Chapter 37 Lottie
The rest of my time with my family drifts past faster than I want it to.
The days blur together in a soft collage of late breakfasts, board games that last too long, cousins arguing over nothing, exchanging texts with Sandy, and quiet mornings with coffee at the kitchen table. I try to memorize it — the sound of my mom humming while he cooks, the way my dad reads the paper with his glasses sliding down his nose, the familiar creak of the stairs beneath my feet.
I know how this goes. I blink, and it’s over.
Before I know it, my suitcase is back on my bed, half-zipped and waiting. My clothes are folded into neat stacks instead of being tossed onto the chair in the corner. My room feels like it’s already bracing itself for my absence.
Charlie left a few days ago, so I’m flying solo now. No shared ride. No dramatic on-the-road selfies. No one to complain to about overpriced snacks.
I haven’t even rented a car yet, that’s how much I’ve been dragging my feet.
It’s not that I don’t love going back to college. I do. I love my classes. I love the independence. I even love the campus in winter, quiet and sharp and alive in its own way. Though I don’t like actual winter because it’s too freaking cold!
But I miss my family so much when I’m away.
And every time I come back home, it gets that much harder to leave.
It feels like I’ve just settled back into my place here — just found my rhythm again — and now I have to step out of it all over again.
I zip my suitcase closed with a sigh and drag it down the stairs, each bump against the wood sounding louder than it should. The house smells like laundry detergent and coffee. Morning light spills through the front windows.
At the bottom of the stairs, I pause.
My parents are standing by the front door, smiling. Not normal smiles. Creepy little smiles.
I narrow my eyes immediately. “What’s up? What’s with that look on y’all’s faces?”
They glance at each other like kids who just pulled off a prank.
My dad speaks first. “Well… we did something.”
That is never a comforting start.
“We don’t know if you’ll like it,” he continues carefully, “but we hope you will.”
I tilt my head and look at them more closely.
They look nervous. Mom is shifting from foot to foot, like he physically can’t stand still. Dad is fiddling with the hem of his sweater — a tell he’s had my entire life when he’s anxious or excited.
“What did you do?” I ask slowly.
Dad doesn’t answer. Instead, he lifts his hand. And dangling from his fingers are a set of car keys.
I blink at them, look at my dad, then back at the keys.
“You got my rental?” I ask, confused.
Mom shakes his head slightly, biting back a grin. “Not really a rental…”
I stare at them. My brain working slowly at first, like it doesn’t quite trust the conclusion it’s heading toward. Keys. Nervous smiles. Not a rental.
My heart begins to pound.
I look from Mom to Dad again, searching their faces for confirmation — for proof that I’m not about to embarrass myself.
And then it hits me.
“You got me a car?!” I squeal.
It comes out so loud and high-pitched, I’m certain it echoes down the street. A bird takes off from a tree outside in alarm.
Mom claps his hands over his ears dramatically. Dad bursts into laughter.
“Yes,” Dad admits, unable to contain his grin anymore. “We got you a car.”
I drop my suitcase right there on the floor and rush forward, throwing my arms around both of them at once.
“Oh my God. Oh my God! You didn’t have to do that!” I’m half laughing, half on the verge of tears.
“We wanted to,” Mom says, hugging me back tightly. “You’ve been working hard. And we hated the idea of you driving rentals or waiting around for buses.”
Dad jingles the keys again. “It’s brand new,” he says quickly. “It’s safe. Low mileage. And it’s yours.”
Mine.
The word settles deep in my chest.
I pull back, eyes wide. “Can I see it?”
Dad gestures toward the door with a dramatic flourish. “Be our guest. Consider this a late Christmas present.”
I fling the door open so fast the cold winter air slams into me. I don’t even care. I barely feel it.
Sitting in the driveway is a car I recognize immediately — clean, shining faintly in the morning light like it’s waiting for me—a brand new Lexus RX.
For a second, I just stand there, staring.
They got me a car. An actual car. Not borrowed, not rented. All mine.
I spin back toward them, squealing again, and launch myself into another hug. For the first time since packing my suitcase, the weight of leaving feels lighter.
Going back doesn’t feel like a loss. It feels like stepping forward.
The ride back to school feels shorter than the ride home did. Maybe it’s the car.
Maybe it’s the way the engine hums steady and smooth beneath me, like it’s just as eager to move forward as I am.
I’ve got the music up louder than I probably should — windows vibrating faintly with the bass, my fingers drumming against the steering wheel in time with the beat. The brand-new tires grip the snowy roads beautifully, cutting through slush and biting into ice without skidding once. Every turn feels controlled.
I catch myself smiling more than once.
The highway stretches ahead in pale winter light, snowbanks lining the shoulders, trees dusted white like something out of a postcard. The car handles it all effortlessly, steady even when a gust of wind pushes against the side.
I stop once for gas, more out of habit than necessity.
Inside the station, fluorescent lights buzz overhead. I grab a bottle of water, a bag of chips, and a chocolate bar — comfort snacks for the road — even though I’m not really hungry. My mind is too busy for that.
I toss them into the passenger seat and keep going.
By the time I pull off the highway and the familiar signs for campus start appearing, it’s early afternoon. The sky is pale and clouded, and the gray makes everything feel sharp and quiet.
And then it hits me.
The closer I get, the stronger it becomes.
A feeling.
Like something inside me that’s been relaxed for days suddenly pulls taut, like a string drawn tight between two points that have finally come back within range of each other.
I inhale slowly as the sensation washes over me.
It’s not anxiety. It’s anticipation.
It floods my chest, warm and electric, curling low in my stomach.
I want to see him.
Immediately.
The realization lands heavy and undeniable.
I grip the steering wheel a little tighter as it rushes over me — just how much I missed him.
Not just the idea of him.
Him.
The way his voice drops when he’s trying to stay composed. The way his jaw tightens when he’s holding something back. The way his presence fills a room, even when he’s standing perfectly still.
The last time we were around each other flashes through my mind without permission.
In his office. When I closed the door after he stumbled and ended up bent over his desk, hands braced against the wood.
The way I pressed myself against him.
The memory makes my breath hitch.
I remember the heat of him. The way his body felt under mine. The way the air had thickened, heavy and charged. I remember the urge — raw and instinctive — rising inside me.
I wanted to bite him.
To mark him and claim him as mine.
My omega.
The words echo in my head, low and possessive, and my pulse spikes.
But I didn’t.
Something stopped me.
Something steady and insistent that cut through the haze of instinct and want.
Professor Hale saying we shouldn't.
That reminder had been sharp, almost painful.
And no matter how hard it was — no matter how much my body ached to ignore it — I listened.
I pull into campus parking, the engine finally going quiet after hours of sound. Snow crunches under my tires as I ease into a space.
And for a moment, I just sit there.
Breathing deeply, my heart racing.
I’m back.
And every part of me is suddenly, painfully aware of how close he is.