Page 19

19

QUINN

The first day of classes always feels like stepping onto a treadmill already set at full speed. No warning. No easing in. Just an immediate, breathless sprint.

I’ve done this three times before. Three different Augusts spent walking these same paths, sitting in these same too-warm classrooms, scrawling my name on too-thick syllabi. But this time feels ... different. Heavier somehow. Like I’m holding my breath, waiting for something to knock the air from my lungs.

Maybe because I spent the weekend convincing myself that walking away from Warren was the right call.

I know it was. It had to be.

After our almost-moment at the banquet, I spent the rest of the night dodging him—ducking into side halls, slipping behind columns, eyes fixed on my tray like I didn’t feel his gaze trailing me.

I left fifteen minutes early, dumped my uniform in the back room, and hurried to my car, like I could outrun whatever I’d almost let happen. A kiss from him, maybe. A crack in the armor, definitely.

I doubt I’d survive that heartbreak twice.

I’d barely survived it the first time. The chest-splitting ache that clung to me for months, like I’d swallowed something sharp and couldn’t get it out. It took me too long to rebuild myself after that. Too long to figure out how to stand on my own.

And besides, Warren’s ... different now. Harder. More closed off, less forgiving.

He was always grumpy—a little rough around the edges, a little too quick to snap—but there was a big part of him that was softer, too. A part of him that let things go, that knew when to cut people slack.

But now that sharp edge has dulled into something colder, heavier. Like he’s stopped bothering to shake things off. Like he’s decided it’s easier to hold on to the anger than figure out what to do with it.

I don’t know how to reach this version of him. I don’t know if I should even try.

That’s why it’s better, I think, if I let him go once and for all.

I repeat that to myself all the way to my second class. It’s a literature lecture I’m TA-ing this semester with Professor Lang. A small win but one I’m proud of. Her class is competitive, and being chosen felt like proof I’ve done something right.

The room’s still half-empty when I get there, students trickling in with coffee cups and notebooks, scrolling their phones or swapping lazy conversation. I tuck myself off to the side, perched in a chair near the whiteboard.

It’s part of my job to check the roster, mark off participation points, and keep an eye on the general chaos.

So, I let my gaze drift, scanning familiar faces I half recognize from past semesters. There’s the girl who’s always overdressed for class, the guy who showed up half-drunk to every final last year and somehow still passed.

And then, second row down, third from the aisle—Warren.

I blink, half-convinced I’m imagining him. But no, he’s there, leaning back in his chair like he owns the place, a ballpoint pen spinning idly between his fingers, dark hair still damp like he barely made it out of the shower before bolting across campus.

His gaze is fixed on his notebook, face unreadable. But still, he’s here.

In my class.

I look away fast, heart stuttering like it’s forgotten how to keep a normal rhythm. I press my fingers hard against the notebook in my lap. It’s fine. It’s whatever.

Maybe it’s just a fluke. A scheduling accident or some weird overlap in graduation requirements. A kinesiology major shouldn’t need a 200-level literature elective. But now that I think about it . . .

I do remember him complaining about an English class freshman year. Something about hating metaphors, calling symbolism a scam. Maybe this is a retake. Something he put off until the last possible second. Maybe that’s all this is. Just bad timing, bad luck.

I’d like to think it’s a coincidence. That it doesn’t mean anything. But some part of me—the foolish, reckless part—isn’t so easily convinced.

Because what if it isn’t an accident? What if us working together again this summer wasn’t random? What if this class, this moment, this entire stretch of tangled timing is the universe’s way of nudging us closer again, just to see what we’ll do?

There’s some invisible hand that keeps reshuffling the deck, determined to place us in each other’s path. It’s like the universe is hell-bent on giving us one more chance, even if we don’t know what to do with it. Because now that he’s walked back into my life, I can’t figure out how to unfeel him. Can’t unknow what it was like to be his.

There’s a Dickinson line from one of her letters that’s always stuck with me: “ I am out with lanterns, looking for myself .”

