12. CORA
CORA
A week into the semester and I’m already running on caffeine and sheer stubbornness.
My planner is color-coded down to the hour—spin classes at the rec center, lectures, labs, study sessions, and tutoring a few underclassmen who begged me to help them survive econ.
I like it that way. I like being the one with the answers; the one who can juggle it all and still smile like I’m not fraying at the edges.
Because if I’m not that girl, then who am I?
“Don’t tell me you’re heading to the library before you’ve even finished your coffee,” Brinn scolds as we weave through the campus green, both of us clutching paper cups from the café. She’s half a step behind me, eyes narrowed like she already knows the answer.
“I’ve got a few minutes. Might as well use them,” I say, knowing Brinn’s eyeroll is coming.
“Might as well use them,” she mimics, bumping my shoulder. “God forbid you just sit on the quad and, I don’t know, catch your breath.”
“I breathe plenty,” I say too defensively, which only makes her grin.
“Uh-huh. Totally.”
I take another sip of my coffee and close my eyes for half a second, letting the warmth settle low in my chest. God, it’s good. Rich and a little too hot—exactly the kind of thing that makes mornings feel survivable. For a long time, I thought I’d have to give it up.
Years ago, when the migraines were at their worst, a doctor suggested cutting caffeine completely.
I did it. Two whole months without coffee.
Two gray, joyless months where mornings felt like punishment and every café smelled like heartbreak.
In the end, it turned out coffee wasn’t the trigger after all.
Thank god.
We cut across the path toward the fountain, the water catching the September sun, all glitter and movement, the steady rush of the jets filling the silence between us. For once, I almost let the quiet sit. Almost.
But then Brinn says it.
“People are still talking about the bonfire. Lane. Freddy. You.”
I stop mid-step, the motion sharp enough to slosh my coffee, and she smirks like she’s been waiting for it.
“Don’t look at me like that,” she chides, taking a slow sip of her iced coffee. “I heard about Freddy showing up. And Lane stepping in.”
I groan, tightening my grip on my cup. “Brinn—”
“Oh, come on.” She nudges me again, softer this time but no less relentless. “Everyone’s talking about it. You can’t just say it was nothing. That doesn’t work on me.” She flips her hair over her shoulder.
“It was nothing.” The words come out too fast, too sharp. I try to soften them with a shrug. “Freddy showed up like he always does. Lane got weird. That’s it.”
“Got weird?” she echoes, one brow lifting.
“Yes.” I force out a laugh. “Freddy and Lane had a run-in during the scavenger hunt and it was all… territorial, which makes no sense, because Lane has made it abundantly clear he wants nothing to do with me.” The words spill faster than I mean them to, edged with something I can’t quite smooth over.
“And Freddy… well, we know how he feels.”
But even as I say it, heat prickles along my skin. The memory of Lane’s voice—low, sharp, cutting clean through the smoke and noise of the bonfire—has stuck with me all week. The way he looked at Freddy. The way he looked at me.
I hated it. I loved it. And I don’t know what to do with that.
Brinn’s eyes soften. “You can keep things to yourself, you don’t have to dish. But it seems like it meant something.”
I shake my head. “No. There’s nothing there. It was just… awkward. Believe me, he wants nothing to do with me.”
“Uh-huh.” She’s unconvinced. “Which he are we talking about?”
I shoot her a look, one that tells her to drop it, and she lifts her hands in surrender. I’m thankful for it.
I sip my coffee again, hiding behind the lid, wishing I could hide from myself, too. Because if Brinn can see it, then maybe the feeling I’ve been trying to shove down all week isn’t so invisible after all.
And I don’t know what scares me more: that she’s right, or that Lane already knows it, too.
I stand outside my advisor’s office, staring at the door like it might bite. My knuckles hover as I take a steadying breath, trying to get my head on straight before I knock. When I finally do, it sounds louder than it should. I hear movement—papers shifting, a chair scraping—before the door opens.
“One of my favorite seniors,” Professor McCullough greets, smiling as she steps aside.
