"You're a habitual line stepper."
"They were talking shit too," Brice shrugged, a smile escaping.
"It seemed like you were the one starting it," Mel shook her head, pulling out her laptop, "It’s that fuck boy in you that just likes stirring shit up."
"Some call it passion," Brice laughed, "Excuse me if a white boy has a little motion."
"Mm-hmm. And not shaking their coach's hand after?"
Brice's jaw tightened slightly. He'd heard this take a thousand times already, from Twitter, from sports shows, from his own parents.
"That wasn't about him," Brice said, his tone more serious than he intended.
Mel held up her hands. "Hey, I'm not judging. Stand on that shit if that’s how you feel. The whole thing was just very... you."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"It means you do what you want and deal with the consequences later," Mel said, but there was no edge to it. "It's not a bad thing. It's just very Brice Colton."
He studied her face, looking for judgment and finding none.
"You don't even like football," Brice said, deflecting. "Why'd you watch?"
"I don't," Mel agreed, opening her laptop. "But Lane was really hyped about it. He wanted to watch it together, so..."
Brice kept his face still, kept his body language relaxed even as something uncomfortable coiled in his stomach.
"Oh, I didn’t know he was into football" Brice said, his voice carefully neutral.
"Unfortunately, he is," Mel rolled her eyes, but she was still smiling.
Brice nodded, his fingers drumming once against the table before he caught himself and stopped.
"You guys need to be more selfless when it comes to date ideas," Mel continued, her attention half on her laptop screen as it powered up. "Like, I sat through three hours of football. Three hours, Brice. Do you know how long that is when you don't understand what's happening?"
Date. The word echoed in his head.
"Football's not that complicated," Brice heard himself say.
"Says the guy who gets paid to play it," Mel shot back. "To me, it's just a bunch of dudes running into each other for no reason. He kept trying to explain what was happening, but honestly, you talking shit and your habitual line stepping was the best part."
Brice forced a laugh. It came out mostly right. "I’m glad I was able to entertain you."
"Right?" Mel grinned. "Though I'm not sure the date was worth sitting through all that testosterone. Next time I'm picking the activity. He can suffer through a museum or something."
Next time. There was going to be a next time.
Brice picked up his phone, just to have something to do with his hands. His thumb swiped across the screen without really seeing anything. He needed to say something, needed to keep this conversation normal.
"Museums are cool," he said, the words coming out stiffer than he intended.
Brice stared at his phone screen, the words and images blurring together.
"So did you at least appreciate the ending?" Brice asked, his voice back to something resembling normal. "It was a pretty good game."
"Oh, he was pissed," Mel laughed. "He's a Notre Dame fan, apparently. I think he was hoping I'd comfort him after they lost or something."
"Did you?"
The question came out before Brice could stop it. It hung in the air between them, sharper than he'd intended. Mel looked up from her laptop, one eyebrow raised.
"Did I what? Comfort him?"
Brice shrugged, trying to play it off. "You said he wanted you to. I'm just asking if his plan worked."
"That's none of your business, Brice," Mel said with a coy smile on her face.
…
Liz spotted her from across the food truck plaza, her silhouette unmistakable even among the lunch crowd. The September heat hadn't quite broken yet, and students clustered around the various trucks, their voices carrying across the brick courtyard. Liz had driven to this side of town with purpose, having seen her having lunch a few days ago as she drove past.
She adjusted her sunglasses and moved through the crowd, timing her approach for when she would be walking away from the counter with her order. She was in profile now, one hand cradling her belly, the other accepting a paper boat of loaded fries from the vendor.
"Skylar?"
She turned, and for just a flash, something passed across her face before it smoothed into surprise.
"Mrs. Colton," Skylar said, her free hand moving to shield her eyes from the sun.
"I see you’ve learned about my favorite place," Liz lied smoothly.
Skylar glanced down at her fries, then back up at Liz. "The Korean barbecue truck is really good. These loaded fries are kind of my thing right now."
"Cravings?" Liz asked, letting warmth color her voice. "God, I remember those. With Brice, I couldn't get enough of pickles and ice cream. Not together, thankfully. Jimmy was all about spicy food. I went through an entire phase where I put hot sauce on everything. And Sophie?" She laughed. "Chocolate milk which I haven’t drank since. I must have gone through gallons of it."
Skylar's posture relaxed slightly, though her eyes remained watchful. "These fries are definitely a thing. I can't explain it."
"Each pregnancy is so different," Liz continued, gesturing toward an empty picnic table in the shade. "Mind if I join you?"
