ALEX
NOW – SOPHOMORE YEAR – JANUARY
The scent of vanilla and leather hits me like a physical force—a combination I’ve spent all year trying to forget. I square my shoulders and focus on the lecture hall ahead, refusing to let Freddie Donovan throw me off balance. Not again. Not today.
“If you fidget with that blazer one more time, I’m setting it on fire,” Tara says, swatting my hand away. “You look hot. Own it. Besides, this power-suit vibe is way better than your freshman year ‘I-just-rolled-out-of-bed-and-grabbed-whatever’ aesthetic.”
“Hey, that aesthetic got me straight A’s,” I protest, though I smooth down my tailored slacks anyway. The silk camisole and blazer feel like costume pieces—my attempt at playing the role of Future Environmental Scientist. “And that UMS hoodie was comfortable.”
“It had holes,” Tara corrects, linking her arm through mine. “Multiple holes. In embarrassing places. Trust me, this is better.Though I still can’t believe you let me talk you into a complete wardrobe overhaul.”
“Yes…why did I let you dress me again?”
“Because,” Tara says, tightening her grip on my arm, “you said, and I quote: ‘Tara, I need to switch up what I’m wearing. You were right all freshman year, and I need your wardrobe expertise.’“
“I did not say that.”
“You absolutely did. Three mimosas deep at my brother’s party. Though I miss your ratty UMS hoodie. It had character.”
“It had holes,” I correct, but I can’t help smiling.
“Anyway, any guesses on what Bam’s cooking up for the end-of-year project?”
“Nope. But I bet you have some.”
I chew my lip, a habit I thought I’d kicked years ago. “Honestly? I’m clueless. I’ve tried every trick in the book to get her to spill, but she’s like a vault.”
“Come on,” Tara leans in conspiratorially. “You must have an inside scoop. You’re practically her protégé.”
After just one year at UMS, I’ve spent more time in Professor Bam’s lab than some grad students—not because I’m trying to be teacher’s pet, but because the GSRI is everything. The Global Sustainable Resources Institute, or GSRI, isn’t just another environmental program; it’s my shot at actually changing things, at making the kind of difference Emma always said I could make.
Emma. My chest tightens at the memory of her smile, forever frozen at twenty-four. Sometimes I still hear her voice: “You’re going to change the world someday, Ally.” The nickname no one’s called me since.
“Tara, I spend extra time in the lab because I love the work,” I say, pushing the memories away. “Not because I’m in some secret science illuminati.”
She eyes me suspiciously, a grin tugging at her lips. “But if you were, you wouldn’t be able to tell me, right?”
“Of course not,” I deadpan, before matching her grin.
His laugh cuts through the morning air—confident, careless, infuriatingly familiar—and my whole body betrays me, recognizing it instantly. I hate that one sound can shatter months of carefully constructed indifference, hate that my heart still remembers its rhythm.
“Oh,” Tara mutters, her grip on my arm tightening. “We could totally skip class. I hear there’s a fascinating documentary about penguin migration patterns…”
“I’m fine,” I lie, squaring my shoulders. The blazer suddenly feels like armor. “He’s just another student.”
“Totally,” she replies, but steers me toward the lecture hall anyway.
As we sit down,hiscologne hits me again—vanilla and leather wrapping around me like a memory I can’t shake. I grip my pen tighter, refusing to look back. He’s deliberately sitting close—he has to be. The lecture hall is half empty, but of course Freddie Donovan would choose the seat right behind me on the first day of sophomore year. Classic Freddie, turning my personal space into his own private battleground.
I focus on my notebook with renewed determination, writing “GSRI” at the top of the page like a prayer. Like a shield. That’s the goal. That’s what matters. Not the way my skin prickles, knowing he’s watching me. Not the memories of last spring that still wake me up at night. And certainly not him, with his stupidly perfect cologne and the way he still makes my chest feel too tight.
“And now, class,” Professor Bam’s voice cuts through my spiral of thoughts, “I have an exciting announcement about your end-of-term project.”
My pen hovers over my notebook, my heart suddenly racing. This is it—the project that could make or break my GSRI application. The one that could prove I’m ready for their sophomore internship program.
“This year,” Professor Bam continues, a mischievous glint in her eye that makes my stomach drop, “we’re doing things a little differently. Your end-of-term project will be a team exercise.”
The words hit me like a bucket of ice water.
