Page 1 of Safe Place

ONE

Baby, is everything okay?

SOPHIE

I’m rushing out the door, but I still check the lock. Once. Then again, just to be sure.

It’s flimsy—sticks if you don’t turn it all the way—and I hate how aware of it I am.

Seems like everyone’s out there chasing love. But I don’t mind being alone, as long as it’s quiet and I don’t have to keep looking over my shoulder. As long as I can breathe without bracing for what might come next.

I linger for a second longer than I should, then force myself to leave.

I woke up later than I wanted to today—not by much, but enough to throw me off. It’s not like me. I’m usually up early, already moving. Yesterday drained me—three classes, a shift at the campus bookstore, and then the late shift at Boston Brews. Kind of an ambitious name for a cafe in a town that's a good hour from Boston.

Today’s lighter. Just one class, an afternoon shift at the cafe, and then an interview at the Student Center for a student tutor position. Then I’m free to go home and catch up on some assignments I need to finish up before bed tonight.

It’s only the third week of sophomore year, and I’m already drowning. Eighteen credits and three jobs might be a mistake, but I don’t really have a choice. I need the money.

I slip into Intro to Communications with three minutes to spare and head for my usual spot—third to last row, farthest from the door. My laptop’s fully charged, but it’s so old it randomly shuts down unless it’s plugged in, so I always take the seat by the wall to reach the outlet. It’s honestly a miracle no one’s tripped over the charging cord all these years.

Professor Brightman is already loading something onto the projector, muttering something about formatting issues. A few moments later, the lights dim and Brightman clears his throat.

“Alright,” he says, tapping a few keys on his laptop. “Let’s talk about your first major assignment. You’ll be working in groups of five on a presentation.”

He clicks to the next slide. “Each group will analyze a real-world crisis communication failure—something that made headlines. Your job is to break down what happened, where the communication strategy fell short, and how it could have been handled more effectively from a public relations standpoint. Think messaging, timing, tone, stakeholder response.”

Another click. A list appears on the screen. “Groups were randomly assigned, so no bribing me for switches. Find your name up there and start coordinating with your team. I’d use this time to exchange emails and numbers.”

My eyes scan for my name. Group 6: Sophie Lennox, Ella Morgan, Declan Park, Micah Vale, Grant West. I recognize Declan from our Expository Writing class last fall, with relief. But that’s it. Thankfully, with Declan I know the workload will be distributed at least fifty/fifty.

“Sophie! Over here!” Declan calls from a distance.

He’s standing with two guys, whom I assume are Micah Vale and Grant West. They’re both tall, broad-shouldered, and effortlessly put together. Athletes, maybe?

The one with brown hair meets my eyes and gives me a nod. His gaze is calm, focused—and framed by the prettiest gray eyes I’ve ever seen. The blonde guy next to him, just as tall, greets me with an oversized grin and a wave. He looks at the brunette next to him, and then back to me, and then starts beaming.

It’s then that I notice the brunette is wearing the same forest green Westcliffe University sweatshirt as me. I can feel my face turning red. I picked mine up at the campus bookstore during my shift last week, along with a couple T-shirts. They’re practical, and I get a very generous employee discount. But no one needs to know that.

Another girl joins our group at the same time I do—tall, polished, and clearly not shy. She must be Ella Morgan.

“Hello, boys,” she says, voice honey-sweet. “Micah, Grant—it’s so good to see you both. How did you two manage to end up in the same group?”

The blonde one grins like he was waiting for that exact setup. “Probably the same way you did,” he says, tossing her a wink.

Ella finally glances at me, then does a quick double-take at the brunette. Her gaze drops to our matching sweatshirts, and a smile tugs at the corner of her mouth.

“Aw,” she says, tilting her head. “You look like you could be his little sister.”

I don’t let it get to me. Not worth the energy. Instead, I offer a polite nod and turn to the group. “I’m Sophie.”

“Declan.”

“I’m Grant, and this guy”—says the blonde, as he hooks an arm around the brunette’s shoulder—“is Micah. Looking forward to working with everyone.”

Micah chuckles. “Digging the sweatshirt, Sophie. You’ve got good taste.”

I can’t tell if he’s making fun of me, or maybe he’s trying to soften Ella’s comment, so I just smile. Giving very little to no reaction is always the answer.