Page 13 of Burn Bright (Cobalt Empire #1)

HARRIET FISHER

I cannot stop thinking about him.

The entire subway ride after leaving the End of the World, I replay our conversations, which were easy and natural and not at all taxing. I’m buzzing like I drank three Lightning Bolt! energy drinks back-to-back.

I dazedly touch the damp tendril of my hair. I remember his strong hand sliding up against my neck and cradling the side of my head. I remember the skip of my pulse, the urge to lean my weight into his bare chest, the comfort and growing euphoria of being around him.

A bird shit on me, and he made me feel like nothing was ruined. Not my hair, not the day, not the moment, not me. I was okay.

He made me feel okay.

He let me wear his hat. It’s seriously nothing I should freak out over, but my heart floats higher in my body as I rerun how he fit it on my head, how he tightened it for me. I’m weirdly breathless all over again.

Harriet. I want to groan out my name into the pits of my palms, but I stay quiet and still as the passenger car rattles on the tracks. I feel fucking ridiculous for being giddy over something so basic , but if this is what friendship brings…then I think I could get behind it.

Friendship.

I stare at my empty hands. I could be holding Ben Cobalt’s worn ballcap right now, and I know it seems dumb that I gave it back. Who’d ever reject an article of clothing worn by a Cobalt boy? But I don’t regret it. Because I can’t imagine never seeing him wear it again.

So yeah, I didn’t accept the hat. I’m sure a good percentage of girls would thank me profusely.

I take the subway north to the Upper West Side where MVU’s campus resides. My housing isn’t directly on campus, but it’s only ten blocks away. If I don’t want to walk to class, I can bike.

I just have to get a bike. And learn to ride it.

Another task for another day.

I mentally file it away, which is too easy considering Ben is occupying about 80% of my brain right now.

Once I’m on foot and in the old apartment complex, I take the elevator to the fourth floor, and I think about him again.

I want to tear him out of my head, but then I don’t.

Because I like this weird, feather-light feeling swimming through me every time I remember and recall and replay.

Memories aren’t always worth revisiting in my experience.

Most of the time they bring an uncomfortable swelter that feels like I’m being cooked alive.

Not these, though.

These ones, I think I really like.

“Why don’t we take the same class?”

My lips twitch, aching to rise higher. Having a friend in a class is like gaining an instant advantage. We can share notes. We can study together. We can discuss lectures and help each other with assignments. The only time I ever have this perk is during classes that assign lab partners.

Humanities don’t have labs. I’d normally never have this advantage. I’d have to slog away alone.

Yet, Ben offered it to me like it was nothing.

And why—why couldn’t my initial thought be one of elation and utter happiness? Instead, I kept thinking, he’s going to get sick of me.

We’re working the same shifts. We’re bound to spend more and more time with each other.

And now we’ll be in a class together.

I’ve been told that my mere presence drains people like a battery sucking vortex. And that was from my own mom. I’m not trying to ruin this friendship before it leaves the starting line, but I just worry that Too Much Harriet will likely wear down even the mightiest of extroverts.

I haven’t determined where on the extrovert scale my new roommate Eden Marks lands.

She has a dramatic chin-length bob suited for the streets of Paris.

Nearly black hair, pale-white skin, and a freckle-less, clear complexion like she hibernates during the summertime.

A denim overall dress, frilly white top, and Mary Janes remind me we are on two different scales of the style spectrum.

She’s going into her fourth year and majoring in accounting, which means we won’t have any classes together. It’s better this way. No risk of having Too Much Harriet here.

When I’m barely two steps through the door, Eden asks me to take off my shoes. “I’m sorry, it’s like a personal thing.”

“It’s fine,” I say, not caring at all. While I unlace my boots, I try to work my jaw out of its normal resting place. Smile , I hear my mom in my head, as well as her next words, but not like that. I return my jaw to its OG position.

Eden is busy bustling around, clearing stray dishes off the butcher-block countertop and starting a pot of coffee in the cramped kitchen. Which is home to the world’s skinniest stove and fridge. No microwave, no dishwasher.

The tiny, but cute, one-bedroom apartment is under 500-square feet.

I haven’t really contributed to any of the furniture here.

Not that there’s room for much. A lumpy lime-green sofa faces a small TV on a wooden media console, and an orange armchair sits beneath the only window.

I get the sense that Eden likes to thrift anything from the ’70s.

