Page 2 of Safe Place

We exchange emails and phone numbers around and discuss a few tentative meeting times before we start to drift back to our seats.

MICAH

“The girl from our group is kind of cute. What do you think?” Grant asks as we walk out of class.

“Bella?” I raise a brow. “She’s trouble—trust me, stay away.”

“Her name’s Ella. And I’m not talking about her. I meant the other one. The quiet one. The one with the matching sweatshirt as you.” He gives me a look. “And don’t worry, I know Ella,” he adds with a scoff, “she used to hook up with one of my old hockey teammates. Still might be. Had the audacity to ask me—multiple times—to introduce her to you. Can’t believe she actually managed to get in your group.”

“How did you get into my group?” I ask, remembering the way he shut Ella down earlier.

“I begged Professor Brightman after class last week,” he admits with zero shame. “Told him you’re my emotional support best friend. He knows what I’ve been through. I guess he caved. Ella probably pulled some similar bullshit.” He shrugs like it’s no big deal.

Grant West has been my best friend since forever—more of a brother than anything else. Everyone thought he’d go pro in hockey after college. He was that good. But after losing his twin brother freshman year, he quit.

He plays the pity card sometimes. Not because he’s manipulative, but he just passes it off more lightly than he actually feels about it, obviously. I don’t push him to be honest, though. I’m sure he will open up when he’s ready.

“The girl with the Westcliffe sweatshirt,” he says again, nudging me. “What do you think?”

I shrug. “She’s cute, I guess. Definitely not your type though. But then again, I didn’t really get a good look.”

It’s a lie. I saw her clearly. I should’ve looked away, but I didn’t.

She is pretty, but that’s not what I noticed first. She looked very tired and her eyes were distant—almost kind of sad, like she’s carrying something heavy behind her eyes.

“Yeah she’s more of the quiet girl-next-door type,” he says. “She’s pretty, but I’ll let you have her. It’s a sign from the universe you guys wore the same shirt.”

I roll my eyes and don’t answer. The sweatshirt I’m wearing isn’t a show of school pride or some sign from the universe. It’s because the girl I hooked up with in my car before class took my hoodie, and I knew the lecture hall would feel like a damn meat locker. Picked this one up from the bookstore ten minutes before class started.

I should probably end things with Hailey. She was supposed to be a summer fling, but she keeps popping up everywhere I go. I needed stress relief—she’s hot, easy, and doesn’t ask questions. But it’s gone on longer than it should’ve.

It’s not that I’m swamped with classwork or anything, but I’m under pressure. Junior year means my dad’s breathing down my neck more than usual. I’m being trained to take over The Vale Group, our family’s global luxury real estate and development firm. That means perfect grades at a prestigious university, PR appearances, networking events, and playing the heir.

I’m not even the oldest. That’s Luke—he’s a year ahead of me. But he made it clear a long time ago that he wants nothing to do with the company. Said it doesn’t align with his values.

So now it’s me. All eyes on me. Relationships are too much maintenance. Too many expectations. Just another performance I don’t have the energy for.

I head to my car and back to my apartment while Grant turns toward the gym. I also know he’s meeting with his advisor—probably another attempt from the school to convince him to reconsider hockey. Without him, the team will most definitely suffer another season. Plus Grant doesn’t have the grades to make up for no longer being the school’s star athlete.

But I know he won’t go back.

He’s also pretty locked in on becoming COO of The Vale Group—or something close to it—when I take over. If he needs money to make up for losing his athletic scholarship, my family would cover that too. My dad’s a hard-ass, rigid about everything, with two exceptions: my mom and Grant. He’s always been an exception. He treated him like a son since long before what happened with his brother.

I duck into the cafe next to my building. An eight o’clock class on a Monday morning was a mistake, and I need caffeine if I plan on functioning like a human.

Then I notice the familiar face behind the counter.

Sweatshirt Girl.

Same Westcliffe hoodie, one sleeve pushed up above her elbow, short brown hair pulled into a low ponytail. Her big brown eyes are locked on the espresso machine—darker than I remember from class, and more tired. Same neutral expression, like she’s working without being fully present.

I’ve been to this cafe more times than I can count. Has she been here all along? Taken my order before? How the hell did I never notice her until now, or not even recognize her in class this morning? To be fair, she didn’t seem to recognize me either, but I’m sure she gets hundreds of customers a day at this location.

“An iced americano please,” says the guy at the front of the line.

“Iced americano. Would you like anything else?” asks the barista at the register—a guy with a man bun.

“Yeah. A madeleine…and the number of the barista in the green Westcliffe sweatshirt.”