Chapter 13 Lottie
The bus ride feels longer than usual — like time itself is reluctant to let me reach my destination. Maybe it’s the cold. Maybe it’s the way the windows fog at the edges, blurring the world outside into streaks of gray and amber streetlights. Or maybe it’s just me.
The engine rumbles beneath my feet, steady and low, vibrating through the metal frame and into my bones. Conversations overlap in scattered fragments — someone laughing too loudly near the back, the hiss of the doors opening and closing, the sharp beep of a stop request. Normally, it’s enough to disappear into. Background noise. White static for my brain.
Today, it doesn’t work.
The thoughts won’t quiet. They loop and tighten, circling the same forbidden center. Every time I push them away, they come back sharper. Warmer. More vivid. Like a knot I keep tugging at, only to make it worse.
By the time I step off at my stop, my fingers are stiff inside my gloves, and the tip of my nose burns from the wind. The air bites at my cheeks as I hurry down the block, boots scraping over salted pavement.
The glowing sign of The Riviera comes into view like a promise.
When I pull the door open, warmth envelops me instantly — soft, golden, alive. It’s a relief so immediate it almost makes me sigh out loud. The scent hits next: herbs blooming in hot butter, roasted garlic, fresh bread. It wraps around me, grounding and gentle, as if the world outside doesn’t exist in here.
The restaurant is cozy in that careful, upscale-casual way. Low lights cast honeyed pools across polished wood tables. Framed black-and-white photos line the brick walls. Glasses clink softly. A server moves past with a tray balanced effortlessly on one palm. Everything feels unhurried.
Like stepping into a different world.
I spot Charlie immediately.
He’s at a small table near the window, one leg bouncing under the table while he scrolls on his phone with exaggerated focus — the universal pose of someone pretending not to be early. His honey blond hair falls into his eyes, and he keeps pushing it back absently.
He glances up as I approach. His face splits into a grin.
“There she is,” he says, standing just in time to wrap me in a quick hug. He smells like laundry detergent and winter air. Familiar. Safe. “I was starting to think you bailed.”
I snort into his shoulder. “Please. You’d cry if I stood you up.”
He pulls back, scoffing. “I would not.”
“You would.”
He rolls his eyes and gestures to the chair. “Sit. I already ordered drinks.”
“Ooo,” I tease, peeling off my gloves and flexing my fingers. They sting as feeling returns. “Fancy. Trying to impress me?”
“Someone has to,” he shoots back, eyeing my windswept hair. “You look like you’ve been fighting the wind."
“I have been fighting the wind,” I say, smoothing it down and failing. “Winter hates me personally.”
He laughs — but then his expression shifts. Subtle. His eyes linger a second too long. Charlie’s perceptive. Annoyingly so.
“You look tired,” he says, tilting his head. “Like… more than usual.”
I shrug, focusing on unwinding my scarf. “It’s been a long week.”
“Uh-huh.” He leans back, crossing his arms. “Is this a school thing? A Lottie thing? Or a ‘you’re being weirdly vague so it’s probably something deeper’ thing?”
I groan. “Can we not psychoanalyze me before the appetizers?”
Charlie raises his hands in surrender. “Fine. But I’m your brother. I reserve the right to pry.”
Our drinks arrive — iced tea for him, hot chocolate for me. The mug is almost too hot against my palms, but I welcome it. I curl my fingers around it anyway, letting the heat sink into my skin. The first sip is sweet and thick and grounding.
“So,” Charlie says, stirring his drink lazily. Ice clinks against glass. “Tell me something good. Anything. Distract me from the fact that Jordan beat me at Mario Kart this morning.”
I smile despite myself. “I got the TA position.”
His fork clatters lightly against his plate. “Wait — the TA position? With the professor you wanted?”
I nod.
His grin turns blinding. “Lottie, that’s huge! Why didn’t you lead with that?”
“I don’t know,” I murmur, staring into my mug. “It’s been… a lot.”
He narrows his eyes. “A lot how?”
I trace the rim of the mug with my thumb. “Just overwhelming. New responsibilities. New expectations. It’s a big deal.”
He studies me for a long beat, then nods slowly. “Yeah. That makes sense. But you’re good at what you do. You’ll crush it.”
His certainty warms something in my chest — a small, flickering comfort.
Our food arrives soon after. Pasta for him, glossy with sauce and steam curling upward. A sandwich and tomato soup for me, the surface of the broth shimmering under the lights.
