Total pages in book: 110
Estimated words: 104050 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 520(@200wpm)___ 416(@250wpm)___ 347(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 104050 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 520(@200wpm)___ 416(@250wpm)___ 347(@300wpm)
She hands me the stack of pamphlets, each one brighter and more optimistic than the last. There’s a flyer for a support group, a card with her direct line, and a little post-it that just says “You’re not broken.”
I laugh, even though my eyes are burning. “Thank you,” I say. “Seriously.”
She stands, opens the door, and says, “Take care of yourself, okay?”
I walk out into the hallway on rubber legs. The nurse at the desk smiles and says, “All set?” I nod, voice gone, and drift back to the waiting room.
Andie’s still there, but her posture has changed—she’s leaning forward, elbows on knees, phone forgotten. When she sees me, she stands and rushes over.
“Well?” she says, searching my face.
“I’m not broken,” I whisper, and the words are so small I’m not sure she hears them. But she hugs me anyway, arms tight around my ribs, and for a second I almost believe it.
We leave together, the cold outside a relief. I clutch the pamphlets to my chest, feeling lighter and heavier all at once.
In the car, Andie puts a hand on my knee and says, “Want to get pancakes?” like it’s the most normal thing in the world.
I nod, and we drive off, the engine rumbling under us, the sky bruised and beautiful.
For the first time in years, there’s something like hope in my chest.
But it’s still tangled up with everything else.
Especially him.
This is the last place I want to be right now. The Grind is loud, even at the weird post-lunch, pre-dinner hour. Maybe it’s the finals energy, maybe just everyone’s last-minute caffeine panic, but there are students jammed into every booth and camped out on the sagging armchairs like they own the place. The espresso machine is going full throat, steaming and hissing in bursts, and the air smells like burnt sugar and overworked bodies.
I’m not sure why I’m here. No, that’s a lie—I know exactly why, and it’s the kind of reason that makes you question your own self-respect. Dylan sent four texts and a DM in the past 48 hours. They all said basically the same thing: Can we talk? I’m sorry. It’s important. Please.
I didn’t reply to the first three, but after the fourth text, I finally texted back okay. Then I told Andie I was going to the library, which is only a half-lie, since the coffee shop is technically attached to the campus library. But I don’t plan to read a single page today. I plan to survive the next thirty minutes to see what this guy wants. He was so rude in the library, and I can’t believe I’m even agreeing to meet him.
Dylan is already inside, as promised. He’s in the corner booth, back to the wall, staring down at a massive mug of something black and aggressive. He looks different from last time—like someone’s scraped the cocky veneer off and left just the raw, pulpy inside. His jaw is unshaven. His hands are knotted tight around the mug, big and bruised from a lifetime of chlorinated water and weights.
He sees me, stands, and waves me over. He’s wearing a swimmer’s hoodie that dwarfs his already huge shoulders. There are bags under his eyes, and the green of his irises is almost iridescent under the café’s string lights.
“Hey,” he says. There’s no swagger, no hint of the old, easy charm.
I slide into the seat across from him, hugging my elbows. “Hey.”
He sits, tries to smile, then gives up. “Thanks for coming, Simone. I wasn’t sure you would.”
I shrug. “I’m not sure why I’m here either.”
The words land flat, but he doesn’t take offense. He traces the rim of his mug with one finger, not looking at me.
There’s an awkward stretch. The couple at the next table are deep in a break-up fight, or maybe a pre-break-up rehearsal, so the word “commitment” is echoing at odd intervals.
Finally, Dylan looks up. “I just want to say I’m sorry. For the shit I pulled in the library. And for being a dick about Thomas.”
He says it so simply I don’t know what to do. “It’s fine,” I say, even though it’s not. “I was a mess, too.”
He nods, accepting the olive branch.
“I asked you to meet because…” He struggles, actually struggles, and for a second I see him as a person and not just a wall of muscle and predatory smiles. “Because I’m a wreck. And I don’t have anyone else to talk to.”
I almost laugh. “What about the swim team? Don’t you guys travel in packs?”
He flinches. “They wouldn’t get it.”
I’m about to press, but then I see his hands—they’re shaking, just a little, the tremor barely visible unless you’re looking for it.
“Are you okay?” I ask.
He lets out a breath that sags his whole body. “Not really.” His voice is soft, almost apologetic. “I’m not sleeping. I haven’t eaten in like two days. All I do is swim and think about how I keep fucking up.”