Page 3

The last class of the day is finally over, and just like that, my first day as a sophomore is done. I can practically feel the ball of anxiety I’ve had since waking up this morning unraveling and dissipating in my stomach.

Not that today was too bad. My few classes mainly consisted of going over the course outline for the semester, and some had icebreakers. Cringe. There’s nothing worse than introducing yourself to a bunch of strangers.

I stand with the rest of the students and slowly gather my things. Shouldering my tote bag, I walk past the rows of retractable seats and down the few steps to the door.

Learning from freshman year, I opted to skip the front row and made a beeline for one of the seats in the middle row. It’s far enough back that the professor won’t call on you to answer a question but not so far that you can’t hear anything—the perfect sweet spot.

When I reach the last step, I notice a guy lingering like he’s waiting for someone. I vaguely remember him from the start of class. He sat a few rows in front of me, and we did that awkward eye-lock thing before he took his seat.

He smiles, and my natural reaction is to offer him a polite smile as I pass by him. I’m nearly at the set of double doors when I hear him say something.

Not sure if he's talking to me or someone else, I glance over my shoulder and see him coming my way. In two quick steps, he's right in front of me, and deep brown eyes lock onto mine.

I immediately notice we’re the same height. He’s not short; I’m just tall. At 5’11, most guys aren’t exactly towering over me.

“Hi, sorry. I didn’t mean to weird you out,” he chuckles softly, running a hand through his hair.

“You didn’t weird me out,” I reassure him quickly, not exactly sure why I feel the need to, other than I don’t know what else to say.

Realizing we’re blocking the path for the other students trying to leave, I move off to the side and feel him follow closely behind. Once we’re a good distance from the door, he jumps right back into conversation.

“I, uh, haven’t seen you around before. Are you new here?”

“Yeah,” I nod. “Transferred this year.”

“Oh, cool.” He grins. “Where from?”

“California.”

“Ah, figures; looks like you spent some time in the sun with that tan.”

His gaze travels down my bare legs, lingering slightly too long. Suddenly, I wish I’d worn long pants instead of my cut-off denim shorts.

When I shift from one leg to the other, he quickly returns his gaze to mine, a hint of pink blooming on his cheeks. At least he has the decency to look embarrassed at being caught.

“I’m Finn, by the way.” He flashes me another smile, and yes, it’s nice, but I’m also ready to end this conversation and go home.

I’m pretty sure that, under different circumstances, someone like Finn would be my type.

And his straightforwardness would be appreciated.

He’s good-looking in that all-American, boy-next-door way, with light brown hair cut shorter on the sides and longer on the top.

Based on his athletic build, I’ll take a wild guess and say he either plays a sport or works out regularly.

But honestly, I feel nothing on a physical front.

I wonder if that’s a side effect of being cheated on. Has the opposite sex suddenly become unappealing to me after what happened with my ex?

“Bear,” I murmur, casting a longing glance at the doors. I was so close to getting out of here.

“Bear…” he rolls my name around like most people do when they first hear it. “So, listen, since you’re new here, let me know if you need help catching up on anything or studying.”

Before I can respond, he flips open his notebook and hands me a piece of paper. Taking it from him, careful not to let our fingers brush, I unfold it. His name and number are scribbled down in that messy way boys write.

I'm not na?ve enough to think that's the only reason he's giving me his number. Besides, there's nothing to catch up on in this class—it's literally the first day.

Folding it back up, I drop the paper into my tote bag. I know I won’t take him up on that offer, but I don’t have the heart to tell him I’m not interested.

“Thanks, that’s kind of you,” I say instead.

When his smile grows wider, my guilt over not being interested grows.

Yes, it’s silly, I know. But hurting other people’s feelings, even unintentionally, has always made me feel terrible. Pia says I’m too sensitive, and people wouldn’t care if I were more honest. But even the truth can hurt someone, and that’s the last thing I want to do.

I’ll let Finn say what he needs, and we’ll go our separate ways. Simple.

“It was nice meeting you, Bear. Hopefully, I’ll hear from you soon.”

Not wanting to burst his bubble when we’re so close to ending this, I simply nod and smile, not promising anything. He gives me a quick wave before jogging out the door.

When people start walking in for the next class, I linger longer than necessary, only leaving once I'm sure Finn has left the hallway.

The student news board is my last stop before returning to my apartment. I take a few wrong turns, still learning to navigate my way around campus, but eventually, I see the notice board I’m looking for.

Scanning the various flyers promoting different clubs, upcoming sports games, and events, I find something that catches my eye.

I grab the flyer and give it a quick once-over.