We slip into easy conversation. Classes. Professors he hates. Jordan’s latest attempt at cooking — something involving too much paprika and not enough common sense. It’s effortless. Familiar. The rhythm of it settles into my bones.
But every now and then, Charlie’s gaze flicks toward me. Quick. Assessing. Like he’s waiting. Because he knows. He knows I’m holding something back.
And he’s right.
Even here, even now, even with my brother across from me in a warm restaurant that smells like butter and bread, my mind drifts.
To warm brown eyes. To a voice that wraps around my name as if it belongs there. To a scent — clean and dark and impossibly distracting — that lingers in my memory with dangerous clarity.
I push a piece of bread through my soup, watching it soak up red.
Charlie nudges my ankle under the table. “Hey. Earth to Lottie.”
I blink. “Sorry. Zoned out.”
“Yeah, I noticed.” He arches an eyebrow. “You sure everything’s okay?”
I force a smile that feels too tight. “Yeah. Just tired.”
He doesn’t believe me. But he lets it go. For now.
He’s halfway through his pasta when I slip. It happens so fast, I don’t even feel it coming. We’re talking about stress — his deadlines, his impossible group project — and I laugh lightly and say, without thinking:
“Trust me, you don’t know stress until you’ve been in a room with someone whose scent makes your brain short-circuit.”
The words hang there.
Charlie freezes. Fork suspended midair.
I freeze too.
My heart plummets into my stomach so fast it makes me dizzy.
He blinks once. Slowly. “Uh… what?”
I scramble. “I mean—like—people. In general. You know how some people just… smell nice? And it’s distracting? Like perfume. Or cologne. Or whatever.”
Charlie narrows his eyes. “Lottie. You don’t get flustered by perfume.”
“I didn’t say I was flustered.”
“You didn’t have to.”
Heat crawls up my neck. I focus very hard on my soup.
He leans forward, elbows on the table, studying me like I’m a case file.
“Okay,” he says carefully. “Who is it?”
“No one.”
“Lottie.”
“It’s no one.”
“Is it someone in your program?”
“No.”
“A classmate?”
“No.”
“A professor?”
I choke on absolutely nothing.
Charlie’s eyes widen. “Oh my god. It is a professor.”
I wave my hands frantically. “No! No, it’s not— I didn’t say that—”
“You didn’t have to,” he says again, almost triumphantly. “Your face is doing all the talking.”
I bury my face in my hands. “Charlie, please. Drop it.”
He doesn’t.
“Is this about the TA position?” he asks, voice softening now. “Is it… the special professor?”
I go still. Too still.
The shift in him is immediate. Confusion. Concern. Then something sharper.
“Lottie,” he says quietly. “This isn’t funny. Tell me what’s going on.”
My throat tightens. “Nothing is going on. I swear. I’m just… overwhelmed. It’s a new role. New responsibilities. New… dynamics.”
“Dynamics,” he repeats flatly. “That’s a suspiciously vague word.”
“You’re being dramatic.”
“And you’re being weird.”
We stare at each other across the table, tension stretching thin between us. The restaurant noise feels louder now. Too loud. Finally, he exhales and leans back.
“Look,” he says, his tone gentler. “I’m not trying to pry. I just… You seem off. And I don’t like seeing you like this.”
That almost undoes me. He means well. He always does.
But I can’t tell him.
Not when I barely understand it myself. Not when saying it out loud would make it real.
So I smile again. “I’m fine. Really. Just tired.”
His jaw tightens slightly. He doesn’t buy it. But again, he lets it go.
He picks up his fork. “Okay. But if this professor gives you any trouble, I’m showing up on campus and throwing hands.”
I snort. “You can’t even throw hands with Jordan.”
“Jordan is five-nine and built like a cornstalk. I can absolutely take your professor.”
I laugh — too quickly — denying that he’s my professor.
The tension eases just enough for us to finish eating. We talk. We joke. We pretend.
But the whole time, I feel Charlie watching me. Waiting.
And the worst part?
I almost slip again. More than once.
Because no matter how hard I try to shove him out of my thoughts, Professor Hale keeps returning.
Inviting eyes. A voice smooth as silk, low and steady.
That scent — subtle, warm, maddening — clinging to my memory as if it belongs there, as if it belongs to me.
And deep down, beneath the denial and the rationalizations and the fragile composure, I know something with cold clarity:
This isn’t going to get easier.
It’s only going to get harder.