Chapter 3
TROY
I give them a wink.
Last first day at UMS. Hell yeah.
Next year I’ll be working in the industry, maybe out west. I’ve always liked the sunshine. And the beach. And not having fucking midterms.
“Troy!” Jared calls across the room, leaning back in his chair like he’s holding court.
“You’ve been gone all summer, man! Where’ve you been?”
“Changing lives,” I say, grinning. “Camp counselor again. Teaching kayaking. Shaping the minds of future world leaders. Probably inspired the next President of the United States, not to brag.”
He rolls his eyes, but laughs anyway. “Classic.”
“What about you?”
He shrugs. “Interning at my dad’s place. Total nightmare. He’s on my ass about grades. Says the board won’t green-light me for a full-time position after graduation unless I ‘prove myself academically.’” He air-quotes it, looking deeply offended by the concept of effort.
I wince. Jared’s dad is a big deal at one of the top oil firms in the country. He’s been bragging since freshman year that the job was locked in, six figures, full benefits, company car. The works.
“Yeah, that sucks,” he mutters. “He said I had to get a degree. Never said I had to be a genius about it.”
“What’s your GPA?”
He winces. “2.1.”
I whistle low. “Damn, man. Your old man might have a point.”
I bite back the urge to offer to help him study. That's my default—fix it, smooth it over, make sure everyone's okay. But I’m trying to learn to wait for people to ask. Sometimes I wonder who'd look after me if I stopped looking after everyone else.
Jared groans, slumping back in his chair like I just kicked his dog. “God, don’t you start. Am I really gonna have you breathing down my neck now?”
I slap him on the back just as the professor walks in and the room quiets.
“Only because I love you,” I whisper with a wink. The professor starts writing equations on the whiteboard, but I barely register them.
The professor starts outlining the semester, and Jared leans over, his voice low. “By the way, guess what my dad pulled off? Got me into that Future Innovators competition thing.”
I freeze mid-note. “The FIDIC? Seriously?”
“Yeah, man. The grant competition,” he says with a dismissive wave.
“Dad's buddies with someone on the school board.
Says it'll look good on my resume, plus there's a ten grand prize.” He gives me a smug smile.
“Told me not to worry about the application—he 'handled it.
' It was a whole thing, like some three-page essay they wanted.”
I stare at him, trying to keep my expression neutral. Yeah I fuckin’ know it was. My FIDIC application had taken weeks to get right, a detailed personal statement explaining my environmental engineering philosophy. I'd stayed up three nights straight finalizing it.
“Congrats,” I manage, tapping my pen against my notebook. “That's a pretty selective program.”
“Whatever. It's all politics anyway. Who you know, not what you know.” He stretches, looking bored already. “The old man's hoping it'll bump my GPA, but I'm just in it for the cash.”
I think about the meeting I skipped this morning—the one I'd ducked out of early after seeing the email that all the information would be sent to participants. Coffee with Freddie had seemed like a better use of time than sitting through a lecture hall spiel.
Now I'm wondering what I missed.
“When's the first real meeting?” I ask casually.
“How the hell should I know? I'll show up when they threaten to kick me out.” Jared laughs.
Ok, at least he didn’t go either. If Jared wins this over me I’m gonna be pissed. Really pissed.
The professor calls for attention, and Jared turns forward, already pulling out his phone to text under the desk.
I sit back, a knot of irritation forming in my stomach. If Jared's in, this competition just got more interesting.
I make a mental note to check my email as soon as class ends.
I’m already miles away from the lecture.
Not that I don’t get fluid dynamics—I do.
Engineering’s always come naturally to me.
I actually already know most of what he’s talking about from reading ahead.
Equations, data, problem-solving—I like that kind of stuff.
But after a summer spent outdoors at camp, this fluorescent lighting and recycled air is a harsh awakening. I don’t learn best in these conditions.
My brain drifts, as it does, toward more important things.
Like the fact that it’s the first week back, which means two things:
One—we’re definitely partying this weekend.
Two—I need to figure out the new group dynamics before then.
Alfie and Tara are a thing now. Yeah. That took a minute to process.
My best friend. My little sister. Together.
When I first found out, I didn’t exactly respond with grace and maturity. There might’ve been yelling. Possibly a threat or two. I think I told Alfie I’d neuter him with a butter knife.
Was it an overreaction? Probably.
Do I regret it? Also, probably.
The truth is, Tara’s not just my sister.
She’s... Tara. I was nine years old when everything went sideways.
