Page 11

BLAISE

I plan my days down to the half-hour because it keeps everything from unraveling. Well, more so it keeps me from having a small meltdown if I’m being honest. At least right now I've got a full schedule keeping me steady. Steady is a strong word. More like helping me not to spiral.

Monday through Saturday mapped out on my calendar with color-coordinated blocks.

Blue is for classes, green for practice, yellow for study sessions, purple for team meetings, and red and gray for games depending on if they are home or away.

Even showers and meals get their designated slots.

Sunday's the only day that stays relatively blank.

I’m surprised I haven’t put in a block for playing video games. Maybe that isn’t such a bad idea.

My eyes land back on the blocked-out days in January marked with “Puerto Rico Trip,” in yellow.

Bright enough to stand out, but not loud enough to bother me.

I’ve already triple-checked the flight info, made a packing list, and added the emergency contact form to a folder on my laptop.

The trip isn’t for a few more weeks, but it doesn’t hurt to be prepared early.

All I needed to do was get through these last three weeks of school and the holidays and I’d be all set to enjoy weather that is much nicer than what Virginia is currently giving us.

Well coursework would be getting done too because this is a short study abroad trip for a credit, but nonetheless it should be a good time.

In theory.

And by that I mean where everything goes according to plan, no one throws up on the flight, and the Wi-Fi holds steady for the entire trip.

I scroll past the trip block and glance at tomorrow’s schedule. Group project meeting at 7:15. Practice ends at 6:30, which gives me just enough time to eat, shower, and triple-check the slides for said group’s presentation.

Not too bad of a day.

Professor Wallace’s voice cuts through my thoughts. “Also, if anyone knows someone who might be interested in joining the trip, we’ve got a few open spots. A few people dropped out last minute.”

I don’t react, just nod like everyone else in the room, because I’m not sure I know anyone who could make this trip last minute. Some of the other students drop names of people who might be interested, but I’m drawing a blank on my end.

Three open spots.

I write it down in the margin of the itinerary printout like I might need to remember later. I won’t. But sometimes writing things down keeps my thoughts from looping.

Professor Wallace taps her keyboard once, and the projector screen flickers to the next slide: Packing Guidelines and Safety Protocols. She adjusts her reading glasses, then glances around the room.

“No more than one checked bag,” she says, pointing to the slide behind her, “and keep in mind the humidity. Lightweight, breathable clothing. And if you burn easily, pack accordingly. The sun doesn’t care if you didn’t mean to fall asleep on the beach.”

A few people chuckle. I underline the line about driver’s licenses and/or passport copies in my notes.

She clicks again. “Room assignments will be emailed out next week once we finalize housing. You’ll be paired with someone in the group unless you’ve submitted a roommate request.”

A hand shoots up near the back.

“What if we’re not sure yet?” asks a guy I vaguely recognize. “Like…can we switch roommates if something’s not working out?”

Professor Wallace sighs. “If there’s a problem, come to me. I’m not going to make anyone suffer through a week of passive-aggressive silence, but I’d prefer if you all attempt to coexist. Like adults.”

More laughter. I make a mental note to check who else from my department signed up just in case they couldn’t make it tonight.

Professor Wallace switches gears and flips the slide. “Quick reminders while I’ve got your attention. If you’re taking medication, make sure you bring enough for the full duration. I’m hoping to avoid tracking down a pharmacy if possible.”

She writes out HEALTH FORMS DUE: Dec 12 in all caps.

I already turned mine in two days ago.

Behind me, someone flips a water bottle open too aggressively and gets a splash across the desk. They whisper a curse. Professor Wallace keeps going.

“There will be one free day at the end of the trip. That means no assigned activities, but I expect you to stay near the resort, check in with faculty, and do not book an illegal jet ski excursion off a TikTok you found the night before. It’s happened. We’re not doing that again.”

My pen hovers. I look around the room. I don’t know anyone here well enough to guess who that TikTok jet ski person, but I’m also not surprised to find out this has happened before.

Then she clicks to the final slide: return flights and debrief.

“We’ll be flying out of San Juan early that Sunday,” Professor Wallace says, tapping her finger against the projected slide. “The group shuttle leaves the hotel at 8:15 a.m. sharp. No exceptions.”

A few groans ripple through the room. Someone mutters, “brutal,” under their breath.

Wallace just smiles. “You can survive this, I promise.”

I underline the flight time in my calendar, even though I’ve already done it once before. Double-checking details calms my brain and I have no plans on ever stopping that.

The meeting wraps a few minutes later.

I grab my things and shove them into my backpack before standing up.

People are making their way toward the exit, all the while chatting about packing lists and how excited they are to be going on this trip.

I sling my bag over one shoulder and walk toward the door as I mentally plan the quickest route back to the house.

The Political Science Department is usually quieter this time of day, because there may be only one or two evening classes happening right now.

Thankfully, it also means not many people are walking the halls outside of the meeting I just got out of, making it easier for me to get out of here quicker.

Which is exactly how I like it.

My brain’s already moving through what the rest of the evening will entail. What I’ll eat, how long I can work before someone bugs me about something completely unrelated to whatever I’m doing. Hell, how much time I’ll be able to game tonight.

I take the back hallway near the vending machines and as I turn the corner, I collide with someone. Not shoulder to shoulder. Not just a graze.

A full-on collision.

