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Thursday.
Thursday.
A brilliant, gorgeous, magical fucking Thursday.
My alarm chimes again, and god, that’s a glorious sound. They should score movies with this sound. Write entire symphonies.
I turn it off for real this time, clutching it to my chest, unable to keep from grinning as the sweetest relief courses through my veins. For several long moments, I just breathe. Savoring. Luxuriating.
It worked.
This whole time we’ve been here, and the answer was quite literally underneath us.
After I grasp for my glasses on the desk, I can see that the other bed is occupied, Lucie’s red hair spilling over her pillow. If she weren’t here, I’d blast music, dance out of bed, throw the window open to take in the crisp Thursday air.
It’s almost seven thirty now, and my Thursday class starts at—it’s been so long that I have to check my schedule—ten o’clock, but I can’t bear to stay in bed any longer. I hold in a laugh as I think about today finally being Miles’s birthday and wonder if I have enough time to find some balloons for him before his first class. I throw off the sheets and head for the closet, reaching for my perfect-imperfect jeans on instinct.
And just as I’m tugging them up my legs and over my thighs, the top button pops off.
I can’t help it—the laugh bursts out. After everything they’ve been through, they’ve clearly had enough.
So I reach for a vintage wrap dress instead, one I haven’t worn yet because it exaggerates the roundness of my stomach. But today is a celebration, and when I put it on and take a look in the sliver of a mirror hanging from our closet, I love how it looks. I love how I look.
I let out a breath of either satisfaction or relief or some mix of the two, and it must be too loud, because Lucie stirs.
“Sorry,” I whisper, still smiling because holy shit do I love Thursdays. “Did I wake you?”
“No, no,” she says, and I’m not sure yet who this version of Lucie is. “I was already half awake.”
She props herself on one side, reaching for her phone, while I silently panic about whether I completely alienated her by my strangeness yesterday morning. I tried my best to make up for it the rest of the day, but at best, she’s neutral toward me.
“Lucie,” I start, but I’m unsure where to go from there. This version of Lucie hasn’t helped me with Dr. Devereux or messed with Cole Walker. We haven’t opened up to each other.
But we did it once before. I know we can do it again.
“I know rooming with me probably wasn’t what you were expecting,” I say. “And I know you’re going to rush, but…”
She puts down her phone. Yawns into her elbow. “Oh—I thought about it, but I’m not sure yet. I went to a frat party last night, and it wasn’t really my scene. The Greek system might not be for me.”
Carefully, I nod.
“I’m not sure why,” she says, regarding me with a wrinkle of her nose, “but I have the worst case of déjà vu.”
“Oh?” I try my best to sound only mildly interested. I don’t understand the rules of the universe any more than I did a month ago, but I suppose it’s possible all our interactions had some echo of an impact, even if she doesn’t know it. “I have a little of that too.”
Lucie gives me a weak smile. She’s still not sold on this, me as her roommate. I can tell. Here I am again in Olmsted 908, trying to convince Lucie that I’m not her enemy.
Except this time, I know I can.
“So… do you think you might join any clubs?” I ask.
“Don’t know yet.” She’s back to scrolling through her phone.
I try to sound casual. “I saw that there’s a modern-dance troupe on campus. It made me think of you.”
Her blue eyes flick up to mine, brow furrowed. “Really?”
“When you performed at that assembly sophomore year? I don’t know if you still dance, but…”
