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And maybe I am. Telling Miles helped, at least for a few minutes, which is an infuriating realization to have when he’s the last person I want to think about right now. He texted again this morning, a desperate can we please talk? that I left on read. He had hundreds of chances to talk, and every single time, he told me only half-truths. All those days we spent discussing our previous loops, and not once did he consider the fact that I deserved to know about that kiss.
Still, the fact remains that I let him in, and it didn’t kill me.
Well, it did, but the two things are, I assume, unrelated.
It’s okay to live in those bad feelings a bit more. I hate that he was right. I’ve painted over the past with jokes and faux confidence. I convinced myself I was fine, that I was okay on my own. All those years I thought my armor was impenetrable, when inside I’m as soft and gooey as the inside of a mozzarella stick fresh from the fryer. The past few years have been all about making sure no one scratches up that armor, no one sees inside.
And it’s fucking exhausting.
“I’m sorry,” Lucie says, fidgeting with the end of her ponytail. “For the way I acted toward you. I was a piece of shit to you in high school.”
“I didn’t exactly make it easy for you to be anything else.”
“You’re not wrong,” she says. “But everything with Blaine feels like it happened a hundred years ago. And he was… well, a bit of a jackass, to be honest. But at the time, he was my first love, my first everything, and I blamed you for the relationship ending. Which isn’t right, because you weren’t in that relationship. You can’t have been at fault.”
Hearing that eases some of the pressure in my chest. “Thank you. For saying that.”
A slight nod. “Besides, I’m pretty sure Blaine was only with me because of my family.” Now that she’s started to open up, it seems to get easier. Like there’s a lot she’s been waiting to tell someone. “He’d always ask if my parents were going to be home when we hung out, and it seemed like he wanted them to be, which was the opposite of how I thought that would go. And every so often he’d ‘forget’ his wallet. I was happy to cover the bill, but then it started happening only on our most expensive dates.”
“Jesus.” I knew the Walkers were trash, but not quite to this extent. “I had no idea.”
“The most ridiculous thing”—Lucie breaks off, letting out this half laugh as a light blush appears on her cheeks—“is that I’m not even sure I’m attracted to men. I loved being an underclassman dating a senior, but everything we did together… we were safe, and nothing bad happened, but I didn’t exactly enjoy it, either.” She shifts her gaze to her Eggstravaganza again, giving it a few jabs with her fork while I process this. “I don’t know. I can’t believe I’m telling you this. I kind of thought maybe it was something I could figure out and explore in college.”
“You can,” I say firmly, hoping there is a Lucie out there who’s doing all the exploring she wants. “Thank you—for trusting me with that.”
She nods before going quiet for a while, and I wonder if she’s thinking about dance, too, and all the ways she hopes college will change her. Over the past few weeks, I’ve been given all these pieces of a girl I thought had everything, and here she is, feeling just as raw as I do. Looking at her now, I can see she might be on the verge of shattering, but every Wednesday, she manages to hold it together, except for those few minutes in the stairwell.
Lucie isn’t the hardened, uptight person I thought she was. There’s a gentle bravery in her, a vulnerability, and she needs to be comfortable to reveal it.
I should know—it’s possible I’ve been the same way.
“This doesn’t have to be how it was in high school,” I say. “We can be… different.”
“How?”
I push my empty plate to the side of the table and lean in, dipping my head conspiratorially. “For one,” I say, “we don’t have to let people like Cole and Blaine get away with what they did to us.”
By the time I’ve explained the plan, she’s on board. Nothing dangerous, I assure her. Just a little fun.
Cole’s first class, I learned yesterday, is an eleven o’clock history course: Nineteenth- and Twentieth-Century Europe. That gives us plenty of time to sneak inside and tape a friendly little note to the projector.
SOMEONE’S WATCHING YOU, COLE WALKER.
We wait outside the classroom in Smith Hall, one of the stunning brick buildings that anchor the quad, adrenaline racing through my veins. Yes. This is it. This feels right.
“How did you know he’s in this class?” Lucie whispers.
I was prepared for this, and I practiced my response in the mirror yesterday until it sounded real. “He’s rooming with my cousin.” I gesture between the two of us. “Resident services has an interesting sense of humor.”
Lucie still looks a little skeptical, but she doesn’t question it.
The professor turns on the projector to a rush of gasps and awkward laughter from the class, students glancing around, searching for Cole Walker and who, precisely, is watching him.
“Cole Walker?” the professor says.
From the second to last row, he raises his hand, looking… smug? “Right here, sir.”
“Any idea what this is about?” the professor asks, and Cole shakes his head. “Hmm. Must be some kind of first-day prank. Still, you might want to check in with campus security later.”
