CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
THE BLOWUP
Elise
I’m still in bed—Grant’s bed, technically—with Wyatt’s arm draped over my waist and Jordie’s leg tangled with mine. We’ve gotten good at the Tetris game of fitting four people into a space designed for two.
My phone buzzes on the nightstand. I grab it, squinting at the screen.
FROM: [email protected] SUBJECT: Mandatory Meeting - Residential Violation
My stomach drops.
“Guys.” I shake Wyatt’s shoulder. “Guys, wake up.”
“Five more minutes,” Jordie mumbles into my hair.
“No. Now. We have a problem.”
That gets Grant’s attention. He’s already sitting up, hair sticking up in every direction. “What kind of problem?”
I hand him my phone.
He reads it. Goes very still. “Shit.”
“What?” Wyatt’s awake now, propped up on one elbow.
“Campus housing called a meeting. ‘Residential violation’ was the exact wording.”
Jordie snatches the phone. Reads it. His face goes pale. “They know. Fucking Carol.”
“We don’t know that,” I start, but even I don’t believe it.
“They know,” Grant repeats. His voice is flat. Dead. “Someone reported us.”
We all sit there in silence for a second, the weight of it settling.
Then Wyatt speaks, quiet and controlled. “Who would—”
“Does it matter?” Grant’s already getting up, pulling on clothes with sharp, angry movements. “We knew this was a risk.”
“A risk we agreed to take,” Jordie says. There’s an edge in his voice I rarely hear. “Together.”
“Yeah, well, together we’re about to get expelled.”
“Grant—”
“Don’t.” He rounds on me. “Don’t tell me it’s going to be fine. You could lose your med school chances. All of them. And Wyatt could lose his scholarship, and Jordie could—we’re all screwed, Elise. Because we couldn’t keep our hands off each other for one semester.”
The words land like a slap.
“You don’t mean that,” I say quietly.
He won’t look at me. “Meeting’s at ten. We should probably figure out what we’re going to say.”
He leaves. Just walks out of his own room and I hear the bathroom door slam thirty seconds later.
Jordie’s the first to speak. “He’s scared.”
“He’s an asshole,” Wyatt corrects.
“He’s both.” I’m already getting up, searching for clothes. “And he’s right. We’re about to lose everything.”
The housing office smells like stale coffee and disappointment.
Carol—the administrator who assigned us the townhouse in the first place—is sitting behind her desk with an expression that could freeze lava. There’s someone else too. A man in a suit I don’t recognize.
“Sit.” Carol gestures to the four chairs arranged in front of her desk like we’re about to face a firing squad.
We sit.
The man in the suit speaks first. “I’m Dean Morrison. Student Affairs.” He opens a folder on the desk. “We’ve received multiple reports regarding the nature of your living arrangement.”
My heart is trying to beat out of my chest.
“Multiple?” Jordie’s voice is careful. Controlled.
“Three separate complaints over the past month.” Dean Morrison slides a paper across the desk. “All anonymous. All alleging that the four of you are engaged in—” He pauses like the words physically pain him. “—an intimate relationship that violates your housing contract.”
Grant’s jaw is so tight I can hear his teeth grinding.
“With all due respect, sir,” Wyatt starts. “Anonymous complaints aren’t exactly—”
“We also have photographic evidence.”
The room goes silent.
Carol pulls out her phone. Turns it toward us. And there, in crystal clarity, is a photo of all four of us from two nights ago. Walking into the townhouse. Jordie’s got his arm around my waist. Grant’s hand is on my lower back. Wyatt’s carrying my bag.
We look like exactly what we are.
“That doesn’t prove anything,” I say, but my voice sounds hollow even to me.
“There are fifteen more photos,” Dean Morrison says. “Including several of you, Miss Hart, leaving the townhouse at various hours wearing clothing that clearly belongs to one of the gentlemen.”
I’m wearing Wyatt’s hoodie right now. The irony isn’t lost on me.
