Chapter 21 — Lena
Lena
Lena Brooks had survived the donor dinner.
Not barely.
Not technically.
She had survived it well.
That was the part she could not quite stop thinking about.
She had stood at a podium in front of donors, hospital administrators, athletic department staff, Carter’s parents, Coach Harlan, and Denise Vargas, and she had not disappeared into herself.
She had not become smaller because people were looking.
She had spoken clearly. She had remembered why she was in the room.
And Carter had been beside her.
Not behind her.
Not in front of her.
Beside her.
That was also the part she could not stop thinking about.
Beside her in his suit and tie, with nervous hands and honest eyes and a speech that had made a room full of adults go quiet because he had somehow found the exact truth beneath all the polished event language.
His mother saying, You two made the room better.
His father catching them and turning the entire moment into a family comedy.
Carter holding her hand all the way back to campus like he did not want to let go, and Lena not wanting him to.
Because happy, apparently, was just anxiety wearing better shoes.
Now, Saturday morning light spilled across her dorm room, and Paige was sitting cross-legged on her own bed, eating cereal from a mug and demanding details.
“Start with the dress,” Paige said.
Lena sat at her desk in pajama pants and one of her old Ridgeview sweatshirts. “You saw the dress.”
“I need to know if the dress had the desired effect.”
“The desired effect was looking professional.”
Paige stared at her over the mug.
Lena lasted three seconds.
“Fine,” she said. “He forgot how to speak.”
Paige pointed her spoon at the ceiling. “Victory.”
“That was not the goal.”
“It was my goal.”
“You were not invited.”
“I contributed strategy.”
“You contributed outfit panic.”
“Same thing.”
Lena smiled and reached for her coffee. Not the good kind Carter brought. Dorm coffee. Emergency coffee. Coffee that existed because survival mattered more than quality.
Paige leaned forward. “And the speech?”
“He did really well.”
“That is not enough detail.”
“He was nervous, but then he started talking, and the whole room listened.” Lena’s voice softened before she could stop it. “He was himself. Not the show-off version. Just… Carter.”
Paige’s expression changed.
The teasing faded.
“That good?”
Lena looked down at her mug.
“Yes.”
“Dangerous yes?”
Lena nodded slowly.
“Very.”
Paige set her cereal down. “Uh-oh.”
“What?”
“You have the face.”
“I do not have a face.”
“You do. The face. The one where your heart is making plans without consulting your brain.”
Instead, she looked toward the green dress hanging over the back of her chair, still waiting to be taken to the dry cleaner.
“I think I’m in trouble,” she said quietly.
Paige did not joke.
That was how Lena knew it was serious.
Lena pressed her fingers around the warm mug.
But closer than it had been yesterday.
Closer than it had any right to be.
“I don’t know,” she whispered.
Paige got off the bed and came to sit on the edge of Lena’s.
“Do you want to know?”
That question went straight through her.
Lena stared into the coffee.
Knowing meant the next step might be saying it, and saying it might mean giving Carter something he could drop.
Frighteningly.
Carefully, but not cautiously enough.
“I think I already do,” Lena said.
Paige’s eyes softened.
“Oh, babe.”
Lena looked up quickly. “Do not make that sound.”
“What sound?”
“The sound like I’m fragile.”
“You’re not fragile.”
“I feel fragile.”
“That’s different.”
Lena breathed out a small laugh.
Paige reached over and squeezed her hand. “Does he know?”
“No.”
“Do you think he feels it too?”
Lena thought of Carter in the hallway, pulling back from their kiss like he was holding himself together by sheer force. The way he looked at her in the parking lot. The way he said he was glad he’d been in the room with her. The way his hand had stayed wrapped around hers the whole drive back.
“Maybe.”
Paige gave her a look.
“Probably,” Lena admitted.
“Are you going to talk about it?”
“Absolutely not.”
Paige snorted. “Healthy.”
“It is.”
“Maybe,” Paige repeated. “But feelings don’t always respect chapter structure.”
Lena looked at her. “Chapter structure?”
“You’re being annoying.”
“Also true.”
Lena’s phone buzzed on the desk.
Carter: Morning. Dad says the donor dinner had excellent chairs, which is apparently his highest review. Mom says she loved seeing you. I say hi. More eloquently than that, hopefully.
Lena smiled before she could stop herself.
Paige leaned over. “That smile is illegal.”
Lena angled the phone away. “Privacy.”
“Nonexistent in this room.”
Lena: Excellent chairs is high praise. Tell your mom I loved seeing her too. Hi, eloquently.
Carter: That was extremely eloquent. How are you this morning?
Lena: Happy. Tired. A little emotionally bruised, but in a good way?
Carter: I get that. Last night was big. Good big, but big.