Papers hit the ground. My backpack jerks to the side. I see a phone skid across the floor out of the corner of my eye.

“Shit—” I mutter, already reaching down instinctively. “Sorry, I didn’t?—”

Then I see who it is.

Willow Sanchez.

Her eyes widen as they fly up to meet mine. For a split second, the usual glare she has for me is gone, replaced by pure surprise. Then it slams back into place as if she just realized who she was looking at.

“Seriously, Dalton?” she snaps, already bending to scoop up her phone. It looks undamaged, screen thankfully intact. A few loose papers flutter around her feet.

“Didn’t see you,” I manage, my voice rougher than intended. I crouch down, gathering the papers and avoiding her gaze. My knuckles brush against the worn denim of her jeans as we both reach for the same page. A jolt, quick and unwelcome, snakes up my arm, and I pull back as if I’ve been burned.

She snatches the papers from my hand without a word, stuffing them haphazardly back into a folder she must have dropped. Standing up, she smooths down her sweater, adjusts the strap of her bag.

“Right,” she says, her tone showcasing just how pissed off she is that we have to share the same air. “Because looking where you’re going is optional.”

"Wasn't expecting obstacles," I counter, my voice flat. I straighten up, shoving my hands into my pockets to stop myself from reaching out again, from doing something stupid like brushing a stray piece of lint off her dark sweater. She smells faintly of vanilla and something else…coffee, maybe? I can’t pinpoint the scent nor will she give me an opportunity to.

And I understand why, even though it’s the way things need to be.

She narrows her eyes. "Funny. I could say the same thing." She tucks her phone into her back pocket. “Anyway, I should get going. I don’t have time to waste.”

"Neither do I," I reply quickly because I know the longer I stay in her vicinity, the more my thoughts will circle the drain about what could have been if circumstances were different. “What are you doing over here anyway?"

She adjusts the folder under her arm, avoiding my eyes. "I needed a quote for an article from Professor Simpson. Satisfied?"

Not even close. But I just shrug, leaning back on my heels slightly. "Just curious. Don't usually see campus reporters around these parts.”

A ghost of a smile touches her lips, gone as quickly as it appears. "Wouldn't want to miss any potential scandals, Dalton. You guys are full of 'em."

"We keep things interesting," I say, the corner of my own mouth twitching despite myself. Why were we engaging in this conversation anyway?

"Right," she says as she looks around for a moment before her gaze returns to my face. “Are you going to be around tomorrow evening? I’m sure Knox told you I need to interview the senior hockey players for a special in the newspaper. Everyone is meeting up at your house.”

“Can’t. Group project meeting.” It’s true, but the excuse feels flimsy even to my own ears.

Willow raises a single, perfectly shaped eyebrow. A small, almost imperceptible smirk plays on her lips. “Surprise, surprise. I guess I’ll follow up with you another time then.”

“Sounds like it.”

"Well. See you around."

"Yeah," I manage, watching as she turns and walks away, her dark hair swaying slightly with each step. The scent of vanilla and coffee lingers for a second longer before it, too, is gone.

I don’t make a move as I watch her walk away until she disappears around the corner. All I can do is replay in my mind the way the sweater hugged her curves and how she’d probably want to rip my face off if she knew I was thinking that.

Fuck.

I drag a hand down my face, exhaling slowly. This is exactly what I don't need right now. I've spent years building walls between us, carefully maintaining distance after that night. And all it takes is one accidental collision in a hallway to bring it all rushing back.

That and running into her at Knox’s birthday party. And seeing her when she stopped by our house sometime before that.

My feet finally start moving again, but my mind is somewhere else entirely. Somewhere dangerous. Somewhere I promised myself I wouldn't go.

I can still feel the warmth where her body briefly pressed against mine. The way her green eyes flashed with the fire I’m used to seeing directed at me. How her lips parted slightly when she first saw me.

Those lips.

I swallow hard and pick up my pace, as if I can outrun these thoughts. It doesn't work. Because why would it?

By the time I get back to the apartment, my jaw aches from clenching it so tight. I slam the door harder than necessary, tossing my backpack onto the couch.

"Someone's in a mood," Knox calls out from the kitchen. The microwave hums in the background.

"I'm fine," I mutter, heading straight for the fridge. I grab a water bottle, downing half of it in one go. Who knew thinking such dirty thoughts about someone’s sister would cause me to feel dehydrated. Then again, I’m thirsty as hell for her so it all tracks.

Knox leans against the counter, arms crossed. "You're not fine.”

He’s right, but I can’t tell him I’m thinking about how much I would love to bend his sister over and fuck the hatred she has for me out of her. I polish off the water in the bottle in two gulps.

"Just school stuff," I lie, avoiding his gaze as I crush the empty water bottle in my hand. I toss it toward the recycling bin, missing by a good foot.

Knox tilts his head, giving me a look that says he knows I'm full of shit but won't push it. "Right. Well, whatever it is, maybe punch a pillow instead of slamming a door next time."

I grunt instead of coming up with a proper response, grab the water bottle, and put it in its proper place before leaving the kitchen.

I need to get away from Knox as quickly as possible.

He's one of my best friends, practically a brother, but there are some thoughts I can’t share with him especially when they involve fantasies about his sister.

The moment my bedroom door clicks shut, I drop onto the edge of my bed, head in my hands. I’m going to need a cold shower.

Stat.