“Who took these?” Grant’s voice is dangerously quiet.
“That’s not relevant—”
“It’s absolutely relevant. Someone’s been stalking us.”
“Or someone’s been documenting violations of university policy.” Dean Morrison closes the folder. “Which brings us to the current situation. You four signed a cohabitation agreement that explicitly forbade romantic or sexual relationships between residents.”
“We’re not—” Jordie starts.
“Please don’t insult my intelligence, Mr. Dickson.” Carol’s voice is sharp. “I’ve been doing this job for twenty years. I know what a relationship looks like.”
Silence.
Then Grant speaks, and his voice is so cold it makes me shiver. “What happens now?”
“That depends.” Dean Morrison leans back in his chair. “You have three options. One: You admit to violating the agreement and accept the consequences. Immediate eviction from university housing, academic probation, and potential scholarship review.”
Wyatt goes rigid beside me.
“Two: You maintain that the allegations are false, in which case we launch a formal investigation. Interviews with neighbors, teammates, faculty. Review of security footage. Full disciplinary hearing.”
“Or?” I ask, because there’s always an or.
“Or you voluntarily separate. Miss Hart moves to alternative housing immediately. The gentlemen remain in the townhouse. No formal charges filed. No impact on scholarships or academic standing.”
“That’s not an option,” Grant says immediately.
Everyone looks at him.
“I mean—” He stops. Starts again. “We’re not separating. That’s not—no.”
“Then you’re admitting to the relationship?” Carol’s eyebrows raise.
“I’m admitting that kicking Elise out in the middle of the semester is unreasonable. She’s got finals in three weeks. She’s applying to medical schools. You can’t just—”
“Mr. Wilder, we can absolutely ‘just.’ You signed a contract.”
“A contract you forced on us because your department screwed up housing assignments.”
“That’s not—”
“It is exactly what happened.” Grant’s standing now. “You put us in an impossible situation and now you’re punishing us for it.”
Dean Morrison’s expression doesn’t change. “No one forced you into a relationship, Mr. Wilder.”
“No, but you forced us to live together. Four adults in close quarters for months. What the hell did you think would happen?”
“I think we expected you to demonstrate basic self-control.”
The words hang there. Ugly and sharp.
Jordie stands up next. “With all due respect, Dean Morrison, that’s—” He stops himself. Takes a breath. “We’re adults. We’re not breaking any laws. We’re not hurting anyone. What we do in our private residence shouldn’t be the university’s business.”
“It’s university property, and it becomes the university’s business when you violate a contract you signed.”
“Under duress,” I add, standing too. “I had nowhere else to live. The semester had started. You gave me two choices: live with them or defer enrollment. That’s not exactly voluntary.”
Carol at least has the decency to look uncomfortable.
Dean Morrison doesn’t. “Nevertheless, you signed. And now we need a resolution.”
Wyatt’s the last to stand. When he does, there’s something in his expression that makes the temperature in the room drop. “You said option one was accepting consequences. What consequences, exactly?”
“As I mentioned—”
“No. Specifically. What happens to each of us?”
Dean Morrison exchanges a glance with Carol. “Miss Hart would face academic probation for the remainder of the semester. Her applications to medical schools would need to include a disclosure of the disciplinary action.”
My stomach turns over.
“Mr. Carter, your athletic scholarship would be reviewed by the committee. No guarantees it would be renewed.”
Wyatt’s face goes blank. Completely blank.
“Mr. Dickson, similar review. And Mr. Wilder, as team captain and the senior resident of the townhouse, you would face the most severe consequences. Possible suspension from athletic activities pending investigation.”
“Which means I miss playoffs,” Grant says flatly.
“Potentially, yes.”
“And the draft. Scouts are coming specifically to watch playoffs.”
“That’s not my concern, Mr. Wilder.”
Something in Grant’s expression shutters. “Right. Of course not.”
We’re all standing now, facing them across the desk like battle lines have been drawn.