Her brown-and-orange-rimmed dishware even looks authentic .

My mom would rent this place fully furnished as is. She’d add Fleetwood Mac vinyls on the walls. Her obsession with the band led to my middle name being Stevie. After Stevie Nicks.

I probably adopted a love of music from her, but not her love of the ’70s. The décor isn’t really my taste, but I’m so far from picky where my housing is concerned right now. Eden could have a thing for stuffed rabbits or toenails in jars, and I would deal with it.

What’s noticeably not from the ’70s: the black-and-white photographs framed on the brick walls. Eden’s family photos, I’ve deduced, from the beachy posed pics where she’s gathered with her mom, dad, and four siblings near a sand dune.

Several others are of a gorgeous couple suntanning on a dock. The girl snuggled against the guy is clearly Eden. “That’s my boyfriend,” she claimed him proudly, and he’s smoking hot so I can see why. Apparently, the photos were taken on their summer vacay at Lake Champlain.

I’m shocked she didn’t ask him to move in, considering he’s made the family wall and his abs are displayed for all to see.

She briefly mentioned it was “too soon” for that commitment since they’d only been together for four months.

I guess it’s easier to trash a photo if things go bad.

Not as easy to kick someone out of your place.

As I slowly untie my laces, I stare dazedly at her family photos, and my stomach clenches with bits of envy.

I’d almost rather she had an addiction to taxidermy, but it’s good—this is fine.

She loves her family, and I don’t even know her, so I’m not going to wish her a deadbeat dad and a shitty mom.

Dishes clink as Eden sets a daisy-embellished plate in the cupboard. “I’m actually so glad you answered me on the Valley Boards,” she says. “For a second, I thought I wouldn’t have any takers this semester.”

Valley Boards are ways for MVU students to connect with each other. Locating study partners, announcing new intramural sports, and even posting for roommates. I’d been quick to contact Eden as soon as my transfer to MVU was accepted.

Her ad was simple: Pull-out couch, shared bathroom, and parking spot all yours for just $700 a month! (Ten blocks from campus.)

The parking spot was the real get for me. My car has been my lifeline since I was sixteen, and trying to decide what to do with it when I moved here had been the biggest thorn in my side.

It’s also startlingly cheaper than the price of on-campus dorms. That luxury would cost an arm, leg, kidney, and possibly the spleen of my firstborn.

The coffee machine rumbles to life. “So you’re pre-med?” Her eyes narrow disbelievingly, and they sink down to my combat boots as I pry each one off. “I don’t know any doctors who wear Doc Martens, no offense.”

I’m a little surprised she thinks my TJ Maxx boots are actual Doc Martens.

“I know of a doctor who’s covered in tattoos and piercings,” I say.

“Believe me, the boots won’t make a difference.

” Though I won’t be wearing them to my med school interview.

I didn’t put in much effort for this bartending job today because I didn’t think the manager would care.

Physicians will care if I show up in a crop top and jeans. That’s even if I get an interview. There are about a hundred thousand moves I need to make before I can reach that hurdle.

Eden eyes me for another solid beat. “Med school is really difficult. Besides accounting, pre-med is the hardest path at MVU. You have to be a brainiac.”

I nod slowly and place my shoes on a checkered mat beneath a coat hook. “I know it’s hard.”

She smiles stiffly. “Just making sure. It’s easier changing majors as a sophomore than it is as a senior.” She checks on the pot of coffee. “Where’d you say you transferred from? NYU?”

I never actually told her my previous school—and now saying it will make me look like an overachieving dick.

There were so many times growing up that I’d get the side-eye for setting a curve on tests, for winning academic awards, for being “the teacher’s pet” in sixth grade.

Just because I cared about my grades. Took them seriously. I enjoyed school.

Big shock, right? So there’s always this sudden urge to shrink back when people ask me about myself. To downplay. Just so I can avoid the narrowed looks.

But Eden is my roommate, and I shouldn’t hide basic shit from her. So what if she thinks I’m an overachieving dick? So fucking what.

“Penn,” I say tightly.

She pours coffee into a vintage diner mug. “Penn State is a good school, but MVU is way harder.”

I wince. “Actually, it was the University of Pennsylvania.”

She grimaces at the slip-up. We’re both basically in full grimaces at this awkward miscommunication, and I am completely the one to blame.

“Oh…” she breathes out.

“Yeah,” I say into a long nod.