She was eight and suddenly I’m the one packing her lunch and checking her homework and lying through my teeth that everything was fine.
That Mom just needed rest. That Dad would call next week and was just at work conferences.
So yeah. I kind of appointed myself her guardian for life.
And then Alfie, one of my best friends but one of the most guarded guys I know, brilliant, deeply allergic to expressing emotion—goes and falls for her. Out of nowhere.
At first, I hated it. Not because he’s not good enough. He is. Probably better than most. But because it meant someone else was looking out for her now. Someone I didn’t control.
And here’s the thing.
I’ve seen how he looks at her.
Like she’s gravity. Like the whole damn world revolves around her and he’s just lucky to orbit nearby.
And she? She doesn’t let him get away with anything. It’s beautiful. Terrifying. Weirdly inspiring.
They work.
And Alfie’s never been happier. Or, like, lighter. Still his usual cryptic self, but with less existential gloom and more… I don’t know. Whipped joy?
I’d die before saying this out loud, but I think she’s good for him. And more importantly, I think he’s good for her.
So yeah. I backed off.
But that doesn’t mean I’m not watching. I’ve always watched. That’s just what I do.
Especially with all the partying we’ll be doing this week. It’s our final year, so we are going hard.
It’s the first real test of the New Group Era. My two other roommates, Ethan and Freddie, are off the market as well.
Ethan’s in a “fling” with Paige and pretending he hasn’t already named their future children.
Freddie is with his girlfriend, and Tara’s best friend, Alex.
They are disgustingly synced, as always.
Sharing playlists and finishing each other’s sentences like they’re auditioning for a joint TED Talk.
But I love her like a sister myself now.
And Tara and Alfie are still in their honeymoon phase—gross and weird and alarmingly functional.
And me?
Well… I’m single, charming, and fully prepared to make the most of my last year surrounded by hot, interesting, questionably chaotic women.
It’s a public service, really.
I grin to myself, tapping my pen against the desk as I half-heartedly scribble some notes. Mostly, I’m planning my outfit, my drink of choice, and which party game I’ll spring on everyone once things start to feel too couple-y.
It’s gonna be a good night.
As I stretch, my phone buzzes. I check it under view of the professor.
A text from Mom asking if I can call “them today”.
I ignore it. I’ve spoken to her plenty, but like hell I’m speaking to him.
I've been ignoring his calls all week. Ten years old, holding Tara while she cried because Dad couldn’t make her birthday, making up stories about business trips while Mom locked herself in the bathroom.
Yeah, I’m still not ready to speak to the man who taught me how to lie before I learned algebra.
The professor’s still mid-sentence—something about turbulence equations and boundary conditions—when I glance over and catch Jared passed out, mouth hanging open like a catfish at feeding time.
I nudge him with my pen.
He startles upright, blinking at the board like he's just been asked to solve climate change.
I chuckle under my breath and go back to my notebook.
The numbers blur.
My brain’s already somewhere else. Imagining how fucking great it’s going to be between some lucky lady’s thighs tonight.
After that first lecture of the day, I swing by the UMS campus store. They’ve somehow nailed their merch, so it’s so fucking comfortable, everyone wears this shit around campus.
It’s freezing, and I’ve seriously misjudged the weather. My old hoodie’s thin as paper, and after a summer spent outdoors, I’ve dropped a bit of bulk and leaned up.
But hey—tradeoff?
I’m tan as hell and look fucking great. Pale hair, light eyes, golden skin. Honestly, I could walk into class wearing a trash bag and still turn heads.
The girl behind the counter looks half-asleep, scrolling her phone like it’s the only thing keeping her alive. Doesn’t even glance up.
I lean on the counter, lowering my voice just enough to get her attention.
“Hey. You free to help me out for a sec?”
She startles, looks up—and yeah, there it is.
The once-over from beneath her lashes, she tilts her chin.
I flash that smile. The one that makes professors give extensions and bartenders pour heavy.
The one I perfected at thirteen when Mom needed cheering up and Dad was God-knows-where.
“Works every time,” Tara always says, not realizing it's less charm and more a well-practiced survival skill.
Still got it.
“Sure,” she says, perking up. “What d’ya need?”
She’s cute. Blonde, petite, pretty mouth. Very much my type.
“I’m picking between two hoodies,” I say, holding them up. “Burgundy or navy. Be honest, which one will suit me better?”
She hums, bites her lip, glances around at the empty store.
“I can’t tell,” she says, her voice husky. “Why don’t you try them on for me?”
