Chapter 2
DELILAH
Ikick my apartment door shut with my foot, juggling my laptop, my coffee, and a bag of groceries as I shuffle inside.
Technically, this place is an apartment.
Realistically, it’s a glorified storage closet above a store that sells overpriced crystals and organic incense. My landlord calls it “a charming artist’s loft”—which is apparently code for one window, terrible heating, and a kitchen the size of a shoebox.
But it’s mine.
I drop everything onto my tiny two-seater table and peel off my jacket, sighing when the heat from the radiators doesn’t kick in.
Of course.
At this point, I should just accept that my apartment is a glorified walk-in freezer from October to April.
I grab my laptop and settle onto the couch which, if I’m being honest, is also my bed half the time, as I like to fall asleep to movies. I check my email to see if the list has come through of participants.
Most of them are spam, marketing emails, or passive-aggressive reminders from my landlord about “keeping the hallway clear of unwanted items and human vomit.”
My nose wrinkles. Gross.
I grab my phone and text Lacey. Seeing her this morning made me realize how much I miss her.
I haven’t seen her much since camp ended over the summer—between shifts at the bookshop and pre-term prep, I’ve been MIA.
Also admittedly, I’m just not the best at reaching out.
But Lacey was there the night I hit “submit” on my application.
We opened a bottle of wine and danced around her apartment like idiots.
The meeting was good…we’re refurbishing the toilet block lol
Lacey
Ew? The old one?
ANYWAY. I’M CALLING YOU. I want to make plans. Answer please!!!
I sigh and answer while still scrolling my emails. “You are unhinged.”
“Well, well, well,” Lacey drawls, ignoring me. “Miss ‘I’ll Probably Get Rejected’ is now Miss Future Innovator. That toilet block doesn’t know what’s coming!”
“Shut up,” I mutter, but I’m grinning so hard my cheeks hurt.
“So how was the meeting?”
I exhale, slow and long. Press my fingers to my eyelids.
“It was ok, but....”
I start scanning the list, nobody’s name jumps out at me. I don’t know what I was expecting, but I have no idea who I can pair with.
My smile evaporates. “No.”
“Uh… yes?” Lacey says on the other end. “That’s literally the thing. You got in.”
“It’s a partnered competition.” Flat. Dead.
“Oh. Shit.”
Exactly.
“I thought it was solo. It’s always been solo. But now I have to find a partner — someone outside my field — and I know basically no one at this university besides you guys.”
“Well, hold on,” Lacey says quickly. “Do you want me to ask around? Maybe I know someone who—”
“Do you know anyone who got in?”
A pause.
“Actually... no. Most of the people I know are coasting through UMS and wouldn’t apply for anything extra unless there was free weed or alcohol involved.”
“Awesome.”
“Still. You got in,” she says gently. “Even if it’s not what you imagined — I’m proud of you.”
I shift uncomfortably on the couch. Compliments are a weird texture in my mouth — like food I’m allergic to.
It’s nice hearing Lacey be proud, though.
We were forced roommates freshman year—thrown together by the dorm gods—but ended up inseparable.
She wanted to move into a place near frat row with some girls she’d met, but it was eye-wateringly expensive, and I didn’t know Chloe or Brianna.
So I got this apartment. Further from campus so I have to bike in everyday but it’s on my own.
In the past two years, we’ve drifted. She’s become more like them. I’ve become more… alone.
I’ve tried, God, I’ve tried to be like them—but I’m not.
Chloe and Brianna are loud. They love frat parties and crowds and chaos.
I miss Lacey the way she was in the dorms. Watching movies at 2 a.m. Talking and laughing until we passed out.
“I know,” I say. “It just... makes things more complicated. I need to make some friends.”
“Only a little,” she says. “You’ll figure it out.”
“Hold on one sec, Lace. I’m gonna check the list again.”
“‘Kay.”
I click open the participant list and start scrolling. Lacey hums softly on the line — probably filing her nails or cyberstalking Carter’s exes.
The competition’s about sustainable innovation, which means I need someone who can handle execution like materials, systems, tech. Maybe someone in mechanical or environmental engineering.
Someone who can build the stuff I can see in my head.
My eyes skim the list.
Riley Sanders.
Ugh.
“You remember Riley Sanders?” I ask Lacey.
