Page 12

I cut across the quad, keeping my head down. It’s loud—people shouting, laughing, groups clustered around tables and benches like nothing happened.

Maybe nothing did.

My fingers curl tighter around my backpack strap.

Then I hear it.

“Bro, I heard it wasn’t even an overdose this time.”

Laughter.

“Maybe he just choked on some pussy.”

“Or guilt.”

Another round of laughter. Someone makes a mock gasp.

“Maybe Reaper business, bro.”

Reaper what?

They’re by a stone bench. Three guys in letterman jackets. Frat boys. Not the ones from last night, but they all blend together. Loud voices, smug smiles.

My legs stop moving before I realize it.

Are they talking about Jack?

I can’t tell. They don’t say names. No one lowers their voice. It’s all a joke to them. Whatever “it” is.

One of them crushes an energy drink can against his thigh and chucks it into the bushes.

I keep walking.

My heart’s pounding again, and not because I’m out of shape.

Because every laugh sounds like a threat. Every voice feels like it knows.

Maybe they saw something.

Maybe they know.

Or maybe this is what it’s like to lose your mind and smile through it.

Students hurry to class around me, but I barely notice them. I’m too focused, too anxious about what I need to do. The cafe noise fades into the background as I sit here, planning my next move.

I’m at a table by the window that faces the quad. Cassidy sits across from me, typing furiously on her laptop. Professor Jennings’ paper is due in a few hours, and she’s left it until the last minute, as usual.

“Ugh! This Albert Bandura dude must have been some kind of uptight nerd. I don’t understand half of what I’m writing.” She pauses and chuckles. “Thank you, AI.”

“Right,” I mumble, forcing a smile. I can’t shake the tension coiling in my chest. “Good luck with that,” I say, my gaze drifting back to the quad, searching.

Thatcher van Doren.

There he is.

I sit up straight, my heart jolting as he strides out of one of the buildings.

His familiar swagger draws eyes. A cream sweater hangs off his strong frame, blue jeans wrapping around his long legs.

He chats with teammates as he walks, pushing back his brown hair.

I watch him laugh and fist bump Ezra before continuing across the quad toward the cafe.

I grip the edge of the table, following him with my eyes. He pulls open the door and steps inside, gaze on his phone. Sidestepping a pair of girls, he joins the queue at the counter.

I take a deep breath. My heart pounds. With each passing second, my determination slips away.

I can’t fucking do this.

What am I thinking? Confronting him about the party? Did I really think I could just walk up and beg him not to report me to the cops?

I must be out of my mind.

My eyes follow him as he moves up the queue. My time is running out.

Do I really just—

I’m on my feet before finishing the thought, my stomach a mix of nerves and fear. Cassidy glances up at me.

“I’m getting another latte,” I manage.

She nods and returns to her paper, blissfully unaware. I force my feet forward, navigating through tables and chairs. The cafe chatter blends into a low hum.

I approach the counter where he now stands waiting for his order. He stares at his phone, oblivious to my presence. The knot in my chest tightens as he shifts. Sandalwood and spice hit my nose.

I try to focus as the barista calls out orders, forcing myself to breathe despite my pounding heart.

“What will you have?” The barista’s question jolts me.

“Coffee black, one sugar,” he replies, his voice a low rumble.

I bite my lip, fidgeting with the hem of my shirt.

God, I can’t do this.

The barista starts his drink. I try to form words, but they don’t come, even when the barista hands him his order and he turns, glancing at me briefly before heading toward the door. I watch him move, each step pulling him further away.

“Ready to order?” the barista asks.

What do I do? Do I go after him?

“Um…no. Sorry,” I mumble and dash back to the table.

I grab my tote and phone, throwing a quick “bye” over my shoulder to Cassidy. Ignoring her confused call, I run out of the cafe, eyes locked on the brown hair head bobbing through the quad. My steps quicken as I weave through the crowd, determined to catch up with him.

I can’t believe I’m doing this.

What am I even going to say?

My pulse races as I trail him, watching as he walks briskly, seemingly unaware of me as an internal storm brews in my chest. A familiar building ahead and I blink up at it. School of Business.

