Chapter 15
Chapter Fifteen
RACHEL
Ten Years Ago
College Sophomore Year
“Fuck, I’m never going to get this.” I let out a sharp breath that empties my chest. My eyes throb, dull pulses behind my lids begging me to close them. Instead, I take another swig of my terrible, now-cold coffee and wince.
My stomach growls for the fifth time, loud enough that the girl at the next table lifts her head.
“I know, you’re hungry,” I mutter, pressing a hand to my abdomen. “I get it.”
But I need to commit this to memory before I break for food.
The second floor of the library is quieter than usual, even for finals week. A hushed kind of pressure hangs in the air, like the whole building is holding its breath. The overhead fluorescent buzzes with a steady whine, flickering in the corner, one moment away from giving up. I feel similar.
Someone coughs a few aisles over. Pages turn. Keyboards clack in slow, staccato rhythms. The HVAC unit groans to life and pushes a breath of stale air across the sociology stacks. The smell of dust and academic stress clings to everything.
I’m camped in my usual hideout, the corner booth behind the sociology section, sitting cross-legged with my back curved and one foot falling asleep.
Around me are open notebooks, highlighters scattered like confetti, granola bar wrappers that crunch when I shift, and a tower of flashcards listing facts I can’t seem to retain no matter how hard I try to.
My laptop is perched precariously on the table’s edge, casting a ghostly blue light across my notes and the bruised circles under my eyes.
My brain is mush, but I can’t leave yet.
Biopsychology used to feel magical. Neurons, neurotransmitters, synaptic pruning—it felt like unlocking the wiring behind human behavior.
Nine hours of cramming later, and I think it might be trying to kill me.
I can’t remember if the hippocampus consolidates memory or if the amygdala does. Or both? Maybe neither?
I drag my highlighter across the same line twice and realize halfway through, I haven’t read a word.
Focus, Rachel.
The hypothalamus regulates hunger, thirst, body temperature, and circadian rhythms.
I stare at the page like it might bite back at me. At this point, I might welcome being bitten if it meant I could feel something other than exhaustion.
Somewhere in the back of my brain, Professor Letman’s voice whispers—dry, measured, perpetually disappointed. He could lull someone to sleep even while explaining how the limbic system functions.
I flip to a fresh stack of flashcards. My own handwriting glares up at me. I don’t even remember writing these:
Broca’s Area – Speech production
Wernicke’s Area – Language comprehension
Temporal Lobe – Auditory info & memory
Each one has a tiny doodle of a brain with the area shaded in and labeled. I stare at them blankly, twirling a pen between my fingers. It slips, drops onto the notebook, and rolls to the edge of the table.
I rub my eyes with both hands, pressing hard enough to see stars. God, I want one of those blackout sleep masks and a week-long nap.
This exam might actually kill me.
Last week spun by in a blur. Kinesiology on Monday, Anatomy and Physiology on Wednesday, and a skills check on Friday, where I had to demonstrate joint mobilizations in front of our TA, who looked like she could snap me in half with a single lunge.
This week, I’ve spent more time in the library than in my own bed.
Flashcards, muscle groups, gait cycle phases. My brain’s fried. My body’s toast.
Only Biopsych and Medical Ethics are left. Then it’s officially summer. Not just any summer—the summer.
Margo and I made a list of plans. Beach days, road trips, nights on the roof with bad wine and better playlists. We keep calling it our “last real summer” before everything gets serious. She is determined to soak up every second with Josh before he starts his grown-up job in the city this fall.
I don’t mind being around them. Most times, it doesn’t feel like third-wheeling. Typically, that’s because Rhett tags along too. We’ve formed this weird little quartet with impromptu dinners and movie marathons that end with all of us passed out on the couch.
It works. It’s easy. Familiar. Like we’re suspended in this bubble before the real world crashes in.
I reach for a flashcard when I hear it—the scuff of shoes against carpet, slow and unmistakable.
I glance up.
Rhett drops into the seat across from me without saying a word.
He places a wrapped sandwich and a blue Gatorade down onto my table as he’s done a hundred times before. No announcement. No “Hey, I brought you something.” Just that quiet, effortless way Rhett always had of knowing what I needed before I did. It’s annoying.
I blink at the food. My brain lags behind for a second, then another second, before it remembers how to function.
“Are you an actual saint,” I ask, peeling back the edge of the sandwich wrapper, “or are you just trying to keep me from dying on school property?”
He leans back, hoodie sleeves pushed to his forearms, the Georgia crest cracked and peeling.
He grins. “Little of both. I saw the state you were in yesterday and figured I’d check in.”
“I’m fine,” I say quickly.
He raises a brow, gesturing to the chaos of highlighters and flashcards in front of me. “Color-coded again. That’s how I know you’re not fine.”
I smirk despite myself and peel open the sandwich, savoring the smell as my stomach twists in gratitude. “I’ll take the pity food anyway.”
“You’re welcome.” He pops the Gatorade cap and nudges it a few inches closer. With his arms folded on the table, he watches me with that easy patience of his.
I chew, then speak around the bite. “Wait—aren’t you done? Don’t you and Josh graduate next week?” I try for casual, but I’ve been counting down the days. I’m not ready for them to graduate. Not that I’d admit it out loud.
He shrugs. “Yeah. I had my last final this morning. If you can even call it that. Professor Whitman gave a take-home and said she’d already entered our grades.”
I groan. “God, I hate you.”
He laughs. It’s low and warm, and it wraps around me. “You love me.”
I roll my eyes and take another bite, cheeks warming just a little. “Don’t get cocky.”
“I’m not cocky. It’s senior spring. I’m relaxed. You should try it sometime.”
“Biopsych won’t let me.” I gesture to the mountain of notes sitting between us. “This class is going to murder me. I’ve read the words ‘limbic system’ so many times it doesn’t even sound real anymore.”
He taps the edge of a flashcard. “That’s the one with emotions, right? Anger, fear, regret…”
“Jealousy.”
He smirks. “Sounds like you have it memorized.”
I snort and lean back in my chair. The sandwich wrapper crinkles in my hand, and for a second, I breathe. My shoulders sink a little. It feels good to laugh, even just a little.
Rhett glances down at the notes, then back at me. “You’ve been at this how long?”
I glance at the laptop clock. “Uh… I got here around ten, so—?”
His brows lift. “Almost nine pm.”
“I know that.”
“Jesus, Sunny.”
The way he says my nickname makes my chest go tight in that annoying, unexplainable way it sometimes does. He says it as if the name belongs to me.
I’m not surprised Rhett made it to the library, or that he knew exactly where I’d be sitting.
Older brothers’ best friends do things like this, I guess—show up when you’re crumbling from academic stress and forgetting to eat.
He probably feels obligated. A kindness reflex. I doubt he even thinks twice.
He nudges my flashcards aside, deliberately breaking my hyper-focus. “Come on. Give yourself five minutes. Talk to me. Pretend I’m not about to be a real adult with a salary and an apartment and an espresso machine.”
“I already do,” I mutter under my breath.
His grin deepens. “Rude.”
I lean back and study him. Dark brown hair curls around his ears again, too long because he forgot a haircut. Hoodie. Athletic shorts. The same beat-up white sneakers he refuses to replace. Every detail feels unchanged.
But something in him isn’t the same. His posture is more certain, his voice more sure. He knows who he is now, where he’s headed. Maybe it’s the job waiting for him after graduation. Maybe it’s that senior-year calm I haven’t earned. Whatever it is, it makes the space between us feel different.
He is already stepping into the next part of his life, and I’m still standing here, pretending I’m not counting the days until he’s gone.
I look away before my thoughts get tangled.
“Five minutes,” I say, lifting the Gatorade to my lips. “Then I’m back to memorizing brain parts.”
“Five minutes.”
“You nervous?” I ask.
“About graduating?”
“Yeah.”
He leans back while his fingers lace behind his head, the hoodie stretching slightly across his shoulders.
“Not really. I’m ready to be out of here. To be on my own. But I’m not ready to stop seeing you and Josh every day, though.”
I don’t respond. His words settle over me, and my throat tightens before I even understand why.
“What?” His voice softens.
I twist the Gatorade cap back on, focusing on the click. “Oh, nothing. I think I’m just tired.”
I clear my throat and shift in my seat. “What day are you moving back home?”
Rhett leans forward, fingers spinning one of my pens slowly. “Well, next Saturday’s graduation, and our landlord gave us until Monday to be fully out. So… probably Monday.”
I nod, watching the pen roll too fast, then slow, then speed up again. “When do you start at the station?”
“Not until July. I’m taking June off. Just need time to breathe. There’s a bit of training, but mostly a break.”
I nod again, slower this time. “Is your dad excited to have you back near him?”
He smiles without thinking, that easy curve of his mouth making it’s way where it belongs. “Yeah. Actually, I think he is. It’ll be nice. We’ve never really had this kind of time together before.”