Chapter 41 SUBJUNCTIVE
POV: PIPER
The language lab at seven PM was the kind of quiet that felt sharp, like it could cut you. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead. Computer screens flickered with screensavers. The whole room was lined up in rows like a confessional that had given up on forgiveness and was just collecting statements now.
Piper sat in the back row, her Spanish textbook open to subjunctive conjugations, telling herself this was fine.
Yo hubiera. Tú hubieras. Él hubiera. Verb forms for things that hadn’t happened. Possibilities. Hypotheticals. The grammar of wanting something you couldn’t have.
She’d told Omar she was here for extra practice.
That was true.
She hadn’t told him the rest.
George was already in his chair when she arrived. Advanced Spanish literature spread across his knees, looking like the room had been built just to frame him. He had that kind of presence. Every space he took up became part of the background.
“Your accent’s improving,” he said without looking up. He closed his book with a carefulness that wasn’t really about the book. “Impressive progress for three years of study.”
“Mama’s idea.” Her drawl grew thicker when she talked about home, something she’d never managed to lose. “A proper lady needs two languages minimum. Three if she’s planning to marry well.”
George’s mouth curved. “She sounds formidable.”
“She’s already planned my debut season. Guest lists sorted by social standing. Flowers picked for how they photograph.” The words spilled out faster than she meant them to. She never said this out loud. Not to anyone. “I feel like my whole life is written in her planner. I just have to show up and hit my marks.”
She heard herself say it and wished she could take it back.
George studied her with real interest. Not fake politeness. Actually looking.
“If you could tear up the planner,” he said, leaning in a little, “what would you write instead?”
The question hit somewhere deep inside her, somewhere she hadn’t touched in a long time.
“I don’t know,” she said honestly. “I’ve never let myself think about it.” She looked at him. “What about you? If you could start over?”
“Freedom.” The word came out before he could polish it. Just raw and immediate. For a second, something behind his eyes was real—young and tired and trapped.
Then the smoothness slid back over it like water closing over a stone.
But she’d seen it. That one second.
“Freedom from the name,” he said, the practiced rhythm returning. “From the version of myself that was decided before I could even walk. From being a vehicle for someone else’s plans instead of—” He stopped and almost smiled. “That’s an extremely dangerous question, Piper Abbott.”
She believed the trapped part.
That was the problem.
She believed it because that one second had been real. One second of real was enough to make you believe the whole thing, which was probably how it was supposed to work. She knew that and believed it anyway.
Her phone hit the desk like a small explosion.
She looked at the screen before she even meant to.
Study group running late. Miss you already. See you at breakfast? Love you more than sweet tea.
Three heart emojis.
Omar. Who thought about her and said so. Who missed her and texted it. Who was somewhere else on this same campus, being exactly who he’d always been without any calculation.
Her throat tightened.
Not guilt exactly. Something sadder. The ache of loving someone the right way and still sitting in the wrong room.
She grabbed her textbooks. Held her spine straight the way her mother had taught her. The posture that said everything was fine even when everything clearly was not.
“I should go.”
George stood. The aisle between the computer stations was narrow and he was in it—not blocking her, exactly, just present enough to make the space feel smaller.
The smell of his cologne. Cedar and something darker.
“Same time tomorrow?” he asked.
The no was right there.
She could feel it. Almost hear herself say it. No, this is a bad idea. No, I have Omar. No, I know what you’re doing even if I can’t stop feeling it.
One beat.
Two.
“Yes,” she said.
The word came out quiet and sure and tasted like a door closing on something she should have kept open.
His smile did what his smile always did.
She got out of the room before she had to look at it any longer.
The night air hit her at the lab door, cold enough to be useful. She pulled her cardigan tight and walked.
The quad was mostly empty. A few students crossed between buildings, security lights making yellow circles on the stone. Her footsteps sounded too loud in her own ears.
It’s just Spanish practice, she told herself.
The lie grew worse every time she said it.
She passed the library on the east side of the quad. Lights burned in the upper floors, narrow Gothic windows glowing from inside. She didn’t know who was up there at this hour. Didn’t matter. She just saw the light and kept walking.
Omar’s text still glowed on her phone.
Love you more than sweet tea.
She walked faster.
Back in her room, his photos smiled at her from the desk and the shelf and the corner of the mirror where she’d slipped in the one from last Fourth of July—the one where he was looking at her instead of the fireworks.
She didn’t take it down.
She sat on her bed and stared at her Spanish textbook without opening it.
Some addictions feel like salvation right up until the moment they destroy everything you thought you wanted to protect.