“Uh, that nerdy guy from our floor? Yeah. Didn’t you, like, date him?”
Unfortunately, yes.
Freshman year. Loud, enthusiastic, always vaguely damp. The kind of guy who could monologue for twenty minutes straight without breathing—and never once ask you a question. Probably still a Dungeon Master with a superiority complex about it.
We went on one date. One. Single. Catastrophic. Night.
He corrected my drink order, talked exclusively about himself for a full hour, then ended the date by kissing my cheek and attempting to stick his hand up my shirt. I nearly broke his wrist. He cried. We have not spoken since.
But he’s in computer science. And while he’s not my ideal pick—I’d rather work with someone in mechanical or systems engineering—my list of options is... nonexistent.
So.
“I think I’m going to have to try networking with him,” I mutter, already feeling my dignity shrivel.
Lacey cackles. “This is gonna be good. I’m putting you on speaker. I’ll do my nails while you suffer.”
I sigh and open a new email, staring at the blinking cursor.
How do you write an email to someone you lowkey want to strangle but highkey need for your academic future?
I start typing anyway.
Hi Riley!
Hope you're doing well. Delilah Greer here—I think we were in a few general courses together freshman year.
I saw your name on the Future Innovators acceptance list and wanted to reach out! I’m really excited about this competition and am looking for a partner with technical skills to complement my background in architecture. Given your work in computing, I thought we might make a great team.
Would love to discuss if you’re still looking for a partner. Let me know what you think!
Best,
Delilah
I stare at the email. This is so fake. I am not this person. I do not “Hope you’re doing well.” I would not “love to discuss.”
But desperate times, desperate measures. I click send before I can talk myself out of it. Then I shut my laptop and throw my head back against the couch.
“Jesus Christ.”
Lacey laughs. “That bad?”
“I don’t know how people do this. Is this what it’s going to be like in the job market?”
“Proud of you, babe.”
“Don’t be. I think I just took years off my life pretending to be a functioning human.”
“You do have to participate in society, Delilah.”
“Ugh. Don’t remind me.”
“Come over tomorrow.”
I frown. “Why?”
“Because I haven’t seen your ass in like, a month, and I’m officially demanding friend time. Plus, it’ll be fun, like old times,”
I hesitate. Lacey is way more social than me. She doesn’t need to make plans in advance because she thrives in chaos. I, on the other hand, need a minimum of three business days’ notice to mentally prepare for human interaction.
“Please?” she uses her sad voice.
“Alright, fine…”
“Yay! I promise you’re going to have fun.” She laughs.
“You’re being suspicious,” I say slowly. “What’s the catch?”
“No catch! Just come over tomorrow night. We’ll do something fun.”
My eyes narrow.
“Define fun.”
Lacey hums innocently. “Getting ready together. Drinking something strong. Wearing outfits that scream, ‘we are bad bitches who don’t care about men but look hot, anyway.’”
My stomach drops.
“And then,” she continues sweetly, “we’ll simply happen to go to a party hosted by my wonderful new boyfriend, who worked very hard to throw a big, fun night for his friends—and you haven’t even met him yet, and I really want you to.”
I close my eyes. Breathe.
“You tricked me.”
“Nope. Tricking implies deception. I merely... curated the information.”
“Lacey.”
“Delilah.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose. “I am glad that Carter finally contacted you, but he’s in Alpha Si.”
“Correct.”
“A frat, Lacey.”
“Also correct. Wow, I can see why you’re in the super smart competition now.”
“I hate frats.”
“I am well aware, babe.”
I let my head thunk back against the couch again. Jesus Christ.
“Look,” she says gently. “I promise it’ll be fun. You need to get out more. I can’t remember the last time you came to a party with me.”
“I go out.”
“To CC’s Coffee and, occasionally, Moe’s bar,” she says. “Babe, those don’t count.”
I sigh and go to justify myself, but she butts in. “And camp over summer doesn’t count,” Lacey says.
Right. Camp Pinehaven, where I spent my summer as a counselor.
The air conditioning failed during the worst heatwave in Colorado history — 5 PM.
on a Friday, obviously. Engineers couldn’t get there until Monday, and people acted like that meant the end of civilization.
There were threats of calling parents. Tears.
Someone tried to bribe the kitchen staff with weed to break into the supply closet and find fans.
