Chapter 12 Lottie
I walk out of the classroom without looking in Professor Hale’s direction, even though I can feel his gaze on me like a warm hand pressed between my shoulder blades.
It’s subtle. But unmistakable.
A pull. A weight. A presence.
Every step toward the door feels deliberate, controlled. Measured. I keep my eyes locked straight ahead, refusing to give in to the instinct to glance back. Refusing to confirm what my body already knows.
The moment the door swings shut behind me, I exhale.
My whole body slumps in relief, like I’ve been gripping a live wire for the entire class period and only just let go.
My lungs feel too tight. My pulse is still racing. I drag in a shaky breath and head down the hall toward Chemistry, trying to gather the pieces of myself that scattered the second I stepped into his orbit.
Focus on the ground, and breathe.
I’m so wrapped up in steadying myself that I almost miss Sandy falling into step beside me. She doesn’t say anything at first. Just walks quietly, hands tucked into her coat pockets, shoulders slightly hunched.
That alone is enough to pull me out of my spiral. Sandy is never this quiet.
I glance at her from the corner of my eye. “So what’s up? Anything good happen lately?”
What I’m really asking is: Why did you disappear?
She usually texts me every hour or two — memes, commentary, random thoughts. Then a goodnight text. Then a good morning one. But since lunch yesterday?
Radio silence.
She gives me a small smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “No, nothing new. Unless you count the fact that Sylvie asked me out.”
I blink, surprised. “Really? That’s awesome! Are you going to go?”
She shrugs, gaze drifting ahead. “I don’t know yet. I feel like I shouldn’t lead her on since I like someone else…”
My stomach tightens. I bulldoze right past the implication.
“Yeah, I get that. It’s not nice to give people false hope. Did she tell you she likes you?”
Sandy nods. “Yeah. She told me when she asked me out.”
We step into the Chemistry classroom, and the shift in environment feels like stepping onto thin ice.
I nod thoughtfully. “Then it’s best to be upfront. No unnecessary hurt feelings.”
We take our seats and pull out our notebooks. Sandy hesitates before speaking again, “Yeah, but I don’t not like her,” she says quietly. “I just… like the other person more. But I feel like I should keep my options open in case things don’t work out with the person I like.”
I turn to look at her fully. “Sandy, you know that’s not fair to her. How do you think she’d feel if she found out she was your fallback?”
Her jaw tightens slightly. She opens her mouth to respond—and the professor walks in, immediately launching into attendance.
Conversation over. For now.
We take notes through the lecture, but the silence between us feels thick. Heavy. Charged with everything unsaid.
When the bell rings, we bundle up and head outside.
“So,” I say carefully as we step into the hallway, “lunch so we can finish our conversation?”
She sighs, long and quiet, then nods. “Fine. Let’s do that.”
The wind bites as we cross the quad, tugging at scarves and hair. The cold stings my cheeks, but it’s grounding. A sharp reminder that the world is still solid, still real, even when my thoughts feel unstable.
Inside the cafeteria, we grab food and head to our usual corner. Once we’ve shed our coats, Sandy takes a thoughtful bite of her lunch. Chews. Swallows.
Then she looks at me. “So… before you say anything, I know she’d be hurt if she found out she was just someone to fall back on. But what if I’m upfront with her from the beginning? If she still wants to pursue something, then I’m not the bad guy… right?”
I swallow before answering. “If you’re honest from the start and she understands what she’s agreeing to, then no, you’re not at fault. But you have to be really clear. Not vague. Not hopeful. Clear.”
She nods slowly.
We both go quiet. The silence isn’t awkward. It’s loaded. Like there’s a third presence at the table — a question neither of us wants to touch.
I can feel her watching me sometimes, like she’s working up the nerve to say something. Something important. Something I’m not sure I’m ready to hear.
And I’m afraid to ask. Because if she says it — if she tells me she likes me — I don’t know what I’ll do.
I don’t want to hurt her. I don’t want to lose her.
And I definitely don’t want to examine why my stomach drops in a completely different way when I think about someone else.
So I keep eating.
Pretending I don’t notice the tension. Pretending I don’t feel her eyes on me. Pretending I’m not terrified of the conversation we’re carefully circling. Pretending is easier.
For now.
Saturday arrives wrapped in the same gray light that’s been hanging over the week — dull and flat, filtering through my curtains like a reminder of everything I’ve been avoiding.
Thursday and Friday passed quietly. Too quietly.
Sandy and I barely talked, both of us skirting around the elephant between us like it might explode if acknowledged.
And on Friday, I still had to deal with Professor Hale. Still had to stand in the same room as him. Still had to pretend my body doesn’t react like it’s been rewired. Still had to keep telling myself that I absolutely cannot lick my professor.
Today, though?
Today I shove all of that into a mental box and slam the lid shut.
I have enough going on without adding that conversation to the pile. I’ll deal with Sandy when she finally says something out loud. Even though I already know that when she does, I’ll have no choice but to hurt her.
I sigh and sit up, swinging my legs over the side of the bed.
My phone rests dark on the nightstand. I grab it and open my thread with Charlie.
Are we still on for lunch today?
A few minutes pass.
Then Charlie replies: Yeah, we’re meeting at 12 at The Riviera.
I nod instinctively as I type back: Okay, cool. See you soon.
He sends a thumbs-up. Classic Charlie.
I huff a quiet laugh and stand.
The clock says I have an hour and a half before I need to leave. Which means I need to move. The Riviera isn’t close to campus. Why he picked that restaurant, I have no idea.
“Doesn’t matter,” I mutter. “Just get ready.”
I shower quickly, letting the hot water chase away the last of my sleep. I dress in jeans and a decent shirt — casual, but not sloppy.
Something normal. Something unremarkable.
I gather my things: wallet, phone, gloves, scarf, hat. It’s brutally cold outside — the kind of cold that makes me resent not having a car. Public transit in winter feels like a personal attack. Bundled up, I step out of the dorm and brace against the wind. The air bites immediately, sharp enough to steal my breath for a second.
I walk to the bus stop and check my phone.
Forty-five minutes until noon. Two buses. If everything runs on time, I’ll have a few minutes to spare. If not, Charlie will absolutely roast me.
I tuck my chin into my scarf and wait, watching my breath cloud in front of me. The cold settles into my bones, but it keeps me present.
Today is simple. Lunch with my brother. No pheromones. No professors. No spiraling thoughts about things I shouldn’t want.
Just normal. Or as close to normal as I can manage.
Headlights cut through the gray morning as the bus approaches. When the doors open, warm air rushes out to meet me.
I step inside. And just like that, I’m on my way.