Chapter 28 Lottie
After that near miss with Professor Hale yesterday, I’m so grateful it’s Christmas break I could actually cry.
I don’t think I could look him in the eye right now — not after the way I lost control, not after how close I came to detonating everything he’s been so careful to protect. Every time the memory flickers across my mind — the slam of the door, the heat of him beneath my hands, the way his voice broke when he said my name — my stomach twists hard enough to make me dizzy.
I shake my head sharply, as if I can physically dislodge the memory, and force myself back to packing.
Charlie and I are leaving in a few hours. He rented a car for the three-hour drive home, even though he’ll be coming back to campus before I do. Which means I’ll have to rent one for the return trip. The thought settles in my chest with a quiet heaviness. Not dread, exactly. Just tired acceptance.
It’ll be a quiet drive back in January.
I think I’m finally ready to talk to my parents about getting a car.
This winter has been brutal — the coldest I can remember. It’s barely December, and I already feel defeated by it. The wind doesn’t just blow; it bites. It sneaks down your collar, finds the thin spots in your gloves, and turns your ears into blocks of ice. Snow falls in sharp, glittering sheets that sting your cheeks and melt into your hair before you can brush it away.
I’m tired of waiting for buses that never show up on time. Tired of standing at stops with my shoulders hunched, pretending I’m not shivering. Tired of crossing campus with numb fingers and a frozen face.
When we first started at MIT, my parents offered to get both of us cars.
We declined.
I wanted the “authentic poor college kid experience,” whatever that was supposed to mean. Independence. Struggle. Character building. Charlie, in classic Charlie fashion, shrugged and said he’d just wait until I caved and bought one — then borrow mine whenever he wanted.
Typical.
I blink, realizing I’ve drifted again.
Focus.
I should be packing.
That’s what I should be doing — not replaying yesterday, not thinking about the way my body reacted like it had its own will, separate from my brain.
I don’t need to bring much. We keep a wardrobe at our parents’ house specifically for holidays — thick sweaters, broken-in jeans, soft pajamas, heavy coats. Mom insisted on it years ago, claiming it would make traveling easier.
He was right.
It does.
Still, I fold a couple of outfits into my suitcase — things that feel like mine. A favorite sweater that smells faintly like my detergent. The jeans that fit just right. Comfort, in fabric form.
My hands move automatically: fold, smooth, stack. Zip compartments. Tuck socks into corners.
It’s grounding. Predictable. Safe.
Unlike yesterday.
The break couldn’t have come at a better time. I need distance. Space. Air that doesn’t feel charged every time I inhale.
I need to be somewhere that doesn’t smell like him. Somewhere that doesn’t hold the echo of that office. Somewhere that doesn’t make my pulse spike just from walking past a closed door.
I need to reset. To take a full breath. To remember who I am when I’m not fighting instinct every time I’m near him.
I place my toiletries bag on top and press the suitcase closed. The zipper slides with a soft finality, and the latch clicks into place.
The sound feels symbolic — like sealing away the last six weeks. The tension. The restraint. The almost-disasters.
Even if it’s only temporary.
For the first time since yesterday, my shoulders loosen slightly.
Break is here.
Maybe I can spend the next two weeks pretending I’m normal again. Pretending I’m not falling apart. Pretending I’m not quietly terrified of what January will bring.
But that’s a problem for later. Right now, I just need to get home. And breathe.
While I wait for Charlie, I move through my room with restless energy — the kind that comes from trying not to think. Not to replay yesterday's exchange. Not to remember.
I drag my suitcase to the door. The wheels thud softly over the carpet. I open my mini-fridge and toss out everything perishable — yogurt cups, half a carton of strawberries, a takeout container I don’t dare inspect.
I tie the trash bag tightly and carry it down the hall. The trash chute clangs when I drop it in, the sound echoing up the metal shaft like a punctuation mark.
Back inside, I scrub the sink in the bathroom until it gleams. Wipe down the mirror until my reflection looks less wild-eyed. I smooth my sheets, tucking corners with unnecessary precision. Wash the single mug and bowl sitting in the kitchenette sink. Dry them. Put them back exactly where they belong.
It’s mindless. Repetitive. Calming.
Exactly what I need.
I’m making one final swipe across the counter when my phone dings.
The sound slices through the quiet, startling me more than it should.
I pull it from my pocket.
Of course it's Charlie: I’m outside.
Short. Efficient. Very him.
I exhale — relief tangled with nerves — and start layering up.
Coat first. Then my scarf, wrapping it snugly around my neck. I tug my hat down over my ears and shove my gloves into my pocket. I extend the suitcase handle with a click.
Before I leave, I pause in the doorway. The room looks still. Orderly. Clean. Like nothing chaotic has happened here. Like I haven’t spent weeks pacing this floor, trying to reason myself out of wanting something I shouldn’t.
I switch off the light and lock the door.
Outside, the cold hits instantly — sharp and unforgiving. My breath fogs in front of me. Snow drifts lazily from the sky now, softer than earlier, settling into my hair and melting against my cheeks.
And there he is.
Charlie leans against an absurdly massive SUV like he’s posing for a commercial. Hands in his pockets. Smug grin in place.
I roll my eyes as I approach. “They didn’t have anything bigger?”
He pushes off the vehicle with exaggerated swagger. “They offered me a tank, but I figured that might draw attention.”
I laugh despite everything.
Because he’s ridiculous. And familiar.
He meets me at the trunk and grabs my suitcase. The second he lifts it, he lets out a dramatic groan. “Jesus, what did you pack? Bricks?”
I smack his shoulder. “It’s not that heavy. Maybe you’re just weak.”
“Rude.”
He tosses it into the trunk effortlessly — proving he was exaggerating — then rounds the car toward the driver’s side.
I climb into the passenger seat, using the running board and the “oh-shit” handle to hoist myself up. The SUV is so tall it feels like climbing into a treehouse.
Charlie buckles his seatbelt just as I click mine into place. For a moment, our eyes meet.
We share a smile.
It's easy. Warm.
For the first time in days, something in my chest unclenches.
Christmas break has officially begun. And for now, we’re just siblings again.
Not a TA and a professor tangled in dangerous tension. Not someone who hangs with his best friend all of the time. Not students carrying secrets too heavy for them.
Just Charlie and Lottie.
Driving home.