That’s what it feels like sometimes. That there’s a version of myself I can’t access anymore. One that existed before Warren Mercer touched me, held me, looked at me like I was something precious.

Professor Lang starts reading through the syllabus, her voice steady and low, and he finally glances up from his notebook. Those blue-gray eyes scan the room lazily, like he’s barely paying attention.

And somehow—like he can feel me watching—his gaze lands on mine.

For a second, I can’t look away. I’m stuck, caught in the space between his eyes and mine, between the memory of his hand on my wrist and the sound of my nickname on his lips last Friday night. I can still feel the warmth of his fingers, the rough scrape of his voice, and my stomach twists so hard it’s all I can do not to flinch.

He doesn’t smile at me. Doesn’t smirk. Just stares with narrowed eyes, his expression impossible to read. And then, slowly, like he’s giving me a chance to break first, he raises one eyebrow. Just a flick of movement, subtle and knowing.

I force myself to look away, dropping my gaze to my notebook so fast my pen nearly slips from my fingers. My pulse is hammering, my fingers clenched too tight. It’s fine. It’s nothing.

I spend the rest of class hyperaware of every shift in his chair, every time his pen scratches against paper, every lazy drag of his fingers over the edge of his notebook. It’s as though my brain’s decided it’s impossible not to track him, impossible not to feel the weight of his presence from across the room.

By the time Lang dismisses class, my nerves are shot. I gather my things with shaking hands and haphazardly stuff my notebook into my bag.

I just need to get out of here. Get outside. Get some air.

I’m already halfway to the door when I hear his voice call my name.

I should keep walking. I should pretend I didn’t hear him, like I didn’t spend the last hour agonizing over the way he kept looking up from the back of the room, gaze flicking toward me when he thought I wouldn’t notice.

But of course, I stop in my tracks.

I turn, one hand still clutching the strap of my bag. Warren’s standing a few feet away, loose and casual, like he’s got all the time in the world. His backpack’s slung over one shoulder, and there’s a crease on his cheek from where he must’ve been sleeping earlier. A ridiculous detail for me to notice.

“What?” I say, and I’m aiming for indifference, but it comes out tight.

He doesn’t answer right away. Just studies me, eyes dragging over my face like he’s piecing something together. He must be remembering Friday night, too, remembering how I bolted before I let myself do something drastic.

Either that, or I’ve got something in my teeth.

“I didn’t know you were TA-ing this class,” he says finally.

“Yeah, well,” I say, shrugging. “Surprise.”

His mouth twitches. “Guess I’ll have to make sure I don’t slack off, then.”

“Don’t worry, I won’t be grading your papers.”

“Good,” he says, stepping closer. “Wouldn’t want you playing favorites.”

“Yeah, nepotism is exactly what I’m known for.”

He gives a soft, breathy chuckle, the kind that feels like it’s meant for just me. And for a second, it’s like we’re lying back in that field again on the last day of summer, starlight flickering low over the grass, me tucked against his chest and him tracing slow circles against my naked spine.

I shift my bag higher on my shoulder and say, “Didn’t know you were suddenly into literature.”

His smile falters. “I needed the credit.”

“Right,” I say, and I mean to leave it there, I really do. “That the only reason you’re here?”

He scratches the back of his neck. “What are you asking me?”

I hate that my pulse jumps. Hate that some soft, silly part of me wants to believe there’s more to this. “I’m not asking anything,” I say, and I turn toward the door.

I barely make it three steps before his hand finds my wrist. It’s nothing—just a quick touch, barely there—but I stop like I’ve hit a wall. Something in me short-circuits at the warmth of his fingers on my skin, and I’m physically incapable of moving forward.

“Quinny,” he says softly.

“Don’t call me that,” I murmur.

His grip tightens. It’s not enough to hurt, but enough to hold me there. Enough to make my breath catch.

“You don’t have to act this way,” he says. “Weren’t you the one that said we should talk ?”

I frown. “Weren’t you the one that said you really don’t fucking care about me ?”