I take the chair across from her desk, the same one I’ve sat in a hundred times. My body settles, even if my nerves don’t.
Freshman year, I took one of her classes. I was the only woman in the room, and one of the top students. A few weeks in, she asked me to stop by during office hours. Naturally, I assumed I was in trouble. Good girl syndrome.
I wasn’t. She wanted to know my plans. What I wanted after college. How she could help. My favorite part was that she had no idea my dad coached the hockey team. She saw me for me.
Since then, I’ve taken every class of hers which counts toward graduation. She’s also pulled me into research, made me a go-to for women in STEM opportunities.
“How’s the project coming?” she asks, hands rubbing together like she’s been waiting for this. It’s the question I’ve been dodging.
“Well…” I hesitate, buying myself a second I don’t have. “I’m not sure how to answer that.”
She sits a little straighter, tilting her head just enough to pin me in place. “How much work have you done?”
I pull in a breath, hold it, then let it out slowly. The anxiety settles in my stomach, heavy and sharp, like it might fold me in half. “I haven’t made any progress.” The words land hard, like they’re carving something open. “It’s just the research objectives. Some of the math.”
Her eyes flick down to her notes. “That’s what we talked about before summer,” she frets. “At the end of spring.”
The silence between us is heavier than I’m used to. I can’t stand letting someone down. Or not doing what I was supposed to do.
“Do you still want to complete a research project this year? It’s not required, but it’d be a good leg up if we could get it accepted by a conference or two. Would help with your resume,” Professor McCullough asks the question. One she already knows the answer to.
I nod, digging my fingernails into my forearm hidden below the desk and resting across my belly. “I do. But I might need to pivot.”
The professor's eyes go wide, her pen pausing mid-tap against the desk. “Pivot? That’s a big word. What’s changed?”
My pulse jumps. This is the moment I’ve been dreading, the one where she realizes I’m not as capable or committed as she’s believed. My throat is tight, but I force myself to answer.
“I—” My voice cracks, so I clear it, speaking softer this time. “I don’t think I can work with the basketball team’s data. Not this year.”
The words hang heavily in the air. My chest burns with the admission, but at the same time, there’s a flicker of relief. Finally, the truth is out.
Professor McCullough leans back, considering me carefully. “May I ask why?”
Because my ex is on that team. Because I can’t sit in the library for hours running regressions on rebounds, pretending I don’t still feel the sting of what he did and said. Because I’m tired of pretending that pushing myself into painful places is the same thing as being strong.
I twist my fingers together in my lap. “Had a fall out with my connection on the team.” That’s the nicest way that I can say my jackass boyfriend pretended he wanted to marry me and I thought we had a future together, but then he just kind of got sick of me.
I know she reads further into my words when her posture softens.
“I thought I could push through, but I can’t. I don’t want to sound difficult or like I’m letting you down…” My voice trails off.
Professor McCullough studies me for a long moment, her expression unreadable.
Then she nods slowly. “You know, saying no or not right now is one of the hardest things for my students. Especially the ones who pride themselves on always doing the ‘right’ thing. The ones who are always doing more than anyone else.”
Heat creeps up my neck. She sees right through me.
She sets her pen down and leans forward. “Pivoting isn’t failure. It’s wisdom. If that dataset isn’t workable for you, we’ll find another. What matters is that you keep moving forward.”
The air leaves my lungs in a rush, as if I’ve been holding it for months. “Really?”
“Really.” A smile tugs at her lips. “Now tell me—if you weren’t worried about disappointing anyone, what kind of project would you choose?”
I blink at her, caught by surprise. The question feels like both a lifeline and a challenge. For once, I let myself imagine what I want—not what’s easiest for others.
“That’s the question you need to answer. If you pivot, make sure it’s to something you’ll be excited to finish. Otherwise, what’s the point?” She doesn’t say it like she’s annoyed with me or even disappointed. Pride drips from her voice, but even then, it’s hard to feel like I deserve it.