Chapter Text
Their project became an excuse.
Neither of them acknowledged this.
They met in the library, in cafés, and once in an empty classroom where Andy sprawled across three chairs while Emily practiced their interview questions.
They argued over phrasing.
They competed over grades.
When Emily received a ninety-seven on Miranda’s midterm and Andy received a ninety-six, Andy placed a hand over her heart and announced that she had been betrayed by the American educational system.
“You answered question four incorrectly,” Emily said.
“I interpreted it creatively.”
“You misdefined distributive justice.”
“Creatively.”
Emily began attending home matches.
Student government, supposedly, continued to require her presence.
She brought Serena, and sometimes two other friends from the debate society. Andy learned all their names within a week.
After every match, Emily found something specific to praise.
The precision of Andy’s corner kicks.
The way she had controlled the tempo.
The clever pass that had not become a goal but should have.
Andy always reacted as if the praise did not matter.
She would shrug, grin, or ask whether Emily had finally learned the offside rule.
Then, later, alone in her room, she would replay Emily’s words.
You controlled the entire match.
They follow you because you make them believe they can win.
You were brilliant.
Andy’s parents watched too.
They found different things.
Her father noticed when she lost possession. Her mother noticed when she looked winded. They agreed that she needed to be more aggressive in front of goal, though her coaches repeatedly praised her unselfish play.
Emily never talked about what Andy had failed to do.
Emily saw what she had done.
It frightened Andy how much she needed that.
They became friends on a Thursday in October.
Not frenemies. Not reluctant project partners.
Friends.
Andy had spent the day in a punishing cycle of training, classes, strength conditioning, and film review. At eight that evening, she was supposed to meet Emily in the library.
At eight-fifteen, Emily found her asleep at a table.
Andy’s face rested on her folded arms. An uncapped highlighter lay near her hand. Her hair was still damp from the shower, and her duffel sat unopened beside her.
Emily stopped.
There was something painfully unguarded about Andy when she slept. No lazy grin. No squared shoulders. No performance of invincibility.
Just a tired twenty-one-year-old who had been awake since before dawn.
Emily carefully removed the highlighter from her fingers.
Andy woke instantly.
“I’m up.”
“No, you’re not.”
“I was resting my eyes.”
“You were drooling on a chapter about municipal funding.”
Andy wiped her mouth.
Emily smiled despite herself. “Come on.”
“Where?”
“To eat.”
“I have a protein bar.”
“That object in your bag is largely preservatives and despair.”
“It’s chocolate-peanut-butter despair.”
Emily closed Andy’s textbook. “You need dinner.”
Andy was too tired to argue effectively.
They walked to a twenty-four-hour diner beyond campus. Emily slid into a red vinyl booth while Andy sat opposite her, legs stretched beneath the table.
Andy ordered pancakes, eggs, potatoes, and coffee.
Emily ordered tea and stole half Andy’s potatoes.
“You know,” Andy said, “for someone who acts horrified by carbohydrates, you’re committing a lot of potato-related crimes.”
“I don’t act horrified by carbohydrates.”
“You removed the top half of your sandwich yesterday.”
“The bread-to-filling ratio was wrong.”
“Sure.”
Emily stole another potato.
Andy watched her with a soft, exhausted smile.
“What?” Emily asked.
“Nothing.”
“You’re staring.”
“I’m ensuring you don’t commit another act of violence.”
Emily kicked her lightly beneath the table.
Andy laughed.
For a while, they talked about insignificant things. Emily described the chaos of growing up with two older sisters in London. Andy told her about getting trapped in a laundry cart during her first week at Hawthorne because Lily had dared her to race it down a dormitory corridor.
“You are the captain of a Division One soccer team,” Emily said. “People trust you with tactical decisions.”
“They shouldn’t.”
“You’re impossible.”
“You keep hanging out with me.”
“I’m gathering material for a psychological study.”
Andy’s phone lit up against the table.
Dad
Her expression closed.
She silenced the call.
“Aren’t you going to answer?”
“No.”
“Is everything all right?”
“Fine.”
Emily waited.
Andy stared down at her plate.
“He calls after games,” she said eventually.
“That’s nice.”
Andy gave a quiet, humorless laugh. “Yeah.”
There was more inside that single syllable than Emily understood.
“Did he attend Hawthorne?” she asked.
“No. He wanted me to go to Northwestern. Mom wanted Georgetown.”
“And you wanted Hawthorne?”
Andy traced the handle of her mug.
“Hawthorne offered the best scholarship.”
“That isn’t what I asked.”
Andy looked up.
The diner lights made her eyes very dark.
“I wanted somewhere that wasn’t his or hers.”
Emily understood enough not to push.
Instead, she reached across the table and turned Andy’s hand palm-up.
“What are you doing?”
“Your hand.”
“My hand is fine.”
“You massaged mine.”
“That was because you’re fragile.”
“Clearly.”
Emily pressed her thumb into Andy’s palm, mimicking what Andy had done in the library.
Her technique was terrible.
Andy did not correct her.
They sat that way until the waitress brought the bill, their hands joined between the empty plates.
Neither called it anything.
But when they walked back to campus, Andy carried Emily’s bag.
And Emily wore Andy’s flannel against the cold.