Chapter 13

Chris's POV

It’s been a little over a week now.

Paid my tuition. Well — ninety-five percent of it. The remaining five percent is something future Chris will figure out after the next gig. Present Chris is choosing not to think about it.

My ass has also been doing fine, since I know you were worried. The pain’s gone. Healed faster than expected, which honestly says more about how often my body’s had to bounce back from things it shouldn’t have had to bounce back from than it does about my resilience. Got fresh bruises courtesy of my father — but you already knew that chapter. Nothing new there.

Mostly I’ve just been healing, attending classes, and sitting with my new goal:

Move out.

Get out of that apartment. Find somewhere — anywhere — that doesn’t share walls with the man who technically gave me life and has spent every year since trying to take it back.

Simple goal. Expensive reality. Story of my life.

Today I was meeting Aubrey at the café on campus.

I’d been drowning in my studies lately. Between everything that happened, my attendance had taken a serious hit and exams were approaching at the speed of a train I absolutely was not prepared for.

I walked in and the smell hit me first — freshly ground beans, roasted warmth, something sweet from the bakery counter. I got a seat near the big glass window with a front-row view of campus, ordered an iced vanilla latte, and waited.

Here’s something I’ve discovered recently: people-watching is genuinely therapeutic.

Just sitting there. Watching people move around doing normal people things. Students rushing to class. Friends laughing. Couples holding hands over coffee. People whose biggest worry was a deadline and not, say, whether their father would be sober when they got home.

Weirdly calming. Would recommend.

My latte arrived after ten minutes. Cold, sweet, exactly right. I took a sip and let my thoughts wander — tuition, exams, money, moving out, the job.

And then nothing. Just the hum of the café and the sound of someone’s laptop keys clicking two tables over.

“Chris!”

I looked up.

Aubrey was power-walking toward my table with the energy of someone who was late and had decided the solution was to walk faster rather than arrive on time.

A smile came to my face before I could stop it. Traitor.

I stood to hug her. “What took you so long?”

She pulled back and gave me a look. “It’s not even been thirty minutes.”

“Felt longer.”

“You’re so dramatic.”

“I’m neglected.”

She laughed and dropped into the seat across from me. “I had to return some assignments first.”

“Wow. Responsible.”

“I know. Disgusting.”

“Very unlike you.”

“Exactly.”

We were mid-laugh when she stopped.

Just — stopped.

Her eyes landed somewhere on my face and her expression shifted in that particular way that made my stomach sink.

Shit.

The bruise.

I knew before she even opened her mouth.

“What happened to your face?”

She reached toward my cheek. I shifted back before I could think about it — that automatic thing my body does now, some reflex installed by years of things coming toward my face that I didn’t ask for.

Her hand froze.

The awkwardness settled over the table like a physical thing.

“Minor accident,” I said.

“Minor.”

“Yes.”

“Chris, that looks like someone hit you.”

“Accidents can look like that.”

“Can they?”

“Aubrey.”

“I’m just asking.”

“It was nothing. I’m fine.” The words came out sharper than I meant them to. Too sharp. I heard it and immediately wanted to take it back.

She leaned away slightly. That particular quiet that meant she was hurt but was choosing not to make it about herself.

She knew I was hiding something. I knew she knew. We both sat with that knowledge and neither of us said it out loud.

I hate that about us sometimes. That we’re too good at giving each other room we shouldn’t be given.

The silence had just reached maximum awkwardness when she said —

“I’ve started dating Luke.”

I stared at her.

She smiled, nervous.

“Me and Luke. We’re dating now.”

I took a very long, very slow sip of my latte.

For context — Luke. An interesting figure. He and Aubrey had been doing that thing for what felt like forever, where two people obviously like each other and both choose to suffer in silence about it for years. Which would’ve been fine, poetic even, if Luke hadn’t also been dating someone else for a significant chunk of that time.

I had told Aubrey, explicitly: if he can leave her for you, he can leave you for someone else.

She had nodded like she heard me.

She did not hear me.

“I don’t know how to feel about this,” I said.

“Be happy for me.”

“I’m processing.”

“Chris Please.” She leaned forward, doing the pout she knows is annoying because it works. “I just want my best friend to support me.”

I looked at her. Really looked. The smile she was trying to contain. The way her whole face had that particular glow that people get when something is going right for them and they’re still a little scared to believe it.

I hate when she looks genuinely happy. It makes it impossible to be right.

I sighed. “Fine.”

Her face lit up immediately.

“If you’re happy, I’m happy.” I pointed at her. “But I reserve the right to say I told you so.”

“Denied.”

“You can’t deny my rights.”

“Watch me.”

We argued about it for another five minutes. Then we talked — really talked, the way we hadn’t in a while. She told me about their first date. I told her about classes. We complained about professors, surprise quizzes, tuition. When I mentioned I’d paid most of mine she nearly launched herself across the table.

“Chris. That’s so good. I’m genuinely proud of you.”

Something about hearing that landed somewhere strange in my chest. Because not many people say things like that to me. Not sincerely.

To celebrate, she ordered herself an iced caramel latte, another vanilla latte for me, and enough muffins to feed a small village. We ate them. It was good.

She left to meet Luke — traitor — and I went to my remaining classes. The day ended with a lecture, one surprise test I definitely failed spectacularly, and then I was heading home.

My phone rang.

Esteban.

I answered, already bracing.

“Hey, kid!” His voice boomed through the speaker — and was immediately followed by the most aggressively audible chewing I’ve ever had the misfortune of experiencing. It sounded like he’d put the food directly on the microphone.

I held the phone away from my ear.

“A bit better,” I said.

More chewing. Horrifying.

“Great. So you’re gonna have to start work again soon.”

“How soon?”

“Next week.”

I stopped walking. “My medical break was supposed to be two weeks.”

“Kid.” I could practically hear him rolling his eyes around his mouthful of whatever he was destroying. “You got injured in your ass. You didn’t get nuked. Get back to work.”

I pinched the bridge of my nose. “Fine. How many clients do I have?”

A pause.

Then a chuckle.

A specific kind of chuckle. The kind that meant something I wasn’t going to like.

Every alarm in my body activated simultaneously.

“About that,” he said.

“About what?”

“You’re exclusive now.”

“…What?”

“Exclusive.”

“To who?”

Another laugh. The bastard was enjoying this.

“Same guy from your last session.” A beat. “The one who wrecked your ass.”

I blinked. “The one from—” I stopped. “That guy? That guy owns my schedule now?”

“His name’s Rodrigo.” Esteban said it like he was delivering a fun fact. “You’re exclusive to him. You meet him next week.”

“Esteban—”

The call ended.

I stood on the sidewalk staring at nothing in particular.

Exclusive. To him. Next week. Rodrigo.

A name I didn’t even know until thirty seconds ago and now apparently it was the name my entire foreseeable future belonged to.

So this was how it was going to be.

I’d paid my tuition. I’d had a genuinely decent day. I’d eaten celebration muffins with my best friend. I’d even, briefly, felt something that resembled okay.

And the universe, right on schedule, looked at all of that and said:

Not so fast.

I started walking again.

Because what else do you do.