"Sure," Skylar said, moving toward the table.
They sat across from each other, Skylar setting her food down carefully. Liz watched her, noting the Coach leather bag, the manicured nails, the way she carried herself despite the obvious discomfort of late pregnancy. This wasn't a scared teenage girl.
"How are you feeling?" Liz asked. "You look great."
"Thank you," Skylar said, popping a fry into her mouth. "I'm good. Tired, but good."
Liz nodded, letting a moment of silence settle between them. She needed to be careful here, needed to find the right balance between concerned and intrusive.
"Look," Liz said, leaning forward slightly. "I know things are complicated. I don't know all the details, and honestly, I don't need to. Whatever happened between you and Brice is between you guys. But as a mother, I just want to help whenever I can."
Skylar's chewing slowed. She studied Liz's face, her expression unreadable.
"That's nice of you," Skylar said finally, her voice measured.
"I mean it," Liz pressed. "I know how isolating pregnancy can be, especially when things are uncertain. If you need anything, anything at all, I want you to know you can reach out."
Something shifted behind Skylar's eyes.
"I have an appointment coming up," Skylar said, her tone carefully casual. "In a few days. My mom comes with me to them but you can tag along if you want to."
Liz felt the hook being set even as she pretended to consider the offer.
"I'd be happy to come with you," Liz said. "If you'd like the company."
"Yeah," Skylar said, a small smile playing at her lips. "That would be really nice, actually."
…
"The game was good," Connie said, aware she was answering a question Dr. Mendel hadn't asked yet. "We lost, obviously, but it was a good time."
Dr. Mendel waited.
"Eli was really great about the whole thing," Connie continued, the words coming faster now. "Like, he knew it would be weird for me, you know? With everything. But he never made it a thing. He just... let me be."
"Let you be how?"
Connie traced the Notre Dame logo on her sweatshirt with her finger. "I don't know. He doesn't get weird about stuff. Like, I can wear whatever I want and he doesn't comment on it. If I'm talking to a guy from class, he doesn't hover or ask a million questions about who he is. He just trusts me."
She heard how it sounded as soon as the words left her mouth. The implicit comparison hanging there, obvious and pathetic.
"That sounds important to you," Dr. Mendel said. "Having that trust."
"It is," Connie said quickly. "It's really important. I didn't realize how much I needed that until I had it. Like, I can just exist without feeling like I'm being watched or judged or like I need to explain myself constantly."
Dr. Mendel made a note. "You mentioned before that you felt controlled in your previous relationship."
"Yeah," Connie replied. "Yeah, I did. But I'm past that now. I'm with someone who actually respects me as a person, not as like, property or whatever."
The silence stretched.
"The tailgate was kind of weird though," she said, changing direction. "I ran into this girl from St. Joe's. Madison. She was always around, you know? Like, part of the group. We'd go to parties together, take pictures, all that stuff."
"And seeing her was weird because...?"
"Because talking to her made me realize we were never actually friends," the words felt heavy coming out. "Like, we hung out all the time. We texted constantly. But standing there listening to her talk about Holy Cross and ask about Skylar, I just... I didn't care. And I don't think she cared either. We were just performing friendship because that's what you do in high school."
Dr. Mendel leaned forward slightly. "Performing friendship. That’s an interesting way to put it."
Connie's throat felt tight. "I was trying so hard to be this specific person back then. Like, I had this idea of who I needed to be to fit in, to be popular, to be whatever. And Madison and all those other girls, they were part of that. We weren't connecting as real people. We were just playing our roles."
"What role were you playing?"
Connie stared at the carpet.
"The girlfriend to the guy," she said finally. "The one who has her shit together. I thought that's what I was supposed to be."
"And now?"
"Now I don't even know who that person was," Connie said, her voice cracking slightly. "Like, was any of it real? Were any of those friendships real? I spent so much time with those people and I can't think of a single meaningful conversation I had with any of them."
Dr. Mendel waited, giving her space.
"Even Skylar," Connie continued, the name sticking in her throat. "She was my best friend for years. Years. We told each other everything, or at least I thought we did. And now she's pregnant and I had to find out from Madison at a fucking tailgate."
The admission hung in the air. Connie felt tears pricking at her eyes and blinked them back aggressively.
"We haven't talked in months," she said. "Since she left for Ball State, we just... drifted. And I keep telling myself that's normal, that people grow apart after high school. But Madison knew she was pregnant but not me. Not the person who was supposed to be her best friend."
