Page 113 of These Secret Years

I hold up my thumb and forefinger, about an inch apart.

“Sorry. You’re right. You should think about it because you do want the money, and nothing else is gonna pay that well, but a bigger dent is still just a dent, and in the end, it might not be the solution you’re really looking for.”

I get what she’s saying. More money still isn’t Adrian level money. It’s not tuition. It’s not a house for my mom or school for my sister. It’s rent, and I could survive on it, but the point of survival is still elusive.

“I’ll see how this semester goes.” Moving the blanket off my lap, I stand. I take down my bun, shaking it out, remembering I still need to cut my hair before fall break. I don’t care, honestly. I might have once—freshman year maybe when I felt like everything about me needed to be my decision. The tattoos, my weight, how many holes I put in my ears. It’s just not a fight I want to fight anymore. I’m hungry, and I’m beaten.

All that’s left to do is figure out if I can use this supposed opportunity and rise above my circumstances. How long my hair is doesn’t matter at all. Nothing I’ve done so far has mattered.

“What time is your first class?” I ask Chelsea.

“Ten. Yours?”

“Nine. Health and fitness.”

She snorts. “What a weird elective to pick.”

I shrug. It was the only thing Knight and I could agree on, and agree might be a strong word. It was his idea, and his schedule is harder to work with than mine, so it was either that or women’s studies which we both felt weird about.

This all means that tomorrow will be the first day I have to be friends in person with the one guy who can get me hard with a look. Yeah, being friends was my idea, but what choice does he fucking have? It was difficult enough to come to terms with the fact that he and I can’t be anything, and if we keep having sex, it’ll only make it worse when we eventually have to end it.

I understand the way he and I feel about each other, and I know it’s probably something special, maybe even rare, but the last thing I want in the world is for us to hurt each other. I’ll take the torture, because at least I’ll still sort of have him.

The sight of Deandre’s bright, wide smile when I walk into the classroom at 8:56 is a surprise that makes me instantly irritated. However, when a low, rumbling, “Good morning” makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand up, and I turn to see Knight coming in behind me, I’m immediately relieved that D is also here.

Knight sees him, too and gives him a wave. “Hey! We could’ve walked together.”

“You didn’t tell me your schedule, fool.” D gestures us both over. He gets up to give me a hug. I haven’t seen him at all since freshman year. Not even in passing. “How’re you doing, Mozart?”

I avoid Knight’s gaze as I hug Deandre back. “Good. You got big.”

“Finally. It’s way easier to hit my macros when I’m not on a damn meal plan.”

Knight says, “If you’d played harder, you would’ve won the air fryer.”

“I don’t want to hear any more shit about that air fryer, Winters. You know you were a dick about that.”

That small detail takes me right back to the year in the dorm. I’d forgotten until now, but Rodrigo and Knight had charged for use of the air fryer and had a sign-up sheet on their door. I never used it. I survived that year on graham crackers and weed, but I remember the athletes were always bitching about needing to get their raw chicken cooked and trying to trade time slots based on expiration dates.

Knight laughs, and the sound should not do the things it does to me, but here we are. “It wasn’t me. That was Rod.”

“I don’t buy that, QB.” Deandre turns his attention back to me, letting me out of the man hug. “How the hell are you?”

“I’m all right. Nice to see you again.”

We sit down with D between Knight and me. “What have you been up to?”

Memories—bad ones—of the summer assault me with the question, but I keep my answer light and vague. “Nothing much. Kinda looking forward to getting back into the grind. Boring summer.”

“You working on anything I might like?”

D was always a great appreciator of my music. Even though we had very little in common, and I certainly couldn’t have cared less about football, he never seemed to mind having me as a roommate. There were times it even felt like he liked it. He turns to Knight while I’m momentarily contemplating how unproductive I’ve been and says, “Have you heard this guy play violin? Did you know he’s a prodigy?”

Knight gives me a sideways glance, and his mouth quirks slightly. “Cool.”

“He can literally play anything. He writes music, too. So, what are you working on?”

The question feels existential now. “Honestly, I’m trying to get back into it. Lots of distractions.”