Chapter 13
ETHAN
Idon’t know how Alex and Tara convinced us their anything-but-clothes party belonged at our place instead of their apartment, but here we are.
Not that I’m complaining—our house has the superior party layout.
Wide hallways for drunk navigation, a kitchen that’s survived four years of questionable decisions, and neighbors who gave up filing noise complaints sophomore year.
I live for a good party. Always have. But this close to graduation, everything hits different. Even the anticipation tastes bittersweet, like the cheap beer we’ll inevitably run out of by midnight.
I’m sprawled across my bed, machine learning textbook open on my chest like a very boring blanket. But I’m not reading. I’m watching late afternoon light paint patterns on the ceiling and trying not to spiral about how many “lasts” are coming at us.
Four years. Four years of Freddie’s post-workout protein shake symphonies, Alfie’s 3 AM documentary revelations, Troy’s shower concerts that would make Spotify weep.
We don’t do the whole feelings thing often, but we have our ways.
Freddie stocks everyone’s favorite snacks without saying why.
Alfie fixes shit before you even know it’s broken.
Troy declares mandatory boys’ nights when the vibe gets too heavy.
This is it—the only time in your life you get to live like this. Everyone figuring their shit out in real time, every bad decision softened by the fact that you’re all fucking up together.
Except now people are figuring their shit out for real.
Alfie’s heading to CalTech for his PhD, which means Tara’s probably already apartment hunting in Pasadena.
Troy and Delilah have their whole power couple thing mapped out, some shared apartment where they’ll build empires between makeout sessions.
Alex landed that sustainability institute spot in California, so Freddie’s LinkedIn is suddenly full of West Coast connections.
And me? I’ve got a half-finished game and this wild hope that someone, somewhere, will think it’s worth more than a passing grade.
The textbook slides off my chest as I sit up. Fuck it. Can’t read about algorithms when your brain’s stuck buffering.
I wander downstairs to find Troy in the kitchen, staring at his laptop like it personally offended him.
“Sup,” I say, grabbing a Red Bull from our concerningly well-stocked energy drink fridge.
“Cover letters are bullshit,” he announces. “How many ways can I say ‘please hire me, I’m desperate but trying to seem confident’?”
“Try ‘I’ll revolutionize your company with my innovative synergy.’” I hop onto the counter. “Buzzwords are like cheat codes for corporate speak.”
“You joke, but I literally just used ‘synergy’ twice in one paragraph.”
“My man’s learning.” I crack open the can. “Where’s everyone?”
“Freddie’s at the gym, obviously. Alfie’s in his room doing that thing where he pretends to nap but is actually having an existential crisis.”
“Classic Thursday behavior.”
Troy closes his laptop with a sigh. “You worried about the party?”
“Nah. Our house has survived worse. Remember Halloween sophomore year?”
“I still find glitter in weird places.” He pauses. “I meant more like... this being one of the last ones.”
The words hang between us. I take a long drink to avoid answering immediately.
“Yeah,” I finally say. “I’m worried about all of it.”
“Same.” Troy leans back. “Delilah keeps making these lists. Five-year plans, ten-year plans. Sometimes, I just want to be like, babe, I don’t even know what I’m having for dinner.”
“You’re having pizza. It’s Thursday.”
“You know what I mean.”
I do. The pressure to have everything figured out, to transform overnight from college kid to Real Adult with Real Plans. Like there’s some switch that flips at graduation.
“At least you have Delilah,” I say. “You two will figure it out together.”
“Yeah.” His face does that soft thing it does when he thinks about her. “Speaking of—Delilah wanted me to mention that Lacey’s been asking about you again.”
I groan. “Not this again.”
“She really likes you, man.”
“I know.” And that’s the problem. Lacey’s sweet—genuinely kind, pretty, laughs at my jokes. We hung out a few times last month, and it was... fine. Nice, even. But there was no spark, no pull. Just two people having pleasant conversation while I counted down until I could politely leave.
“She keeps texting Delilah about when you’ll be free,” Troy continues. “Apparently, you’ve been ‘super busy’ for three weeks straight.”
“I have been busy.”
“With Greg?”
“Greg needs a lot of attention.”
Troy gives me a look. “Dude, just tell her you’re not interested. Again. Clearly.”
“I did tell her. As nicely as possible. I said I wasn’t in a place to date anyone.” I run a hand through my hair. “She took that as ‘try again later.’”
“Because you were too nice about it. You gave her hope.”
“What was I supposed to say? ‘Sorry, you’re great, but I feel more chemistry with my houseplant’?”
“Yes! Well, maybe not the plant part.”
I slump against the counter. “She’s a good person. I wanted to be into it. I tried to be into it. But you can’t force that shit.”
“No,” Troy agrees. “You can’t. But you also can’t string her along because you feel guilty.”
“I’m not stringing—” I stop. Maybe I am, by not being firm enough. “Fuck.”
“Look, bring someone else to the party. Tara’s got loads of friends she wants to set you up with. Make it clear you’ve moved on. Or come solo and I’ll run interference if she shows up.”
“Is she coming?”
“Delilah invited her. Can’t uninvite her now.”
