamy fettuccine around my fork, feeling very classy and grown-up.
I even put the pasta in a real bowl instead of eating it straight from the pot.
I head to our couch—technically, my couch for the summer—with my fancy pasta (that is now cold) and my cheap wine, staring at the water stain on the ceiling that kind of looks like Australia if you squint.
The hangover from Alex’s going-away party on Friday has mostly faded, thank God. I open my banking app, already calculating how many shifts it’ll take to afford my own place after graduation.
Our apartment is the kind of mess that comes from a year of college life colliding with hasty packing.
Alex’s room is half-empty, drawers hanging open like she left in a hurry (which she did, nearly missing her flight because we’d stayed up too late watching reality TV).
There are still fairy lights strung across the living room from the party, twinkling mockingly at me in the afternoon sun.
“At least we didn’t get caught,” I mutter around a mouthful of pasta, then immediately knock on the wooden coffee table because I’m not taking any chances.
The party started innocently enough—a small gathering to give Alex a stylish send-off.
But then Ethan showed up with his “special punch,” and it all went to shit.
My phone buzzes on the coffee table. Troy’s contact photo pops up—a ridiculous selfie of us from his high school graduation, me on his shoulders wearing his cap.
“Hey, big brother.”
“So,” his voice has that careful tone that means he’s about to lecture me, “I just got off the phone with Sarah from Student Services.”
My stomach drops. “Oh?”
“She wanted to know if you were still interested in the campus tour guide position. Said she’s been trying to reach you. You know she’s had to pull a few strings to secure it for you this late, Tar. The least you could do is let her know you’re taking it and when you’ll start.”
I take a large gulp of wine. “About that...”
“Tar, it’s perfect for you. You know campus like the back of your hand, and it’s easy money, and—”
“I don’t need it. I got another job.” I cut him off. “At Luzia.”
The silence that follows is deafening.
“The nightclub?” He sounds like I’ve told him I’m joining a strip club. As a performer. “Downtown?”
“It’s not only a nightclub,” I protest, stabbing at my pasta. “It’s really upscale. They have a strict dress code and fancy cocktails and—”
“It’s dangerous is what it is. Do you know what kind of people—”
“Rich people?” I interrupt, rolling my eyes. “Because that’s their clientele. Rich tourists and business types. Not exactly the criminal underworld, Troy.”
“Tara.” He sighs, and I can picture him pinching his eyebrows together. It’s the same gesture from a thousand memories—him waiting up when I missed curfew in high school, showing up with ice cream and revenge plans at 3 AM when Liam broke my heart.
That’s the thing about Troy. He’s been protecting me for so long, neither of us knows how to stop. Ever since Dad left, Troy stepped up to fill those empty spaces. But I’m not that little girl anymore, wearing his old hockey jerseys like dresses and following him around campus.
“Look, I’m leaving for camp tomorrow, so I won’t be around to check in. Just... be smart this summer, okay?”
I shrink into the couch cushions. He’ll be too busy teaching seven-year-olds how to kayak at Camp Pinehaven anyway. He needs to relax.
“Nothing’s going to happen to me. I’ll be fine, it’ll be fun even. And great money.” But even as I say it, I think about Friday night. Things can spiral out of control quickly. About Alfie’s hands on me and all the secrets I’m already keeping. “I’m not a kid anymore, Troy. I can handle myself.”
My phone buzzes against my ear—another incoming message. I pull it away to check, expecting Alex, but my stomach drops to somewhere around my ankles. It’s an email from campus security.
“Regarding Incident at Geology Department - Urgent Meeting Required.”
“No, no, no.” I scramble upright, nearly knocking over my wine. “This isn’t happening.”
“Tara? What’s wrong?”
“I’ve got to go,” I manage, my voice tight. “Everything’s fine. I gotta go. Talk later?”
“Wait, what’s—”
I end the call before he can finish, my hands shaking as I stare at the email.
Images from Friday night flash through my mind.
Ethan’s lethally strong punch, Alex’s poster, the geology department’s display cases, and.
.. Alfie. My brother’s best friend. Emotionally unavailable, devastatingly handsome, and so not the kind of guy I should be crushing on.
Alfie Spencer with his hands in my hair and his mouth on mine and—
“Nope,” I say out loud, like that’ll make the email disappear.
I need to find Alfie. Now. He’s the only other person CC-ed into this email.
I’m halfway to the door before I realize I’m still in my pajamas—Alex’s old UMS sweatshirt and sleep shorts with tiny dinosaurs on them. Not exactly crisis-management attire. But there’s no time to change, not when campus security has probably already seen...
Oh god. They must have security cameras.
I grab my keys and run.