Of course he did.
Carter: Do you want space today, or do you want low-pressure company?
Lena stared at the question.
Paige, because she had no boundaries, read it upside down and whispered, “Green flag.”
Space would let her sort through the too-big feeling without Carter standing close enough to make sorting impossible.
Lena: Low-pressure company. But actually low pressure. I’m not dressed like a donor-dinner person today.
Carter: Good. I am currently dressed like a man who survived a formal event and now requires pancakes.
Carter: Diner near campus. No speeches. No photos. No linen napkins. Just breakfast food and maybe your hand if available.
Her chest warmed painfully.
Lena: My hand may be available.
Carter: Excellent. I’ll pick you up in twenty?
Lena looked at Paige.
Paige was already pointing at the bathroom. “Go.”
Lena typed:
Lena: Twenty.
Carter: Can’t wait, Brooks.
Lena set the phone down and stood.
Paige smiled knowingly.
“What?” Lena asked.
“You’re thinking loudly.”
“I’m thinking that low-pressure pancakes are never just low-pressure pancakes when you look like that.”
Lena grabbed her towel. “I hate you.”
“You love me.”
This time, Lena did not flinch at the word.
Carter arrived in jeans, a black hoodie, and a baseball cap turned backward, looking so unfairly good in casual clothes that Lena briefly considered blaming him for her emotional instability in writing.
That look.
It was becoming dangerous.
“Hi,” he said.
“Hi.”
His gaze moved over her. Leggings. Oversized sweatshirt. Hair in a loose ponytail. No makeup except whatever survived from last night because she had not been patient enough to remove it properly.
“You look comfortable,” he said.
“Is that a compliment?”
“It’s an observation delivered with affection.”
That was a gateway word.
“You look like you’re hiding from adulthood,” she said.
“I am. Pancakes are part of my recovery plan.”
He reached out, palm open.
“My hand is available,” she said, placing hers in it.
They walked to the diner because it was close enough and because neither seemed in a hurry to be anywhere else.
The morning was cool but bright, campus quieter than usual after Friday night.
A few students crossed the paths with coffees and hooded sweatshirts, moving slowly like the weekend had not fully started.
The grass still held a little dew. Somewhere near the arena, a truck backed up with a loud beep, and Carter glanced that way automatically.
“No practice?” Lena asked.
“Optional skate later. I may pretend not to know.”
“As a concept? No. As a dream? Yes.”
She laughed.
His fingers tightened slightly around hers.
“I like that,” he said.
“What?”
“Making you laugh this early.”
“You do have a gift for nonsense.”
“I’ll put it on my resume.”
They reached the diner, which was already busy enough to feel alive but not crowded enough to be overwhelming. A server led them to a booth by the window.
A booth.
Not a table.
Lena slid in on one side.
Across from her would be normal.
Beside her would be something else.
He looked at her. “Across?”
The server came by with coffee.
Real diner coffee this time. Better than dorm coffee, worse than Carter coffee, perfect in its own way.
Carter ordered pancakes, eggs, bacon, and toast.
Lena stared.
“What?” he asked.
“Are you feeding yourself or a small village?”
“I’m a growing boy.”
She ordered blueberry pancakes because Carter’s expression made it impossible not to.
Just full.
Carter rested his arm along the back of the booth, not around her shoulders. Close. Careful.
“How are you really?” he asked.
Lena looked into her coffee.
“Good.”
“Your okay or mine?”
“Mine.”
“Good.”
She glanced at him. “And you?”
“Yeah.” He looked around the diner, then back at her. “Last night was big. But today feels… quiet.”
Then his phone buzzed on the table.
He glanced at it and groaned.
“Mason?” Lena guessed.
“How did you know?”
Carter turned the phone so she could see.
Mason: Team brunch at noon. Mandatory vibes. Also heard donor dinner went well and that you looked respectable. Unverified.
Carter typed back.
Carter: Currently recovering. Do not mandatory vibe me.
Mason: Is Clipboard with you?
Carter started to angle the phone away.
Lena caught his wrist. “Let me.”
Carter: This is Lena. I am not available for mandatory vibes. Respect recovery pancakes.
Mason: Respectfully terrified. Enjoy pancakes. Tell Carter his tie looked like a tax attorney but in a handsome way.
Lena burst out laughing.
Carter leaned over to read it and closed his eyes. “I hate him.”
For a while, pancakes did what pancakes were supposed to do.
They made things easier.
Carter stole a blueberry from Lena’s plate.
Halfway through breakfast, Carter nudged her knee under the table.
“Last night,” he said, voice lower, “when my mom kept you in the hallway.”
Lena’s fork paused.
“Yes?”
“What did she say?”
Lena looked down at her plate.