Chapter 17 Lottie
Lottie
After lunch with Charlie, I’m not entirely sure what to do with myself.
He leans back in his chair after demolishing a meal that required cloth napkins and real silverware, pats his stomach dramatically, and announces he’s heading to Jordan’s place to “raid his pantry.” As if he hasn’t just eaten enough to feed a small village.
That’s Charlie for you — bottomless stomach, bottomless energy, bottomless capacity for chaos.
When he asks if I want to split a cab back to campus, I agree immediately. The thought of walking through the cold again makes my bones ache preemptively. The restaurant had been warm, with golden lights, soft music, and the kind of heat that seeps into your skin and makes you forget it’s winter. Stepping back outside feels like a punishment for daring to be comfortable.
The cold slaps me the second we push through the door. The air is sharp and metallic, biting at my cheeks, creeping down the collar of my coat. I tuck my chin into my scarf and hurry into the cab beside him.
The ride back is quick — almost too quick. The city blurs past in muted grays and whites, snow crusted along sidewalks and building edges. Charlie scrolls through his phone, occasionally snorting at something only he finds funny. I watch the window instead, my reflection faint in the glass.
Soon enough, we’re pulling up in front of the dorm hall.
Even though it always feels like my dorm hall, technically, it’s ours. Charlie practically lives at Jordan’s place anyway. The two of them look so alike sometimes it’s eerie — same build, same messy hair, same crooked grin. They might as well be the twins in the family instead of us.
I step out of the cab and shut the door with a soft thud. Charlie rolls down the window, grinning.
“Don’t miss me too much,” he says.
“As if that’s possible,” I deadpan.
He gives me a goofy salute, exaggerated and crooked, and then the cab pulls away, taillights glowing red against the pale afternoon.
I watch it for a second longer than necessary, letting the quiet settle around me. The wind slices through my coat, cutting straight through wool and denim like they were never meant for protection, and I shiver hard before rushing inside.
The warmth hits me instantly — a full-body embrace. Radiators hum softly. The faint scent of detergent and floor cleaner lingers in the hallway. I’m absurdly grateful the heating system is working this year. Last winter, when it broke, the hallways felt like walk-in freezers. They gave us space heaters, but the cold still seeped into everything — into the walls, into the mattresses, into your bones — like it had a personal vendetta.
I climb the stairs, unlock my door, and step into my room.
The familiar scent of my laundry detergent — something clean and citrusy — wraps around me. The radiator clicks quietly beneath the window, giving off a steady, comforting warmth. I close the door behind me and lean against it for a moment, exhaling.
One by one, I peel off my layers. Gloves. Scarf. Coat. Boots. Each piece hits the chair or the floor in a careless pile as feeling returns to my fingers and cheeks.
When I finally settle onto the couch, tucking one leg beneath me, I pull out my phone.
It’s been too long since I talked to my parents. Too long since I heard their voices instead of just reading quick texts. They’re always together now that neither of them works, so calling one means calling both.
I open the video app and tap Mom’s name.
It rings twice before the screen jolts and steadies — my mom adjusting the phone, probably fighting with the camera angle like he always does. I can’t stop the smile that spreads across my face.
“Hey, Mom! Haven’t talked to you guys in a while! How’s everything? How are Lily and Luca?”
The words tumble out too fast, tripping over each other. I don’t slow them down.
He smiles immediately, warm and bright. “Hey, honey. We’ve missed you guys. Tell your brother it wouldn’t kill him to call once in a while.”
I huff a laugh.
“Lily and Luca are doing great,” he continues. “You know Lily — she’s practically a little executive already. She’s running for class president.” Pride practically radiates through the screen. “And Luca… well, Luca still believes in the tooth fairy, so there’s that.”
He chuckles, and I just look at him for a moment.
My omega parent. Mid-forties and looking barely thirty. It drives Dad insane. He swears Mom still looks too good, that everyone notices.
He’s not wrong.
“Let him be a kid for as long as possible,” I say. “Adulthood is overrated.”
Mom raises an eyebrow. “Look at you, not even fully into adulthood yet, saying that.”
Right then, Dad appears in the frame, wiping his hands on a dish towel. “Saying what?”
“Lottie thinks being an adult is overrated,” Mom replies.
Dad chuckles. “Is that so? Isn’t it a little early to decide that? You haven’t even hit the part where responsibilities are absolute. What makes you think it’s overrated?”
I shrug, staring at a loose thread on the couch cushion. “Responsibilities make it overrated. Sometimes I want to go back to being a kid. Being taken care of.”
Mom’s smile softens. Dad laughs gently. “Well, hon, if this is how you feel now, I don’t know what you’re going to do when adulthood actually sets in.”
I hesitate.
“I just get tired,” I admit quietly. “Of having to manage my emotions and feelings on my own.”
The air shifts.
Mom’s expression changes — perceptive, gentle, concerned. He studies me the way he always does when he knows there’s more under the surface. “Is everything okay, Lottie? You look more tired than usual.”
I look away for a second, then back at the screen. “Yeah. Everything’s fine. It’s nothing I can’t handle. I guess instead of saying adulthood is overrated, I should say emotions are overrated.”
He doesn’t laugh at that. He just watches me.
“Whenever you’re ready to talk about what’s going on,” he says carefully, “I’m here. It doesn’t matter what time of day or night. Okay?”
My throat tightens unexpectedly. I blink fast and force a small smile. “Okay, Mom. I’m about to clean up my room a little, so I’ll talk to you guys later, alright?”
“Alright, honey. I’d love to hear from you more often,” he says softly. “I tell myself you two are out there living your lives, and I should let you do your own thing. But whenever you need me, I’m here.”
“I know. Thanks. I needed that. I love you, okay? Love you too, Dad.”
They both chorus, “We love you,” and the screen goes dark.
The room feels different afterward. Quieter. Warmer.
But also heavier. Like something inside me shifted — not broken, just nudged out of place.
I don’t let myself sit with it for long. The quiet feels too loud, too full of thoughts I’m not ready to untangle. So I grab my phone again and text Sandy.
Hey, what are you doing tomorrow? Wanna grab lunch or something?
I stare at the screen, tapping my thumb against the edge of the case.
A few minutes later, her reply comes through.
Hey, I’m not doing anything. Sure, we can grab lunch. Wanna go see a movie after?
A small smile tugs at my lips.
Good.
Things aren’t as strained as they felt. Maybe we’re both willing to smooth the edges for a while. Pretend the tension isn’t sitting there, quiet and watchful.
Sure, we can do that. Just let me know where we’re meeting for lunch, and we can go from there. Cool?
A thumbs-up and a smiley face pop up almost immediately.
I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding. Not full relief. But something close.
I stand and stretch my arms over my head, joints popping faintly. Time to clean. Straighten the desk. Fold the clothes draped over the chair. Give my hands something simple to focus on — something that doesn’t ask questions or demand answers.
Because if I sit still too long, I know exactly where my thoughts will go.
And I’m not ready to go there yet.
Not when I’ll be seeing him soon enough. Not when I’ll have to sit there and pretend he doesn’t affect me the way he does — like my whole body is a tuning fork and he’s the one note that makes everything vibrate.
Just thinking about it makes my chest tighten.
I’ll have to keep my face neutral, my breathing steady, and my reactions buried so deep no one can see them.
Especially him.
Because the moment I let anything slip — even a flicker — everything I’ve been trying to hold together might unravel.
And I’m not sure I can survive that unraveling.
Not when just being near him feels like standing too close to a fire.
Close enough to feel the heat. Close enough to burn.
And still unable to step back.