Meanwhile, I decided to go elbow-deep in a 1970s HVAC system, sweat dripping down my spine, trying to keep us all from boiling to death in our sleep.
Three hours.
Just me, some barely-working tools, and a YouTube tutorial in 480p.
By the time I finally got the system back online, I was drenched, dusty, and one minor electric shock away from becoming a campfire ghost story. I would've haunted all their asses.
I walked out of the mechanical room, expecting... I don’t know. A thank you? A high-five?
At the very least, not what I got.
Which was a group of campers cheering — for Troy freaking Hawkins.
Because he’d walked in to grab a granola bar right as I was finishing up. I asked him to switch on the vents to test it out and it worked. So, he poked his head outside to everyone else, smiled, and said something like, “We’re all good in here.”
And then just... basked in the applause.
I was still holding the damn screwdriver.
I confronted him later — politely. Calmly. Okay, not that calmly. I asked why he let them think that he fixed it.
He laughed.
“It’s just an AC unit, Greer. Not a big deal. Lighten up, Mittens.”
Mittens.
Because I’d worn the only gloves I could find to avoid electrocuting myself — these massive, ridiculous ski gloves — while crawling around in a baking hot mechanical room trying to keep the camp from turning into a heatstroke risk.
And that moment? That was it.
That was the moment I learned what I’d always suspected. Being right, being prepared, being the one who does the actual work — it means jack shit if someone more charming is standing nearby.
Troy hadn’t stolen the credit on purpose. He didn’t have to. People like him don’t need to.
They just show up, smile, and the world rearranges itself to make room.
Lacey shakes me out of my rage.
“Come on, Del, let’s get you out there again! And I know you had to Google how to network today, which means you are desperately in need of some socializing practice. It’ll be good for your future. Your future, Del!”
“I guess you’re right. It could be fun.” I try so hard to sound enthusiastic.
She’s not wrong, which is deeply upsetting. It could be good for me to practice, plus I might see someone from the list there. Not hugely likely. I wonder what’s in the middle of the Venn diagram of people at an Alpha Si party and people accepted onto the innovators program.
“Besides,” she presses, smelling weakness, “this is a chill party. Not a rager. Carter said it’s mostly seniors, so it won’t be full of first-year idiots taking their first-ever shot of Fireball and throwing up in the backyard.”
I groan dramatically. “I don’t know, Lace…I am not wearing a tiny dress and standing around pretending to have fun.”
“Oh, you’ll wear a tiny dress. We both will. And you’ll have fun, because I’m not letting you stay home and stare at your inbox all weekend. Oh, and Brianna and Chloe are coming, too.”
Of course they are.
Brianna and Chloe are Lacey’s roommates. Technically, they’re my friends too, since the four of us have been hanging out for the last three years, but…
I don’t trust Brianna. She’s the kind of girl who always seems like she knows something you don’t. Not necessarily malicious, but always watching, always calculating. I’ve never once heard her say something that wasn’t vaguely sarcastic or deliberately mysterious.
And Chloe… I still haven’t figured her out.
Which is saying something, considering we’ve been in the same circle since freshman year.
She’s nice. Quiet. But now and then she’ll say something that makes me think she’s way smarter than she lets on.
And that sorta unsettles me.
“Delilah?” Lacey prods.
“Yeah. I just…” I run a hand through my hair. “I didn’t realize it was a whole group thing.”
“We all miss you. They wanna go, and I figured it’d be fun to all get ready together.”
“Mmm.”
“Don’t ‘mmm’ me, bitch, you’re coming.”
I sigh. I am so bad at saying no to her.
And maybe part of me wants to go. I just… don’t want to spend the whole night trying not to feel weird around girls I’m not sure actually like me. It’s not that I’m being a bitch, I just get anxious, and when I’m anxious, I get sharp. And sharp makes people uncomfortable.
“Fine.”
Lacey gasps dramatically. “Oh my god you’re actually coming. I could cry.”
“Please don’t.”
“Too late.”
I roll my eyes, but my lips twitch up despite myself.
“What time do you want me over?”
“Seven. We’ll pregame. And babe? Prepare yourself, because I’m picking your outfit. No questions, ‘kay?”
I hang up before she can say anything else.
This is a probably a mistake.
But at least it’s a mistake with tequila.