Now we're getting somewhere. I raise a brow. I like it.
I tug on the burgundy first, take a slow stroll up and down the shop, doing a goofy catwalk impression before spinning back around.
She giggles.
“So?” I ask, posing.
She taps her chin, thoughtfully.
“I’m gonna need to see the other one. Just to be sure.”
I nod, check the time—plenty before my next class. And if this keeps going, maybe she’ll lock up early and I’ll get a private tour of the back room.
I tug the burgundy off, yank on the navy and immediately get stuck.
“Fuck,” I mutter, the hood twisted around my neck like a boa constrictor. I try to shake myself free, feel my shirt ride up, and silently hope my abs are making up for the fact that I am actively losing a fight with cotton.
“You good?” she calls.
“I’m fine!” I reply. Cool. Casual. Totally not sweating under a sweatshirt straightjacket. I struggle for another 30 seconds. God, this is embarrassing.
Then a new voice cuts through the moment.
Smug. Familiar.
And deeply fucking annoying.
“Well, I shouldn’t be surprised.”
“Fine! Just a moment!”
My stomach drops. I go rigid mid-struggle.
No. No fucking way.
My mind drifts back to summer at camp. Delilah Greer. Smart as hell, but with a chip on her shoulder the size of the freakin’ Rockies. She seems to have it out for me for no reason and every time I try to win her over, it just seems to make her dislike me even more.
Short brown bob. Black boots. Bitchy energy radiating off her like a goddamn space heater.
Fucking. Delilah.
I plaster on a grin. “Just making a new friend,” I say, nodding toward—wait.
Where’d she go? I turn. The girl is gone. Of course.
Delilah raises a brow.
“Oh, did your imaginary friend run off?”
I sigh dramatically, then smile. “Oh! No, no. She probably just got scared off by your”—I gesture vaguely in her direction—“loving and welcoming aura.”
Delilah bares her teeth. I ignore it.
“Mittens, help me out,” I say, holding up both hoodies. “Which color? Burgundy or navy? I know it’s hard to choose between ‘insanely hot’ and ‘devastatingly hot,’ but do your best.”
She doesn’t move or, I swear, even blink. Just stares at me.
I start flipping the hoodies back and forth.
“Navy. Burgundy. Navy. Burgundy?”
“Stop. I don’t have time for this.” Her voice is flat and bored. “They both look terrible.”
I scoff. “That’s a lie, and we both know it.”
I step in front of her path, just to watch her glare at me again.
“Burgundy or navy. Pick one, and I swear I’ll leave you alone forever.” I hold a hand over my heart.
“You said that at the end of summer,” she says, “And yet, here we are.”
Before I can fire back, I spot a flash of blonde hair.
“There she is!” I grin, gesturing as my mystery girl re-emerges from the back.
“Delilah, meet my new friend—” I pause, letting her fill in the blank.
“Jill,” she adds.
“Jill! Perfect. So, which one?”
Jill gives me another once-over, her eyes lingering a beat too long. She touches my arm.
“Definitely navy.”
From the corner of my eye, I see Delilah twitch.
“Do you agree, Mittens?” I ask, shooting her a grin.
She doesn’t look at me. “I just want to buy my pens and leave.”
I click my tongue, shaking my head. “Always in a rush, this one.”
Jill nods sympathetically. Did she just push her chest out a little? Did she—
Wait. Did she just go to the back to change? I swear she didn’t have that impressive rack on show a few moments ago.
I smirk, tossing the navy hoodie onto the counter. “I trust your judgment, Jill.” I wink at her and she blushes.
As she rings it up, I glance at Delilah behind me, seeing what she’s buying.
“Forgetting pens on the first day? Not very top of the class behavior, Greer. I might have to report you to the principal.”
Delilah’s eye twitches.
“Shut up.”
Jill hands me the bag with a smile. “Do you want to wear it now?”
I fake a shiver. “Oh yes, darling. Since Delilah walked in, I’ve been feeling a chill in the air.”
Delilah mutters something under her breath.
Pretty sure it was a death threat.
I shoulder the bag and flash Jill a grin.
“Oh, and Jill? DM me on Insta—@TroybRO. That’s b then capital R-O. Big party tonight. You have to come.”
She blushes, already opening her phone.
Behind me, Delilah makes a noise of pure disgust.
I glance back as I head for the door.
She’s avoiding looking at me.
“Let’s catch up soon, Greer!” I call out, she looks up for a split second and I wink at her before she looks away.
God, she’s so fucking fun to piss off.