Chapter 13 #2
For the record, from my memory, he really wasn’t that impressive. But also, there’s something deeply unsettling about comparing notes on penis size with Brianna. Girl code feels like it’s been set on fire.
“Anyway,” Brianna says with a sigh, “I still wish it had been Troy.”
“You guys are acting like he’s some kind of celebrity.”
“Delilah, he is,” Chloe says, deadly serious. “He’s literally UMS royalty. I’ve told you this. He’s notorious for being amazing in bed. Jacklyn from Psych claims he made her come twelve times.”
I stare at her. “That’s physiologically impossible.”
“Not for him,” Chloe deadpans.
“Look, he’s popular. He’s hot. He’s nice—which is almost annoying.” Lacey shrugs. “He’s kind of the full package.”
Brianna hums, looking way too contemplative.
“You know, Delilah…” she says, drumming her fingers against her cup. “Maybe you should sleep with him.”
I immediately choke on my apple.
“I—what?!”
“Oh, come on,” Brianna grins with all her teeth. “You never go for guys like him. It’d be fun.”
“It would be insane,” I correct, dabbing at my shirt with a napkin.
“Troy is, like, the ultimate college experience,” Chloe adds nodding, as if she’s listing off must-do bucket list items. “The girls who’ve hooked up with him literally brag about it.”
“I’m not looking for bragging rights,” I say, voice dry.
But there’s a twitch in my chest, sharp and surprising.
Because he walks around like he’s untouchable—cocky smile, perfect timing, charm turned up to eleven. And for a while, I bought it. Everyone does.
But I’ve seen flashes.
He puts on a good show. So good, I almost didn’t see past it. But I think he cares more than he wants anyone to know.
And for some reason, that makes my heart ache.
Which is exactly why I shove the thought aside.
“No,” Lacey smirks, eyes gleaming. “But you are enjoying this. Him asking about you, just a little.”
I open my mouth to argue and my cheeks flush. Because—okay. Maybe a tiny part of me is enjoying this.
The way they’re all hanging onto my every word like I’m starring in some romcom instead of just getting a ride to class from some stupidly hot obnoxious guy.
I’ve dated before, obviously. But never guys like Troy—guys who look like they belong in cologne ads and get nods of approval from every frat guy on campus.
The effortlessly popular, universally liked guys.
I usually go for somebody just passing through town, people working at the ski resorts who are here for a season with tattoos and a lip piercing.
Who tell me I’m their muse for a week and then disappear. Perfect.
Usually, when I mention a guy, the girls nod politely, say “nice,” and move on.
But now they’re fully invested. Eyes wide. Leaning in. Laughing. Asking questions.
And I don’t know what that says about me, but…
It’s kind of nice to actually feel like one of the girls.
Later that day I'm in the architecture studio which is almost empty at this hour, just how I like it. No distractions, no small talk—just me, my drafting table, and the model I've been slaving over.
I adjust the tiny solar panel on the roof, trying to get the angle perfect, when the door bangs open. I flinch, nearly snapping the delicate piece in half.
“Oh shit, sorry!” A voice calls out. “Didn't know anyone was still here.”
I look up to see a girl with dark curly hair and tortoiseshell glasses, arms laden with what looks like half a craft store.
“It's fine,” I mutter, turning back to my model. Please take the hint. Please go somewhere else.
Instead of picking up on my obvious desire to be left alone, she walks over and sets her supplies on the table next to mine. Great.
“You're Delilah, right? You work at Elliot's Books & Oddities? And you're in Civic Architecture?”
I blink, surprised she knows that much about me. “Yeah.”
“I'm good with faces, I’m Trixie,” she says, flashing a bright smile. “I sit in the back row. Your presentation—the one with the modern museum that reflected historical context? It was seriously impressive.”
“Thanks,” I say, unsure what else to add. I don't remember seeing her before, but then again, I rarely look up from my notes during class. I definitely don't pay attention to who's sitting where.
She begins unpacking her materials—cardboard, X-Acto knives, a worn sketchpad, and a thermos that smells like it could power a small city. The clatter of her supplies makes me grip my tweezers tighter.
“I've been meaning to ask,” she continues, oblivious to my discomfort, “how you got that layered contour effect on your renderings. It gave the forms so much dimension—it really stood out.”
I hesitate. Normally, I'd brush it off with a vague answer and get back to work.
I don't share techniques—they're mine, hard-earned through late nights and trial and error.
But her curiosity feels genuine, with none of the competitive edge I'm used to from classmates. Still, there's a pause before I answer.
“Uh... it's something I put together with a few layered masks and adjustments,” I say. “Kind of a custom technique.”
“Could you maybe show me sometime?” she asks, a little too quickly. Then, noticing my pause, she backtracks. “Only if you want to! It's totally okay if not.”
I glance over. She's looking away now, suddenly busying herself with lining up her cutting tools. She's already regretting asking, I can tell.
“No, it's... sure,” I say, surprising myself. “I can show you sometime.”
Her eyes flicker back to me, hopeful but still guarded. “Cool. Only if you're up for it, though. No pressure.”
I just nod, not trusting myself to say more. Why did I agree to that?
And then the door swings open, and a tall guy with glasses rushes in, looking slightly frazzled.
“Trix, did you bring the 1:50 scale materials? I forgot mine and—” he stops, noticing me. “Oh, sorry. Didn't mean to interrupt.”
“Jonathan, this is Delilah,” Trixie says. “The one whose museum design I was telling you about.”
Great. They've been talking about me. I shift uncomfortably.
He adjusts his glasses, recognition dawning. “Right! Sounded very cool. I'd love to see it sometime.”
I'm not used to this—people noticing my work, remembering it, praising it without wanting something in return. My guard goes up automatically.
“Thanks,” I say, feeling awkward under their attention. “It's just a concept so far.”
“Sometimes concepts are where the real innovation happens,” Jonathan says, setting down his backpack. “Before reality steps in and ruins everything.” His dry delivery makes it clear he's speaking from experience.
Despite myself, I laugh. “You sound like my professor.”
“Highest compliment,” he says with a small smile. “Anyway, don't let us distract you. We've got our own disaster to finish for the FIDIC competition.” He gestures to Trixie's pile of supplies.
I freeze at the mention of FIDIC. They're competitors? My mind immediately shifts into strategic mode, wondering how much I should say, if anything.
I nod and turn back to my model, but somehow the silence that follows doesn't feel isolating anymore. Just three people working, the occasional murmur of consultation between them, the soft scratching of pencils and cutting of materials.
It's... nice. In a weird way.
After a while, I glance over at their project—a complex topographical model with what looks like a water flow system built in. Professional curiosity gets the better of me.
“That's interesting,” I say before I can stop myself. Then, remembering the competition, I add hastily, “I'm in the competition too, by the way. So if you don't wanna share, that's ok. We're thinking solar or something like that.” I deliberately keep it vague.
Trixie looks up, surprised but pleased. “Thanks. It's a demonstration model for our hydrology idea. Shows how small interventions can create cascading effects throughout a watershed.”
“Jonathan's the math genius,” she adds, nudging him. “I just make it pretty.”
“She's being modest,” Jonathan says. “The visualization was entirely her concept. I just provided the calculations.”
There's an easy rhythm to their back-and-forth, neither trying to claim sole credit. It reminds me of something Troy said about our project, about complementary skills creating something better than either could alone.
Not that I'd ever admit he was right.
“Well, it looks cool. I'm excited to see your final project,” I say, turning back to my own work.
“Thanks,” they say in unison, then laugh at the synchronicity.
I hide my smile, focusing on my model. Maybe not everyone in this program is as cutthroat as I thought.