Chapter 24
PIPER
“Trust me,” Ethan says, tugging me away from the main campus path. “When’s the last time you did something just because?”
“I do things just because,” I protest, but I’m already following him.
We’ve just finished a particularly successful tutoring session where he helped me with my next assignment. My grades have been getting better and I have to admit that he’s a damn good storyteller.
It’s not as weird as I thought it would be, going back to tutoring after the weekend where we decided to date officially.
Tuesday afternoon, our regular time, but everything feels different now.
The way he casually touched my hand while explaining narrative beats.
How he tucked my hair behind my ear when it fell in my face.
I find myself looking forward to tutoring for entirely new reasons.
“Name one spontaneous thing,” he challenges.
“I... reorganized my code folders by color last week.”
He stops walking to stare at me. “That’s not spontaneous, Pip. That’s procrastination with a system.”
We’re heading toward the older part of campus, where ivy-covered buildings give way to walking trails. Spring is finally winning against winter—crocuses pushing through dead leaves, sun warming the paths. Ethan’s taken my hand in his, practically vibrating with energy.
“Where are we going?”
“You’ll see. Sometimes the best inspiration happens away from screens.” He grins back at me. “Plus, we’ve been sitting for ages. You need air.”
“I need to finish my distributed systems assignment.”
“It’s not due until Monday.”
“Exactly. Only five days to—”
“Piper.” He stops, turns to face me fully. “When’s the last time you just... had fun?”
The question catches me off guard. Fun. When did I stop prioritizing that?
We take the trail that winds behind the athletics complex, past the greenhouse, toward the hills. I know this path. My feet know every root, every turn, even after months of avoiding it.
My steps slow as we approach the fork in the trail.
“Actually,” I say, stomach twisting, “maybe we should head back.”
“Why?” Ethan looks at me curiously. “You okay?”
I stare at the left path—the one that leads to the old oak grove with the bench overlooking the valley. The spot where Miles and I spent countless hours freshman and sophomore years. Our spot.
Where things happened that I’ve never told anyone about.
“I just... I used to come here a lot. With someone.” The half-truth tastes bitter.
Understanding dawns on his face. “Miles?”
I nod, hating how my chest tightens. “It’s stupid. It’s just a place.”
“So let’s reclaim it.” His voice is gentle but determined. “Make new memories.”
“Ethan...”
“Unless you want to let him keep it forever?”
He has a point. It’s been months of taking the long way around campus to avoid this trail. Months of letting Miles have this view, these trees, this... history.
“Okay,” I say quietly.
We take the left path. Each step feels like archaeology—there’s the rock where I twisted my ankle and Miles carried my backpack.
There’s the fallen log where we’d eat lunch.
There’s the curve where he kissed me that October night, leaves crunching under our feet, before telling me it was a mistake the next day.
Then we emerge into the grove, and my breath catches.
The bench is still there. The valley spreads below—campus buildings looking like toys, the town beyond wrapped in afternoon haze.
“Wow,” Ethan says. “I’ve lived here four years and never knew this was here.”
“Not many people do.” I hover at the edge of the clearing. “Miles found it during orientation week.”
“Tell me,” Ethan says simply, settling onto the bench like it’s his.
“Tell you what?”
“Whatever’s making you look like you’re about to bolt.”
I sit carefully, leaving space between us. The wood is warm from the sun, and suddenly I’m eighteen again, believing every whispered promise.
“We came here all the time freshman year,” I start with the safe version. “Every Tuesday and Thursday after Comp Sci 101. He’d bring terrible cafeteria sandwiches. We’d sit for hours, just... talking.”
“Sounds nice.”
“It was. He was failing when we met. His parents were getting divorced, he couldn’t focus, was thinking about dropping out.” I pull my knees up. “I helped him. Taught him my note-taking system, walked him through every assignment.”
“You saved his academic career.”
“That’s what he said. Called me his ‘guardian angel.’” The words taste like ash. “I was so proud of that. Like being useful to him was enough.”
Ethan’s quiet, letting me talk.
“Sophomore year, things... changed. He’d call me at 2 AM with coding problems only I could solve.
Started saying things like ‘what would I do without you?’ and ‘you’re the only one who gets me.
’” I stare at the valley, remembering other words.
Other promises. “There was this one night, October sophomore year. We were here, working on a project.”
I can still feel it—his hands in my hair, his mouth on mine, the way he said my name.
“What happened?”
“He kissed me.” The admission feels huge after all the of silence.
“Really kissed me. Said he’d been wanting to for months.
That I was different from other girls. Special.
” I pull my knees up to my chest, making myself smaller.
My fingers find the hem of my shirt, twisting the fabric—the same nervous habit from all those nights waiting for his texts. “But?”
“But the next day, he acted like it never happened. When I tried to bring it up, he said he’d been stressed about midterms. That he valued our friendship too much to complicate it.” I laugh bitterly. “So I pretended it was fine. Kept being his study buddy. His support system. His secret.”
“His secret?”
Shit. I said too much.
“Just... you know. The kiss. He asked me not to tell anyone. Said it would make study group weird.”
It’s not the whole truth. There were other nights, other kisses, other promises to keep quiet. But I can’t admit that.
Can’t tell Ethan how I let Miles use me as his backup plan, his stress relief, his dirty little secret for months.
“I’m not entirely a good person,” I say suddenly. “I’ve made some bad decisions. Done things I’m not proud of.”
Ethan turns to face me fully. “Like what?”
“Just... things. With Miles. Choices I made because I was desperate and stupid and thought being something was better than being nothing.”
“Piper—”
“I’m not the victim in every story,” I continue, needing him to understand. “Sometimes I was selfish. Sometimes I knew better and did it anyway.”
