CHAPTER 1
DELILAH
The problem with having a best friend like Lacey Williams is that she makes “blending into the background” physically impossible. I'm currently speed-walking across campus, coffee in hand, hoodie pulled low, successfully avoiding eye contact with every human being until Lacey spots me.
“Delilah Greer! Don't you dare pretend you don't see me!” Her voice carries across the quad, turning heads.
I suppress a smile, not breaking stride as she jogs to catch up with me. Yes, I saw her coming. Yes, I could have waited. But our friendship works best when I pretend to be annoyed by her excessive enthusiasm while secretly appreciating it.
“I was wondering if you'd emerge from the library today, you know most people relax the first week of term,” she says, falling into step beside me.
Her blonde hair catches the sunlight, and she's somehow making UMS sweats look like designer loungewear.
“I brought sustenance for you. Well, I actually have had it in my backpack for a week but I figure you could use it.”
She produces a protein bar from her tiny backpack and holds it out. I accept it without protest, suddenly aware I haven't eaten since yesterday.
“Thanks,” I say quietly, tucking it into my pocket for later. “I was just grabbing this coffee before my meeting.”
“What meeting?” Lacey asks, linking her arm with mine. I don't pull away. For Lacey, physical contact is like breathing, automatic and necessary. I've learned to accommodate it because I love her.
“Nothing important,” I lie, even as my stomach tightens. “Just a thing in the Engineering Building.”
Lacey stops walking, forcing me to halt or drag her forward. “Wait. The Engineering Building?” Her eyes narrow, then widen dramatically. “Delilah Greer, is this the Future Innovators meeting? Did you get in?”
I bite my lip. “Maybe.”
“Oh my god!” She squeals so loudly that a flock of birds takes flight from a nearby tree. “Why didn't you tell me? This is huge!”
I shrug, uncomfortable with her excitement but also warmed by it. “I didn't want to make a big deal out of it until after the informational meeting. It's just acceptance. I haven’t won yet.”
“Just preliminary—” She cuts herself off, shaking her head. “Del, you've been talking about this competition since sophomore year. You have sketches of potential submissions taped above your bed. We turned down an Alpha Si party last year to complete your submission.”
“That wasn't a sacrifice. Alpha Si parties are the seventh circle of hell.”
“Not the point.” She grabs both my shoulders, her expression serious despite her smile. “This is your thing. The thing that could change everything for you.”
Something in my chest tightens. Lacey doesn't know the full extent of my financial situation, I've been careful about that, but she knows enough. She knows I work as much as I can and that I apply for every available grant.
Unlike some students, I'm not technically broke—yet.
But growing up with a mom whose relationship with money was as unpredictable as her moods left me with a constant, gnawing anxiety about financial security.
I have savings, carefully accumulated through years of part-time jobs and disciplined budgeting, but watching that number slowly decrease each semester sends me into a cold panic.
One emergency, one unexpected expense, and my carefully constructed safety net could vanish.
“It's a big deal,” I admit softly. “Ten thousand dollars to the winner, plus industry connections. Real ones, not the 'my dad's golf buddy might look at your portfolio' kind.”
That money wouldn't just mean breathing room for tuition and rent.
It would mean freedom from the constant mental calculations, the what-ifs that keep me up at night.
It would mean not having to choose between new drafting supplies and groceries.
Most importantly, it would mean not becoming my mother—always one unexpected bill away from disaster, always depending on someone else to bail her out.
Lacey's eyes soften. “Why didn't you tell me you got in?”
I take a deep breath and turn to look at her. “Because I'm terrified, Lace. What if I mess up the application? What if my design isn't good enough? If this doesn’t work, then what? I don’t have a plan B.”
“Okay, now you're just being ridiculous.” Lacey gives me a gentle shake. “You're the most talented, hardworking person I know. If anyone deserves this, it's you.”
I swallow hard. “Thanks, Lace.”
“Plus,” she adds with a grin, “you're way scarier than the other applicants. They'll probably withdraw out of fear.”
I roll my eyes, but I'm smiling now. “My resting murder face does have its advantages.”
“It's gotten us out of three bad double dates and a weird timeshare presentation.” Her phone buzzes, and her entire demeanor shifts as she checks it. Her smile falls. “Still nothing from Carter.”
I check my watch. The meeting starts in fifteen minutes, but Lacey's sad expression tugs at me. “Carter problems?”
I suppress a sigh. Carter. Lacey's latest in a concerning pattern of guys who are “different” until they're exactly the same as all the others.
“I stayed over last night, and he was all sweet and perfect, making dinner and everything,” she continues, her voice smaller now. “But it's been three hours since I left, and nothing.” She bites her lip. “You don't think he's ghosting me, do you?”
“Of course not. He’s probably not even checked his phone yet.” I squeeze her hand.
“Maybe I should text him again?” she asks, already typing.
I gently lower her phone. “Give it until this afternoon. Trust me, nothing says 'desperate' like double-texting a guy who's probably just in class.”
“Says the girl whose last relationship lasted what, three weeks?”
“Four,” I correct her, “and it was a mutual decision to end things. And it was never a relationship anyway.”
Lacey gives me a knowing look. “You mean you got scared the second he left a toothbrush at your place.”