It turns out that Thatcher is on the way to class, and I curse under my breath, knowing my window of opportunity is closing fast. He strides up the stairs to the building and I pick up the pace. If I don’t do this now, I never will.

He disappears through the large glass doors just as I reach the bottom of the steps. My heart is pounding in my throat, but I push myself forward, my legs moving on autopilot as I follow him inside.

The hall is bustling with students–some hurrying to class, others gathered in groups, chatting animatedly–but it all blurs around me. My focus is on Thatcher, who heads towards a corridor on the left, I quicken my pace, slipping through the crowd, my tote bag bouncing against my hip.

I see him slip into a lecture room ahead and hurry towards it, catching the door just before it closes.

The door clicks softly behind me, and I survey the room.

It’s slightly full, students trickling in from other doors, some scattered across the seats, their heads bent over notes and laptops.

I spot Thatcher at the far end of the room, pulling out a laptop, speaking to someone sitting beside him.

My anxiety skyrockets as I stand frozen at the back of the room, watching both of them. They’re deep in conversation. The sight of them together reminds me of the hockey game, how carefree and confident they both seemed on the ice.

I grip the strap of my tote tighter, trying to steady my nerves. I’m not even sure what I’m going to say once I get to him. Confronting Thatcher in front of a classroom full of people? Probably not my smartest move. But I’ve come this far.

Taking a deep breath, I walk down the aisle toward them, my steps slow and measured. The closer I get, the more unsure I feel, but I force myself to keep moving. This may be the only chance I get.

I’m two steps away when the door slams open and a suited man strides in, straight to the podium.

I freeze in place as the professor takes command of the room, his presence shifting the atmosphere.

The causal chatter dies down and students scramble to their seats, the sounds of seats scraping the tiles and bags rustling filling the silence.

I glance at Thatcher, who still hasn’t even noticed me yet—his attention now fixed on the man at the podium.

My stomach twists. Of course, now of all times, the professor decides to make a dramatic entrance. My window to confront Thatcher was quickly closing. I could either back away now, retreat to the anonymity of the back row, or—

“Take your seats, everyone. Today we’re diving into consumer buying behavior,” the professor announces, flipping through his notes.

My heart pounds in my ears. I have to make a decision now.

I glance at Thatcher as I retreat to the back row. His gaze was fixed on the professor as he launches into the lecture.

I slip into the back row, my pulse still racing. Thatcher’s attention stays on the professor, completely oblivious to how close I was. My fingers tap restlessly on my tote as I stare blankly at the front of the room, trying to calm my nerves.

Why did I hesitate? Why couldn’t I just walk up to him and say something?

Am I really so chicken shit?

The professor drones on about marketing strategies and consumer behavior, but I can’t focus.

My thoughts spiral back to the party. Why hasn’t he reported me yet?

Does he want something from me? If he recognized me at the party like I think he did, wouldn’t he have already made his move?

Or is this some kind of twisted game, and he’s waiting for the right moment to drop the hammer?

Does he want something from me?

That idea gnaws at me. Maybe that’s it—he’s toying with me, waiting to see how long it’ll take for me to crack. My fingers tighten around the strap of my bag as the thought takes hold, frustration bubbling under the surface. I have to get a grip, figure out what his angle is.

No more chickening out.

I shift in my seat, my eyes locked on the back of his head. Determination settles in my chest, steadying my pulse. After class, I’ll find a way to corner him, ask him what the hell is going on. No more dancing around the issue. It’s time to get answers.

After class came sooner than I expected. The brain numbing lecture ends with the professor giving out an assignment––a three-thousand-word paper on the effect of social media on consumer behavior.

Groans ripple through the room as students start packing up, eager to escape. I watch as Thatcher stands, casually slipping his laptop into his bag, his movements unhurried, like he’s got all the time in the world.

My heart picks up again, the decision pressing in on me. Now or never.

I stand too, my feet carrying me toward him almost on autopilot. His friend says something to him, and Thatcher flips him off, already halfway out the door. I speed up, weaving through the trickling crowd, my pulse quickening with each step.

As I push through the last few stragglers in the aisle, Thatcher steps into the hallway. His friend heads in the opposite direction, thankfully leaving Thatcher alone. My window of opportunity is shrinking, and with each step he takes, my nerves coil tighter.