Static Bar and Grill. Staff Wanted. Since there’s only one, I snap a picture of it with my phone, leaving it pinned up for someone else, and make a mental note to look over it in more detail later.

It was Pia who suggested I join a club or get a job as a way to meet new people. Getting a job seemed more appealing since I could make some extra cash. My course load isn’t too heavy this semester, so I should be able to balance both.

Feeling accomplished, I smile to myself.

As I walk away from the board, my phone vibrates with an incoming text. I grab the device from my bag and open it.

Mom: Your car was delivered. Keys are under the wheel, and I asked that the box be left at your door so you don’t have to carry it up yourself. Love you.

The box she’s referring to is filled with miscellaneous and sentimental items I didn’t have the heart to leave behind.

I stashed it in the trunk of my car so that we didn’t get charged an exorbitant amount of money for flying with an oversized item.

Thankfully, my dad’s friend, Kevin, owns a car transportation business, so I knew the car and the box would be delivered safely.

I type a quick reply and press send.

Bear: Thank you. Love you, too!

It's a short walk back to the apartment, and before long, I'm rounding the corner to my hallway with car keys in hand, expecting to see the box at my front door like my mom said. Instead, there's nothing. A quick scan left and right confirms it's not in front of anyone else's door either.

For a fleeting moment, I think I might have gotten off on the wrong floor. This is, after all, only my third day living here. But no, I’m staring at the correct three numbers. 404.

I don’t want to panic unnecessarily, so I send another text to my mom.

Bear: Are you sure they said they left it at the door?

She replies almost instantly, but her words don’t put me at ease.

Mom: Yes. I spoke with them myself.

Bear: It’s not here.

Mom: I gave them your apartment number this morning.

As my fingers fly across the keyboard, the phone rings. I quickly slide my finger across the answer bar.

“Hey, there’s nothing here,” I say, trying to keep my voice level and not give in to the panic I can feel bubbling beneath my skin.

Nothing inside the box is valuable in monetary terms, but it’s still mine.

“Hey, honey.” My mom’s calm voice greets me. “Are you sure you’re not seeing it?”

Pinching the bridge of my nose, I take a calming breath. She’s just trying to be helpful, I remind myself.

“Yes, I’m sure.” There are only so many places a box that size can be.

“You don’t think someone stole it, do you?” Her voice drips with concern at the possibility.

Considering this building is owned by the university and only rented to students, the idea hadn’t even crossed my mind. The thought of one student stealing from another somehow feels wrong. Then again, if it’s not here, it must be somewhere else, either by accident or on purpose.

“I don’t know.” Then it suddenly hits me. “Wait, what number did you give them?”

I hear papers shuffling on the other end of the line, and her voice picks up again. “Apartment 408…”

The rest of her sentence fades into the background as I swallow down a groan, dropping my head back against the door. Mystery solved.

“Mom,” I say as calmly as I can. “I’m apartment 404, not 408.”

“What? I could have sworn it was 408.”

“No, it’s not.”

“Oh, honey, I’m sorry. I honestly thought I had it correct.

” The guilt in her voice hits me square in the chest, and I immediately feel the need to put her at ease.

After all, my parents have been so supportive during this whole move that it wouldn’t be fair to blame her for such a simple mistake.

I should’ve double-checked that she had the correct number instead of assuming.

I remind myself it’s just stuff. Everything can be replaced. “Don’t worry. I’ll go by there and see if they have it.”

“Maybe they were kind enough to keep it for you,” she says, sounding hopeful.

“Yeah, maybe,” I murmur feeling less optimistic.

“Call me if they give you any trouble.” She pauses, seeming to think better of it. “Or perhaps call your dad.”

“Definitely,” I smile. My mom and I both avoid confrontation at all costs, while my dad, the attorney, excels at it.

After reassuring her again that I’ll be fine retrieving my things, I end the call.

Pushing off my front door, I take a few steps down the hallway until I reach the correct door.

Suddenly struck by a bout of nerves for some unknown reason, I take a moment to think about what I’m going to say. I don’t even know why I’m nervous. It’s not like I’m doing anything wrong by asking for my stuff back. But mentally preparing always makes me feel more in control of a situation.

So, I’ll introduce myself, apologize for the mix-up, say a quick thank you, and be on my way with my things. Easy-peasy.

Feeling more confident, I quickly rap my knuckles against the door and wait.

Hearing the faint click of the lock turning, I plaster a smile on my face as the door swings open.

“Hi, I’m—”

The words I rehearsed die on my tongue. My throat goes dry, and the corners of my mouth drop.

Shit.

So much for preparation.