"That must feel very painful," Dr. Mendel said quietly.
"It's not even about her specifically," Connie said, wiping at her eyes. "It's about all of it. Like, what was real? What parts of my life before were actually mine versus what I was doing because I thought I had to? I don't even know anymore. I thought I knew who my friends were. I thought I knew what my relationships meant. But looking back now, it all feels so shallow. So fake. Like I was living someone else's life and didn't even realize it."
"What feels different now?" Dr. Mendel asked.
"I feel like I can breathe," she said. "Like I'm not constantly performing anymore. The people I'm around now, they like me for me. Not for who I'm pretending to be."
"That's significant growth, Connie."
"But it's also terrifying," Connie admitted. "Because if I was performing back then, if those friendships weren't real, what does that say about me? Was I just a fake person for years? Did I even know who I was?"
Dr. Mendel nodded her head. "You were a teenager trying to navigate complex social dynamics in a difficult environment. That's not the same as being fake. That's called surviving."
"I guess I'm just realizing how lonely I was," Connie said, her voice barely above a whisper. "Even when I was surrounded by people all the time. Even when I had a boyfriend and a best friend and a whole friend group. I was so fucking lonely because none of it was real connection."
"And now?"
"Now I'm less lonely," Connie said. "Even though I have fewer people in my life. Even though Skylar and I don't talk and I barely see anyone from high school. I actually feel less alone because the connections I do have are real."
"I'm proud of that," she continued, testing the words. "I'm proud of myself for building something different. For choosing better. For not just repeating the same patterns because they're familiar."
Dr. Mendel smiled. "You should be proud. That takes tremendous courage."
…
Brice leaned against the kitchen counter, red Solo cup in hand, watching the girl in front of him, Serena from one of his classes, laugh at something her friend said. The crop top she wore left little to the imagination, and she knew it.
"I'm just saying," Serena's friend was saying, "if you're going to take that class, take it with literally anyone else. Professor Harris is impossible."
Serena rolled her eyes. "Girl, drop week is gone. I'm stuck with him."
Brice pushed off the counter and moved into their circle, his shoulder brushing against Serena's.
"Harris isn't that bad," he said, letting his voice drop into that easy, confident register that usually worked. "You just have to know how to talk to him."
Serena turned, her eyes lighting up with recognition. "Oh my God, Brice! I didn't know you were here."
"Just got here a little bit ago," he answering, nursing a club soda. "You've got him on Tuesday’s, right?"
"Yeah," she said, angling her body toward him now, shutting her friend out slightly.
"Yeah, I got Chem in that building and I’ve seen you a few times," Brice said, holding her gaze just long enough to make it clear.
Her friend mumbled something about needing another drink and drifted away. Brice didn't watch her go. He kept his eyes on Serena, let the smile play at the corner of his mouth.
"So what's your secret then?" Serena asked, taking a sip from her cup. "For dealing with Harris?"
"It's not really a secret," Brice said, moving closer. The music was loud enough that he could justify it. "You just have to show up to office hours once or twice. He likes feeling important. Ask him about his research or whatever. After that, he'll grade you easier."
"That's so manipulative," Serena laughed, but she was looking up at him through her lashes now.
"It's strategic," Brice corrected. "There's a difference."
"Is there?"
"Yeah," he said, letting his eyes drop to her lips for just a second before meeting her gaze again. "Manipulation is dishonest. Strategy is just playing the game better than everyone else."
Serena bit her bottom lip, still smiling. "And what game are you playing right now?"
"Who says I'm playing a game?"
"Please," she said, her hand coming to rest on his forearm. "You're always playing a game."
The contact sent a small thrill through him, but he kept his expression lazy, unbothered. "Maybe I’m just personable."
"Maybe," she shrugged. "Or maybe you're bored."
"Can't it be both?"
She laughed again, louder this time, and Brice felt the conversation shifting into familiar territory.
Movement caught Brice's peripheral vision. The front door opening, people filtering in. He started to turn his head automatically, some instinct pulling his attention toward the entrance. Then he recognized the voice cutting through the music.
Brice forced himself to turn back to Serena, to keep his body angled away from the door. He shifted his weight, putting his back more fully toward the entrance, creating a wall between himself and wherever she was in the room.
"Oh shit," Serena pulled the cup away from her mouth, "Mel is here. Everybody and their momma in this bitch. Let me go say h-"
"You want to get out of here?" he quickly interjected, trying to hide the desperation in his voice.
"I bet that line works a lot," she laughed, "But yeah, I can use some air."
