Chapter 3: The First Cracks
The coffee shop steam felt good on her face. It was ordinary. Safe. Sophie focused on that, on the clatter of ceramic and the hiss of the espresso machine, trying to anchor herself in the morning’s bland reality. Ethan had already snagged their usual corner table, two mugs waiting.
“You look tired,” he said, not looking up from his phone as she slid into the chair. He was scanning a political news feed, his brow furrowed in that familiar, concentrated way that usually made her smile.
“Long night,” she mumbled, reaching for her latte. The heat seeped through the cup into her palms. She realized she was cold, a deep chill that the smoky warmth of Declan’s study had buried. Now, in the fluorescent light, she felt exposed.
“So, did you get it?” Ethan asked finally, locking his screen and giving her his full attention. His eyes, warm and concerned, searched hers. “The big expose on the frat king?”
The question punched through the fog. The interview. Her notes were a blur in her mind, the details smeared like wet ink. She remembered the fire, the way the light danced… and his voice, soft, telling her to relax. To be honest.
“It was… productive,” she said, the word feeling strange in her mouth. She took a too-big gulp of coffee, scalding her tongue.
“Productive. That’s your professional assessment?” