Chapter 9
nine
I only made it half an hour before Ainsley’s music gave me a headache.
I tried knocking on the door—which obviously went unheard—and texting her to turn it down—which went unnoticed as she continued her phone call.
Thankfully the library was much quieter so I could focus on homework and my moral dilemma with the new tablet.
A few students were scattered at tables, heads bent over their books.
Good. I slid into a seat near the back, unpacked my books, and set my new tablet down carefully, like it might bite me if I moved too fast. I slipped my over-ear headphones on—actual, full coverage, the good kind.
It was a vibe. A ritual. I queued up my playlist and tapped play.
Sound exploded into the room.
Heads lifted. People glared at me. The librarian appeared out of nowhere, finger already halfway to her lips. The universal sign of you messed up.
My face went hot instantly. I fumbled for the tablet, hands suddenly useless, pausing the music like it was a bomb about to go off. “Sorry,” I mouthed. She nodded and drifted away, and the room settled back into stillness.
I sat there for a full minute without moving, like if I stayed perfectly still I could undo what had just happened.
My headphones rested around my neck now, useless and uncharged, their padded cups warm against my skin like they were judging me.
I kept imagining the music starting again on its own, betraying me a second time, so I slid the tablet a few inches farther away just in case.
Okay. No music. Fine.
I opened my book again and forced my eyes back to the top of the page. The words were familiar—I’d read them before, multiple times, even—but now they felt exposed, naked without the buffer of sound. My pencil hovered, waiting for my brain to catch up.
Someone coughed.
I jumped, the pencil jerking and leaving a dark slash across the margin. I stared at it, annoyed, then carefully erased, the soft rasp of the eraser suddenly the loudest thing in existence. I paused, erasing slower, then stopped altogether when I realized I was holding my breath.
Every page turn sounded like a shout. Someone’s pen clicking three tables over drilled straight into my skull.
The HVAC hummed—low, constant, impossible to ignore once I noticed it.
My own breathing felt too loud, like I was doing it wrong.
I shifted in my chair, the tiny squeak echoing in my ears, and froze, heart thudding, waiting to see if anyone would look up again.
I tried reading out of spite then, like I could force comprehension through sheer determination. I underlined a sentence. Wrote a note in the margin. Read it again. Nothing stuck.
The clock on the wall ticked. Once. Twice.
This was so much worse than the chaos of my house. I rubbed my temples, eyes skimming the page without landing anywhere, and wondered how a place built for quiet could feel so unbearably loud.
Yeah, this wasn’t going to work.
I closed the book with more force than necessary and immediately winced, glancing around like the librarian might materialize again.
No one looked up thankfully, but I still packed up fast, my movements clipped and efficient.
The chair squeaked again as I pushed it away from the table and stood, like it was one last laugh from the quiet building.
With a sigh, I slung my backpack over my shoulder and slipped out, pushing through the heavy doors into the night.
On the steps outside, I stopped and pulled out my phone.
Okay. New plan. Coffee shop. The usual one—warm, low hum of voices, espresso machine hissing like white noise, music always just loud enough to blur the edges of everything else.
I opened the browser and tapped in the name, excited to see if they posted the new seasonal menu yet, already picturing my regular table by the window.
It all seemed great until the page loaded: Temporarily Closed After Vehicle Collision.
The headline was bold and unmistakable. There was a photo beneath it: shattered glass, a car half-embedded where the front windows used to be, yellow caution tape sagging like it had given up.
“What?” I whispered to my phone, glancing around even though the sidewalk was empty. I refreshed the page. Same article. Same picture. I scrolled, hoping for a correction, a just kidding, but it only got worse—estimated reopening date unknown, investigation ongoing.
I pulled up the map and searched again, widening the radius. A few options popped up, but there was only one close enough to matter: The Corner Cup.
I hovered my thumb over the directions, heart sinking. I could go home. I could try again tomorrow. But the assignment deadline loomed, heavy and immovable, and the thought of walking back into that house made my stomach twist.
“This is important,” I muttered and jammed my thumb on the Start button.
I questioned whether I should just go back home about five times into the walk there—and considering that walk was only fifteen minutes long, that was quite a bit— but I knew I wouldn’t be able to focus at home.
Not with the music and paint swatches taped to my wall and the guilt heavy in my stomach.As I reached the door, I took a deep breath and reassured myself that maybe Cole wouldn’t be there.
Maybe he wouldn’t be inside and everything would be okay.
I would just go in, get a drink, sit down at a table, and get my work done like any normal person.
It took a solid minute of these affirmations for me to be able to open the door, but I finally did it.
And immediately saw Cole at the register.
Just my luck.
He looked just like he had the other night, in a dark shirt with the sleeves pulled up and his dark hair a mess that he kept trying to tame by running a hand through it.
I kept my gaze on my feet as I walked slowly to the register, mentally preparing for yet another interaction with Cole that was sure to end in him calling me “princess” again and making my blood boil.
Once I got to the register, I lifted my eyes, pasted on a neutral expression, and started to order.
“Hey, can I get a—”
“Gingerbread loaf and a Heartbreaker,” Cole interrupted, eyes on me as he turned the machine around without even typing on it.
But there it was—my order, already set on the screen, just awaiting my payment.
Almost in a trance, I tapped my card against it slowly but kept my eyes trained on him, trying to figure out how exactly he’d read my mind so well.
And trying to decide whether or not I hated that he knew my order.
“You didn’t want to try to guess my payment method too?” I said as I tapped “no receipt” and turned the screen back to him.
“I wanted to see how much you’d leave as a tip.” He eyed the screen, pretended to look impressed, nodded. “Exactly as much as I expected.”
I rolled my eyes, wishing I had put zero instead just to spite him, but it was too late. He tapped something else on the machine then glanced up at me, his long lashes fluttering as he realized I was staring at him. “What?”
“The…” I gestured vaguely, still processing the fact that he knew my order. He followed my hand motion with an impassive face but didn’t say anything. His floppy brown hair fell in his eyes as he did. “You already ordered for me.”
He just shrugged. “I saw you walking up, so I was just saving myself time.” His voice was flat and dismissive, almost like he was annoyed that I’d made him do that even though I hadn’t asked him to.
“But…” I played back the other night in my mind.
It was hard to say for sure, but I didn’t remember telling him which drink had been mine.
I blinked, not sure whether I should be freaked out or not, and did my best to play it off with a dismissive shrug.
“Sorry. I guess it didn’t occur to me that you were watching me that closely. ”
His eyes narrowed. “I’m not watching you,” he said, almost sneering.
I just raised my eyebrows. He glanced over his shoulder at the other barista who was in the midst of making my drink, probably counting down the seconds until he could give it to me.
I guess he didn’t like what he saw because he turned back to me, his facial expression having changed from the tiny sneer to the tiny smirk.
Tiny because his face really barely changed expressions and it was almost impossible to see without studying him.
Not that I was studying him. I just… noticed.
“It’s not my fault you come in here constantly,” he said.
“This is literally the second time I’ve been here.”
“Which time are you not counting—the one where you doused the place in coffee or the one where you committed a crime?” He held a hand as if to stop my response before it even came. “Not that I can blame you for either. If I were you, I’d sure want to forget about them both too.”
“I was just trying to forget every interaction I’ve ever had with you. I guess a few still slipped through, though.”
His mouth tightened, like he’d just bitten down on something sharp. For a second I thought he was going to brush it off again, but he stayed silent.
I wasn’t ready to lose this battle with him, so I tilted my head. “You don’t have to lie, you know.”
He exhaled slowly, like he was trying not to lose a fight he hadn’t meant to pick. “Fine. I’ve been watching you. Happy?”
The intonation of his voice still barely changed, so the words sounded flat and dismissive, even though the meaning was anything but.
“Depends,” I said. “Are you watching me in a stalkery way?”
“Oh absolutely. I’m just obsessed with you.”
“I—”
“Heartbreaker!” the perky blonde barista called out at the end of the counter. She hesitated for a moment before adding, “No name.”
Then she threw a quizzical look in the boy’s direction, which he waved off, gesturing vaguely at me.