Page 33 of Burn Bright

She looks away, trying to control the sudden brimming tears. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry for crying.”

“I’m not trying to make this harder on you—well, actually I am,” she says, and I laugh while she continues, “I just really miss you, Ben. And it’s beendays.”

“A day,” I correct.

Her chin trembles. “I will be okay.” She blows her nose in a monogrammed handkerchief. “Because I’m a Cobalt, and we are built to withstand everything.”

I give her a few big nods, that statement not sitting as confidently inside me as it is within her. After we say our goodbyes in French, we hang up, and I shove my phone in my pocket.

Harriet has questions in her eyes. She shifts the Jolly Rancher slowly in her mouth with her tongue, then says, “Wishing you never transferred to MVU?”

It’s not what I thought she’d ask. “Going back to Philly didn’t even cross my mind,” I say honestly. “So I’d say no.” Then I nod to her, “What’s going on with the forehead, Friend?” It’s still red as fuck, and I didn’t forget where our conversation ended.

She bites down on the hard candy and rotates her bracelet on her wrist. “I busted my ass in that class, and now I have to retake it.” Her eyes tighten, more upset. “Which could set me back for applying to med school if I can’t stack certain courses together or if some aren’t offered in the right semesters. It’s just another roadblock, and I’m tired of those.”

Pre-med.I can’t imagine how intense and arduous the path to becoming a doctor is. I haven’t even declared my major yet. I’m not striving for a specific career. It’s not like I’ve been great at anything other than hockey.

“You don’t want to pack it all up and become a drummer?”

“Like that’s any easier,” she mutters, pulling a bracelet off her wrist, just to put it on the other.

I scrape my hand across the back of my neck, then bow toward her. “Maybe there’s a bright side to this.”

She looks interested. “I’m listening.”

“I have the same core requirements for humanities,” I tell her. “Why don’t we take the same class?”

“Take…the same class?” she repeats like I’m speaking French.

“Yeah,” I nod. “If the course you need is filled, I’ll go to the dean and get us in it. They’ll usually pull strings for Cobalts.”

Her face draws into a confused wince. “What the hell do you get out of it?”

“I don’t have to suffer through a humanities course alone. I like taking classes with friends.” I tip my head in thought. “And I get to help you.”

Her brows rise. “I’m your charity case?”

I seesaw my hand. “I get off on making people feel good. So in that instance, maybe, but maybe not because I feel like it’s more for me in a way, less for you.”

She fights against an emerging smile. “You’re weirdly honest.”

“You don’t hate it,” I state.

“I don’t,” she agrees, sitting forward. Closer to me. Our knuckles nearly brush. She goes quiet. Deep in thought while sucking on the Jolly Rancher.

I feel on the verge of being rejected. “Unless,” I say, “you don’t like having friends in your classes, which I get if you think I’d be a distraction. But I’m a decent classmate. I won’t bug the shit out of you. Though, I do make an average study partner. My flashcards are always pretty fucking basic.”

She blinks for a second before she says, “You realize you don’t have to ask, right? You could just wait and see if I can get in it myself, then figure out which humanities course I’m taking and…enroll in the same class.”

I smile. “I don’t much like stalking.”

“Is it stalking or using your resources?”

“Just trying not to give you a jump scare when you see me in your class, Fisher.”

She glances at my ballcap on the table, then at me. “What if I choose a class that you’ll absolutely hate?”