“You have until Friday to decide,” Dean Morrison says. “Either Miss Hart moves out voluntarily, or we proceed with formal charges.”
“That’s two days,” I say.
“Yes.”
“You can’t expect us to—”
“I can and I am.” He stands, effectively dismissing us. “Friday, 5 PM. Email your decision to Carol. Until then, I strongly suggest you maintain separate sleeping arrangements. We’ll be conducting random checks.”
“Random checks?” Jordie’s voice goes up. “You can’t just—”
“We can, Mr. Dickson. This is university property. You have no expectation of privacy.”
We’re being escorted out before any of us can respond. The door closes behind us with a finality that feels like a death sentence.
We stand in the hallway for a long moment. Not speaking. Just breathing.
Then Grant says, very quietly, “We’re separating.”
“No—” I start.
“Yes.” He’s not looking at any of us. “You’re moving out. Today. I’ll help you pack.”
“Grant, that’s not—”
“It’s the only option that doesn’t destroy all of our futures.”
“Our futures?” Jordie’s voice is sharp. “What about our relationship?”
“What relationship?” Grant’s laugh is bitter. “We’ve been lying to everyone for months. Sneaking around. Pretending. And now we’re facing expulsion because we couldn’t keep it in our pants.”
“Don’t do that,” Wyatt says quietly. “Don’t make this about sex.”
“It is about sex.”
“It’s about love.” Jordie’s voice cracks. “We love her. She loves us. That’s not—this isn’t just—”
“It doesn’t matter what it is.” Grant finally looks at us, and his eyes are empty.
“What matters is she’s got a medical school interview at Johns Hopkins in two weeks.
Wyatt’s got scouts coming to playoffs. You’ve got your whole career ahead of you.
And I—” He stops. “I’m not letting her throw it all away because I was too selfish to let her go. ”
“You don’t get to make that decision for me,” I say.
“I’m not making it for you. I’m making it for all of us.”
“By pushing me away. Again.” The accusation lands and I watch it hit. “This is what you do, Grant. When things get hard, you run.”
“I’m not running. I’m being realistic.”
“You’re being a coward.”
His expression hardens. “Better a coward than the reason you lose everything you’ve worked for.”
“I’ve already lost—” I stop myself. Take a breath. “You know what? Fine. You want me to move out? I’ll move out.”
“Elise—” Wyatt starts.
“No. He’s right. This was always going to end. Might as well be now.” I’m walking away before any of them can see me cry. “Have a great life, Grant. Hope it was worth it.”
I make it to the parking lot before Jordie catches up to me.
“Stop. Just—stop.”
“I can’t.” I’m unlocking my car with shaking hands. “I need to go. I need to—”
“He doesn’t mean it.”
“He absolutely means it.”
“No, he’s scared. He’s—”
“He’s exactly who I thought he was two years ago.” I get in my car. “Thanks for the memories, Jordie. Tell Wyatt I’m sorry.”
“Where are you going?”
“Literally anywhere else.”
I drive away and don’t look back.
And I definitely don’t think about the fact that I can still feel Grant’s hands on my skin from this morning. Or that Jordie’s hoodie is in my backseat. Or that Wyatt’s playlist is still connected to my Bluetooth.
I definitely don’t think about any of that.
I make it three blocks before I have to pull over because I can’t see through the tears.
My phone buzzes. Then again. Then again.
Wyatt: Where are you
Jordie: please come back
Grant: I’m sorry
I turn my phone off.
And I sit in my car in a random parking lot and I let myself fall apart.
Because I knew this would happen. I knew it. You don’t get to be happy. You don’t get to have three amazing guys who love you and a future that looks bright.
You get your heart broken by the same guy twice and you learn to stop hoping for more.
I’m still sitting there twenty minutes later when someone knocks on my window.
I look up.
Teddy’s standing there, concern written all over his face.
“Ellie? What’s wrong?”
And that’s when I really lose it.