“Any survivors?”
He shrugs. “A few. One even wrote me a thank-you note, though it may have been ironic.”
I laugh. The image of some hungover sophomore scribbling “thanks for the trauma” on a library receipt is too perfect.
We stand there, basking in the weirdness of being public—no more shadows, no more secrets. There’s a freedom to it, but also a risk. Last week, a faculty couple saw us walking together at the park and the gossip spread like mold on bread. The only thing that keeps me from spiraling is how little my boyfriend cares.
Liam glances at the security mirror, then at me. “Is it safe?” he asks, voice barely above a whisper.
I scan the store. The only other person is a bored undergrad shelving textbooks, earbuds jammed in so far he’s practically immune to the world. “Safe as we’ll ever be,” I reply.
He leans across the counter, quick and sure, and kisses me. Not a chaste peck, not a nervous hover, but a real kiss, the kind that lands and lingers. His hand finds the back of my neck, thumb grazing the place where my hairline tapers, and my brain short-circuits, just for a second.
I hear a noise—a pair of feet scraping tile, followed by the polite, horrified cough of a man whose whole job is to not see things he isn’t supposed to. I pull away, cheeks burning, but Liam only grins, a little wild, a little victorious.
“I should go,” he says, but he doesn’t move.
I nod, suddenly shy. “Yeah, my boss might fire me if she catches me making out at the register.”
“Wouldn’t want to endanger your promising retail career.”
We trade smiles, both of us thinking about everything that had to collapse to make this moment possible.
As he turns to go, he stops at the door. “Can I pick you up after your shift? There’s a new coffee place on Hennepin. They’re supposed to do a cardamom latte.”
I pretend to think it over. “Maybe. Depends if I finish the window display.”
“Let’s live dangerously,” he says, and then he’s gone, leaving only the scent of his aftershave and a sense of static in the air.
I turn back to my cart, but my hands are trembling a little. I stack books, tidy the counter, try to look normal.
The undergrad, done with his shelf, passes by me on his way out. He pauses, smirks, and says, “Cute boyfriend, McCall. Does he have a brother?”
I manage a withering glare, but it doesn’t land.
“Go home, Trey,” I call after him. He gives a lazy wave, then vanishes into the bright, blue heat of the quad.
I finish the display, prop the last book at an angle that would make my old boss proud. Then I sit on the stool, check my phone, and reread the last message from Liam. It’s not a love note, not even a meme—just a line from a poem, followed by a time and an address. But it’s better than any diamond ring or bouquet of roses. It’s a promise, and for the first time in a long time, I believe in those.
At the end of my shift, I walk out into the gold, gummy light of late afternoon. The campus is even emptier now, the shadows long and the air thick with the threat of rain. I see Liam at the far end of the quad, sitting on a bench, head bowed over a book. He looks up when I approach, eyes crinkling at the corners, so handsome that my heart stutters.
He stands, brushes imaginary dust from his jeans, and offers me his hand. I take it.
As we walk, I feel the stares from the windows, the whispered nothings floating behind us. I think about the girl I was a year ago, the one who would have died of shame for being seen like this. I think about the girl I am now, who laughs and flips off the gossips and lets herself want things.
We reach the coffee place, a weird little cube of glass and steel wedged between two brutalist dorms. Inside, the lights are low and the tables are mostly empty. We find a spot by the window, order our drinks, and sit with our knees touching.
He takes my hand across the table. It’s so simple, so easy, but for a second it makes my heart ache. I look at our fingers intertwined, and it feels both totally new and impossibly old.
We talk about nothing: the books we’re reading, the faculty feuds, the best place on campus to sneak a nap. I tease him about his summer poetry class, accuse him of turning his students into tiny versions of himself. He laughs and admits it’s probably true.
For a moment, I forget the weight of the world outside. I forget the surgeries, the scars, the years of running from myself. I just drink my coffee and let myself be held by the warm, solid presence of the only person who’s ever made me feel like myself.
The sun drops lower, painting the window with streaks of orange and pink. Liam watches me, the way he always does—like I’m a puzzle he’s just starting to understand.
“Are you happy?” he asks, and there’s a crack in his voice that almost undoes me.
I don’t hesitate. “Yeah. I am.”