“It wasn't a toothbrush. It was a complete overnight bag. With slippers, Lace. The man brought monogrammed slippers to my apartment after two dates.”
She laughs. “That’s sort of cute! He wanted to be cozy. Besides, this isn’t about slippers is it. Not everyone who wants to stick around is trying to suffocate you, Del.”
I shift uncomfortably.
The monogrammed slippers weren't just slippers—they were a claim.
A way of saying “I'm planning to be here.” My tiny apartment is mine—the only space I've ever had that's truly mine, where no one can disappear or change the rules overnight.
Every personal item someone leaves feels like they're taking away a piece of that control, like they're promising something I don't believe they'll keep.
When you grow up never knowing if your mom will come home tonight, or if her new boyfriend will suddenly decide the rules of the house have changed, you learn that permanence is just an illusion people use to later hurt you.
The moment you start depending on someone being there is exactly when they vanish, leaving nothing but empty drawers and broken promises.
That's why I never leave so much as a hair tie at a guy's place. Why my bathroom cabinet has no space for anyone else's toothbrush. Why I never stay for breakfast. It's not cold—it's self-preservation. The only person I can absolutely count on is me, so I don't create openings for disappointment.
“This isn't about me. We're discussing your Carter situation.” I deflect.
“I really like him,” she says softly. “And not in my usual way. He's... different.”
“You always say that.”
“I mean it this time.” Her eyes have that dreamy quality I've seen too many times before. “He talks about the future. About us. He made me a playlist with songs that remind him of me.”
For a brief moment, I feel a twinge of something—not quite envy, but a flicker of curiosity about what it would be like to be that open. To want someone to stay so badly that the possibility of them leaving doesn't immediately send you building escape routes.
“I just want to find someone who looks at me the way you look at your building blueprints,” Lacey continues, unaware of my internal monologue. “Is that too much to ask?”
I nudge her gently. “If he's smart, he'll text you by the end of the day. And if he doesn't, I'll help you egg his apartment. Or I could accidentally run into him at the library and demonstrate that architecture students know exactly where to hide a body in a building.”
She laughs. “Your solutions to relationship problems are always property damage or bodily harm.”
“They're effective solutions.”
“You know, someday you're going to ask me what to do with boy problems.” She pokes my arm. “And I can't wait to be there for you.'“
“Don't hold your breath,” I mutter. Sometimes, in moments I'd never admit to anyone, I wonder what it would be like to see the world through Lacey's eyes.
“And that's why you're my best friend.” She hugs me quickly. “You're like a grumpy guardian angel who threatens bodily harm to anyone who hurts me.”
“Someone has to,” I say, patting her back awkwardly.
“See? Terrifying on the outside, marshmallow on the inside.”
“Slander. I’m terrifying and cool.”
“My marshmallow.” She grins, and I growl at her. Then she glances toward the Engineering Building. “Now go crush this meeting. I want every detail when you're done.”
“Don't you have class at two?”
“Yes, and I will be skipping it to hear about your future glory.” She sees my expression and sighs. “Fine, I won't skip. But you're coming over tonight, and we're celebrating. I'll even order from that weird vegan place you like.”
I continue toward the Engineering Building, my steps lighter than before. For someone who carefully guards her independence, it's unexpectedly reassuring to have someone who believes in me more than I believe in myself.
Five minutes later, I'm sitting in a lecture hall surrounded by the smartest people on campus, and all I can think is…I hope I don't throw up on someone's MacBook.
All around me, people are murmuring to each other. I, on the other hand, am pretending to look very interested in the grain pattern on the table.
Most of them are in smart outfits. There’s always a chance to network with the faculty after these and people are obviously taking their final year way more seriously. Someone has a tablet stylus clipped to their shirt collar like they're starring in a tech start-up documentary.
Meanwhile, I'm in black jeans and trying not to sweat through my black T-shirt. I'd spent fifteen minutes debating if it was the right look or not. Social gatherings of ambitious overachievers aren't exactly my natural habitat.
“Oh my god, is that Troy Hawkins?” a girl whispers from the row behind me, her voice dripping with disdain.
I glance up, spotting him instantly—slouched two rows ahead with the casual confidence of someone who never doubts they belong somewhere. He's scrolling through his phone, occasionally smirking at something on the screen.
“What's he doing here?” her friend replies with a scoff. “This is for Future Innovators, not Future Beer Pong Champions.”
The first girl snickers. “Exactly. I had him in Engineering 3.0 last semester. He just charmed his way through group projects while everyone else did the work.”
“Classic frat-type. All swagger, zero substance. But he is pretty to look at.”
“I heard he got Professor Wilson to change his grade after flirting with his TA.”
“I believe it. Look at him—I’d give him an A if he smiled at me enough.”
I find myself bristling slightly at their dismissive tone. I've seen Troy in action all summer at Camp Pinehaven, and while he's insufferably arrogant, he's not stupid.
But then I remember what he did to me and my momentary impulse to defend him evaporates. The girls behind me are probably right. He's here because he thinks his smile can get him through anything.
As if sensing the attention, Troy glances back, his eyes sweeping the room before landing briefly on me. Recognition flickers across his face—a slight widening of those irritatingly blue eyes—before he offers a small smirk.
I glare back…