Chapter 41 I Never Said I Wasn’t
Maggie nodded quickly. “Okay.”
They sat in companionable quiet after that. Sunlight strengthened, painting warm stripes across the duvet. Coffee steam curled between them. Maggie cradled her mug in both hands, eyes fixed on Andrew’s face— patient, expectant, tracing every line as though memorizing him anew.
Andrew sipped slowly, gaze drifting to the window where bare branches scratched against the glass. His free hand rested on the sheet, fingers drumming once, twice— then stilling.
Maggie waited.
The room filled with the soft clink of spoon against porcelain, the faint tick of the wall clock, the distant rustle of wind through the woods. And somewhere beneath it all, the careful silence of secrets still held close.
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'NINE YEARS AGO— ANDREW'S POV, BACK IN COLLEGE'
The phone alarm sliced through the dim dorm room at exactly 7:00 a.m.— sharp, insistent, vibrating against the chipped wooden surface of the top bunk. Andrew’s hand shot out from under the thin blanket, fingers fumbling until they found the screen. He jabbed the red “Stop” button hard enough that the phone skittered an inch sideways.
“It’s 7 a.m. already?” he growled, voice thick with sleep and gravel. The words came out half-mumbled, half-annoyed.
He pushed himself upright. The mattress springs groaned under his weight. Blanket shoved to one side in a rumpled heap, he sat on the edge of the bunk for three long seconds, elbows on knees, staring blankly at the reading desk shoved into his corner of the cramped room— textbooks stacked unevenly, empty energy-drink cans forming a precarious tower, a single framed photo of his high-school football team gathering dust.
Slow inhale through the nose. Hold. Exhale through the mouth. Again. In. Hold. Out. The rhythm steadied him. Shoulders dropped a fraction. Eyes cleared.
He swung both legs over the side, feet finding the narrow ladder rungs by muscle memory. Descended in two quick drops— thud, thud— landing on the worn carpet. The room smelled faintly of yesterday’s pizza, Axe body spray, and the perpetual must of old brick.
He crossed to the bottom bunk in two strides, reached down, and gave Josh’s shoulder a firm shake.
“Yo. Wake up. It’s past seven.”
Josh lay face-down, one arm flung off the mattress, mouth open against the pillow. A low, muffled groan escaped him. “What…?”
“Wake up.” Andrew tapped harder— three quick slaps between the shoulder blades.
Josh’s head lifted an inch, eyes still sealed shut. “I’m awake. I’m awake. Why are you waking me? Is today not Saturday?”
“No, bro. Today’s Friday.” Andrew leaned closer, voice dropping to urgent whisper. “We have LAW 600— Criminal Procedure— by 7:30. Professor Wilfred. You know he’s strict with attendance. He won’t let us in past 7:45. And we’ve already missed two of his classes.”
Josh froze. The name hit like cold water. Eyes snapped open. He shot upright so fast his forehead nearly cracked against the upper bunk slats. “Professor Wilfred?” Voice cracked on the second syllable. “LAW 600? He won’t let us sit for the exam if we don’t have seventy percent attendance!”
“Exactly.” Andrew nodded rapidly, already moving toward the tiny shared bathroom.
Josh’s eyes widened to saucers. “Fuck,” he breathed. Then louder: “What time is it?”
Andrew glanced at his phone again. “Seven-oh-four.”
“We still have time.” Josh threw the blanket off like it was on fire. “We just have to be fast.”
Andrew went first. Bathroom door banged shut. Inside, the fluorescent tube flickered twice before steadying. He stripped in seconds— sweatpants and T-shirt tossed onto the closed toilet lid— stepped under the narrow showerhead. Water exploded cold for three heartbeats, then scalding hot. He scrubbed fast: shampoo lathered into dark curls, body wash across chest, arms, legs. Seven minutes flat. Toothbrush next— mint foam at the corners of his mouth—spit, rinse, done.
Josh was waiting when he emerged, towel around his waist, dripping on the carpet. “I'm done.”
Josh vanished inside. Same routine— shower running, toothbrush buzzing against porcelain. Twenty minutes after the alarm, they were both dressed. Andrew in ash-grey T-shirt stretched across broad shoulders, black cargo pants, black sneakers. Josh in plain white tee, white athletic shorts, flip-flops slapping against his heels.
Andrew yanked open the mini-fridge door— light spilling across the floor— grabbed the last five slices of leftover toast wrapped in foil from yesterday. He tore the foil, handed two pieces to Josh.
Josh took them with a grin. “A cheat is what you are.”
Andrew’s mouth curved. “I never said I wasn’t.”
They both laughed— short, low, the easy sound of two years sharing the same twelve-by-twelve box.
Josh reached back into the fridge, pulled two plastic water bottles, condensation already beading on the sides. Tossed one to Andrew. Andrew caught it one-handed, twisted the cap, took a long swallow.
They stepped into the hallway— fluorescent lights buzzing overhead, doors still mostly closed, faint music leaking from somewhere down the corridor. Andrew locked their door with a quick twist of the key. Click. Pocketed it.