Great. An anything-but-clothes party where I’ll be dodging someone I disappointed. College really is about new experiences.
“I’ll handle it,” I say. “Maybe I’ll hide with Greg all night. Tell people I’m his bodyguard.”
“Or,” Troy suggests, “you could actually try meeting someone new. Someone you’re actually into.”
“Pass.”
“Your loss. One of Tara’s friends does yoga.”
“You mentioned. Advanced yoga.”
“No, different friend. This one does aerial yoga. With the silk things.”
I throw a bottle cap at him. He dodges, laughing.
“I’m good,” I say. “Really. Just focused on finishing my game and graduating without embarrassing myself.”
“Fair.” Troy stands, stretching. “I’m gonna go pretend to work on this cover letter some more. You good?”
“Golden.”
He heads upstairs, leaving me alone in the kitchen.
I finish my Red Bull, go back to my room, and try not to think about how quiet this house will be next year.
How I’ll probably be in some studio apartment, eating cereal for dinner and talking to Greg about my feelings because he’s the only one around to listen.
My phone buzzes, saving me from the spiral.
Pip
Hey
I grin. Piper Renner, texting me outside of mandatory tutoring hours? This should be good.
Hey yourself, Renner. Finally ready to admit Greg is the superior life form?
I need a favor
No, I won’t do your Distributed Systems exam for you
I have a 94 in that class, but thanks for the vote of confidence
Show off. What’s the favor then?
There’s a pause. Those three dots appear and disappear twice before her message comes through.
If someone named Miles asks you about us, can you say we’re seeing each other?
I sit up so fast I nearly knock Greg off the windowsill.
This is the weirdest way I’ve ever been asked out
It’s kinda hot tho
I’m NOT asking you out. It’s just a one-time thing.
Maybe we could make one public appearance, at Alex’s ABC party
My moral code is strongly against lying, Piper
Your moral code is questionable if the rumors about you are true
Touch?. But what’s in it for me?
What do I get for being your dirty little secret?
also, I dig that you’ve been asking around about me.
Seriously? What happened to that moral code?
Never said it made sense, Pip
Don’t call me that. It makes me sound like a Dickensian orphan
Pip Pip Pip Pipppppppper
Ok thank you for your input, I’ll find another person
Fine, I’ll do it. But I need help finding a costume for this party.
And while we shop, you’re explaining why I’m lying to poor poor Miles
What I don’t tell her is that this is absolutely perfect for me too. I can tell Lacey we’re together and, boom, she’s off my back too.
I’m terrible at shopping
Perfect. Two terrible shoppers walk into a thrift store. Sounds like the start of a love story to meeee
This isn’t a love story
Whatever you say, Pip
I can practically feel her eye roll through the phone.
Fine. When?
Now? Unless you’re too busy with your 94 average
Quad in 20?
It’s a date
not a date
It’s a fake-date-planning session
She sends back an eye roll emoji. I’ll take it as agreement.
I grab my wallet and check myself in the mirror. My hair’s doing that thing where it can’t decide if it wants to be artfully messy or just messy-messy. Good enough for fake-boyfriend shopping.
“Where you headed?” Freddie appears in my doorway, post-gym glow and protein shake in hand.
“Costume shopping with Piper.”
His eyebrows shoot up.
“What?”
He grins. “Is this a date?”
“It’s a business transaction. She needs costume help, I need...” I trail off. What do I need?
“To get laid?”
“Jesus, Fred.”
“What? It’s been months since Paige. Time to get back on the horse. Or off the horse? I don’t know how that metaphor works.”
“It’s not like that. She’s my student. I am being professional.”
Freddie processes this for roughly two seconds before his grin turns knowing. “Oh, shit. You like her.”
“I don’t—” I stop. Do I like Piper? She’s sharp and funny and looks at me like I’m a puzzle she’s annoyed about having to solve. When she smiles—really smiles, not the customer service one—it’s like watching a firewall drop.
Fuck.
“It’s complicated,” I finish lamely.
“Why? She’s single, you’re single, Greg approves—”
“Greg doesn’t get a vote.”
“Greg absolutely gets a vote.” He takes a swig of his shake. “Look, just see where it goes. Maybe shopping for weird costumes will be like foreplay.”
“You’re disgusting.”
“I’m right.” He claps my shoulder as he passes. “Also, if you see any traffic cones while you’re out...”
“Still doing the knight thing?”
“Traffic cone armor is inspired, bro. Alex is gonna lose her mind.”
Before I head downstairs, I pause at the window where Greg catches the afternoon light. For a second, I consider bringing him. Moral support. But that would be weird, right? Bringing your plant on a not-date?
Christ, maybe I am losing it.
Time to go shopping with a girl who thinks I’m ridiculous, for a party where I’ll pretend to be her boyfriend, to make her actual crush jealous, and get a girl off my back.
My life is a badly written sitcom.
I grab my keys and head out, trying not to analyze why I’m suddenly nervous. It’s just Piper. Piper who matches with me at ninety percent but pretends the algorithm’s broken.
This is fine. Just a favor between friends. If we’re even friends. Are we friends?
I check my reflection in a car window and immediately hate myself for it.
“Get it together, Prescott,” I mutter. “It’s just shopping.”