Lainey will need to learn to fend for herself.

The door’s flung open, and Harrison walks in balancing three plates of food.

“First of all, idiot, you slept through breakfast, but I’m a good friend so here’s some cold eggs and hash browns. Pancakes and sausage too, though I took a bite out of both on the way up.”

Plates clatter as he haphazardly sets them down on my desk.

“Second, where the hell were you last night? I swear to god if you’re sleeping with Pippa again, you’re going to regret it.” He mimes the infamous Psycho knife scene. “She’s batshit, man.”

I get up out of bed and try to ignore the fact that the world feels like it’s tilting on its axis. “I wasn’t with Pippa.”

“Good, because I think Francesca is into you, and you cannot walk away from that. Please, for me, just spend the last few weeks before you graduate making the rounds.”

“Francesca isn’t my type.”

“Collette then?”

“No.”

“Are you kidding? It physically pains me that you don’t take more advantage of the French shit. You could just wander around saying whatever the hell you want and these girls would go wild for it.”

I rub my temples, trying to ease the headache that seems hellbent on staying put.

Harrison starts another sentence, some other thing that’s going to annoy me.

I look at him out of the corner of my eye. “Could you just shut up for five seconds?”

“Unfortunately, no. It’s a real problem.”

Chapter Six

Lainey

I stay away from the library for the next few weeks, but that doesn’t mean I don’t see Emmett. I’ve developed a nighttime routine, leaning into the insomnia, appreciating it now, actually. Around 11:30 PM, I slip out of bed, quiet as a mouse. Petit de la souris. I looked up what that means, and I find I don’t mind the nickname; it’s fitting. My shoes wait for me near the door, and I slip out of the dorm while Blythe sleeps on, oblivious. She never wakes up, but even if she did, I have a bathroom excuse ready to go in my head.

I sneak out the side door of the building, careful to keep it propped open slightly, and then I head straight down to the rose garden. On nights when the moon isn’t reliable, I bring my phone for its flashlight. Tonight, I don’t need it as I wind through the narrow path, looking and feeling and, every so often, bending down to sniff.

The garden is tended meticulously, fertilized and watered and pruned, more gorgeous now in mid-spring than ever.

Always before I leave, I find a rose, one that’s already fallen to the ground. It doesn’t have to be perfect. Wilted and brown-tinged, they’re still lovely. I carry it down to the lake and try to spot Emmett’s lone figure meticulously slicing through the dark water. Sometimes, when the moon is full and bright, I see him right away. His heavy arms swing up and out of the water, over and over, as rhythmic as a metronome. Other nights, when the sky is black, I’m left with my imagination. I wonder how he does it on those nights, how he’s still able to cut across the lake and not end up lost, veering around in circles. I’ve watched him confidently cross enough times now that it doesn’t worry me anymore when he disappears. He always comes back.