He’s quiet for a long moment. “After Paige, you know what hurt the most?”
I shake my head.
“Finding out from someone’s Instagram story.
Walking into that party and seeing her with him, hearing from drunk strangers about how they’d been hooking up for months.
” His jaw tightens. “The cheating sucked, but the lying? The letting me look like an idiot while everyone else knew? That’s what broke me. ”
My stomach drops. I’m not thinking about Miles anymore.
The review. I should tell him about the review right now.
“Ethan...”
“I can handle bad decisions,” he says, taking my hand. “Hell, I've made plenty. But I need honesty. Trust. I'd rather know the ugly truth than be protected by pretty lies.”
The words are right there.
I'm ButterBoi69. I reviewed your game before I knew you. I gave it two stars.
“I want to be honest with you,” I say carefully, my heart racing. “There's actually something I—”
“Yeah?” He turns to face me fully, eyes open and trusting, and suddenly I can't breathe.
What if he hates me? What if this ruins everything? We're just starting to build something real and I'm about to demolish it with truth.
I think about all the ugly truths I’m carrying. Not just the review but the nights I snuck into Miles’s apartment. Knowing it was wrong but doing it anyway because I was weak and he was finally choosing me, even if it was just for a moment.
The way I let him use me because being his secret felt better than being nothing. And now this—another secret, another lie by omission that could destroy everything.
“Some stories... they're not just mine to tell,” I say finally, the coward's way out.
It's sort of the truth about Miles—Harper deserves to know first. But it's a complete lie about the review, which is entirely mine to tell and I'm just too scared.
“I'm not asking for every detail of your past,” he says gently. “I'm just saying—if we're doing this, really doing this, I need to know you trust me. Even with the messy parts.”
“I do trust you.” And I realize it's true, which makes my silence even worse. “I just... I'm still figuring out how to talk about some things.”
“That’s okay. We’ve got time.” He pulls me closer. “But for what it’s worth? Whatever you did, whatever choices you made—they led you here. To this bench. To me. So I’m kind of grateful for them, even the bad ones.”
“Even if I’m not who you think I am?”
“Who do I think you are?”
“Someone good. Someone who deserves...” I gesture vaguely at him, at us.
“Pip.” He cups my face, makes me look at him. “I think you’re someone who loved a person who didn’t deserve it. Who made choices from that love, even when they hurt. That doesn’t make you bad. It makes you human.”
I want to tell him everything. About the nights Miles would text at 2 AM, lonely and wanting.
About how I'd go, every time, believing this time would be different.
About how he'd kiss me in the dark and pretend not to know me in daylight.
About writing that review in a fury because I thought someone as talented as Zarah had gotten lazy with her ending.
About realizing it was his game and feeling sick ever since.
But the words stick in my throat.
“Thank you,” I say instead.
“For what?”
“For not pushing. For being... you.”
He kisses my forehead. “Anytime. Though I do have one demand.”
“What’s that?”
“This bench? This spot? It’s yours now. No more avoiding it. No more letting him have it.”
“That’s a big ask.”
“I’ll help.” He stands suddenly, pulling me up. “Starting with new memories. Better memories. Memories that don’t involve discrete math or complications or secrets.”
“Like what?”
He spins me around, then dips me dramatically. “Like dancing badly to no music.”
“Ethan!”
“Like seeing how many computer science puns I can make before you hit me.”
“None. The answer is none.”
“Like...” He pulls me close, voice dropping. “Making out on this bench until you forget anyone else ever existed.”
My breath catches. “That’s a lot of making out.”
“I’m very dedicated to memory replacement therapy.”
And then he’s kissing me, right there in the spot where my heart broke over and over. But this kiss doesn’t taste like secrets or shame or 2 AM desperation. It tastes like sunshine and possibility and someone who wants me in daylight.
When we break apart, I’m dizzy.
“Better?” he asks.
“Getting there.”
“Just getting there?” He kisses me again. “How about now?”
“Marginally improved.”
“Marginally?” He tickles my sides. “Take it back.”
“Never!” I’m laughing, trying to escape, but not really.
“Admit it, this is now your favorite spot on campus.”
“It’s adequate!”
We end up on the bench, me on his lap, both breathless from laughing. The sun is warm, the valley is beautiful, and for the first time in a long time, this place doesn’t hurt.
“Thank you,” I tell him.
“For what?”
“For making this just a place again. Not a monument to my bad decisions.”
He tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. “Everyone has those monuments. The trick is building something better on top.”
I think about Miles, about secrets, about all the ways I compromised myself for crumbs of affection. Then I look at Ethan—who wants me in daylight, who makes me laugh, who’s trying to give me back pieces of myself I didn’t know I’d lost.
“I want to tell you everything,” I say. “Eventually. When I figure out how.”
“I’ll be here,” he says simply. “Whenever you’re ready.”
And I believe him. That’s the difference between Ethan and everyone else—when he says he’ll be here, he means it. No conditions, no secrets, no pretending it didn’t happen the next day.
Just... here.
It’s terrifying and wonderful and everything I didn’t know I needed.
“We should probably head back,” I say eventually. “I do actually need to work on that assignment.”
“Responsible. I like it.” He helps me up but doesn’t let go of my hand. “Same spot Thursday?”
“For tutoring?”
“For memory replacement therapy.”
I laugh. “You’re terrible.”
“I’m therapeutic.”
As we walk back down the trail, I turn back once to look at the grove.
Now it’s just a pretty spot where my boyfriend made me laugh until my sides hurt.
Boyfriend. The word feels strange and perfect and real.
“Hey, Ethan?”
“Yeah?”
“I’m really glad you’re patient.”