His gaze dips to my mouth, then back to my eyes. “I lied. You know I did. Look, Friday night, I think we both—”

“I don’t have time for this.”

I walk forward with his hand still wrapped around my wrist. He trails after me without a word, without resistance, like he knew this was coming. Like he’s been waiting for it.

I don’t stop until we’re halfway down the hall, tucked around the corner where no one else can see us. The air smells faintly like chalk dust and stale coffee, and the flickering overhead light is already giving me a headache.

But his thumb is still pressed against the inside of my wrist like he’s keeping count. Like if he holds on long enough, he’ll figure out how to sync his heartbeat to mine and make me stay.

“We let our past and the proximity get the best of us these last few weeks,” I say, keeping my voice low. “I get that. But it’s long over between us.”

“You think I don’t already know that?”

I sigh. “Then why are you wasting your time trying to hash this out?”

“I’m gonna be in your class all semester long.”

“I know,” I say. “And it’ll be fine. It’ll be normal. I hardly interact with TAs in my regular classes. That’s the thing about teachers’ assistants and students—they stay in their lanes. But don’t—” I shake my head, swallowing hard. “Don’t make this into something.”

“So, you can be the bigger person at the club? Sit and wait for me on the hood of my car, tell me to be civil, but I can’t request the same from you?”

“This is school , Warren.”

“What’s that got to do with anything?”

“It’s different here,” I snap. “It’s not summer. It’s not Sycamore. It’s real life.”

“Sycamore is real life, too,” he says, voice tight now.

“It is—” I start, but words tangle in my throat.

Because it is. It was . Sycamore was early mornings and endless shifts and aching feet and sunburns that linger until October. It was frustration and sweat and whispered conversations in dark break rooms. But it was something else, too. Something that feels too big to name.

“You’re right,” he says before I can answer. His hand loosens slightly on my wrist, but he doesn’t let go. “The time to hash things out was winter break freshman year. But you did what you do best. You disappeared.”

“You forced me to. You shut me out.”

He lets out a quiet, humorless snort. “No one could force you to do anything, Quinn, but sure, let’s leave it at that.”

“It’s better this way,” I say, softer now. “We can be normal in class, obviously, but I think we should just leave this summer behind us.”

“And that first summer, too?”

I freeze. My fingers twitch in his hold. “I don’t—”

“I thought we could work things out,” he says gruffly. “After all this time, I don’t know why I let myself think that. Don’t know why I let myself hope you’d changed.”

“You’re the one who changed,” I whisper. “It’s like I don’t even know who you are anymore. You could be a stranger standing in front of me, and I wouldn’t know what you wanted.”

He just stares. For a second, I think maybe I’ve said something crueler than I meant to. Maybe I’ve pushed too hard. But then he shakes his head like he’s finally done trying to understand me.

“Right.” He lets go of my wrist, his hand falling to his side. “I’ll see ya in class, Quinn.”

I swallow hard, curling my fingers into a fist to stop them from shaking. “See ya, Warren.”

And then I just stand there, watching him walk away. His shoulders are tight, his head low, like he’s spent every last bit of effort trying to hold this together, and now he’s got nothing left to give.

And it’s supposed to be better this way—clean, quiet, simple. But it doesn’t feel better. It feels like something inside me’s been scooped out and replaced with static. Sharp and restless and wrong.

“Warren.”

He pauses but stays rooted to the spot, hands in his pockets, waiting.

I need to say something. Something smart. Something steady. Something that turns this into a choice I made instead of a wound I reopened.

But all I can manage is, “I didn’t really mean that.”

He turns his head slightly, like he’s deciding whether or not to believe me.

“Which part?” he asks, voice raw.

“The part where I said I didn’t know you. I do. I always will.”

“Okay,” he says. And then he finally walks away, shoulders hunched, steps steady, fading down the hall until I can’t hear him anymore.

I let my breath go in one shaky rush, my fingers still tingling from where he touched me. Like even now, he’s still holding on.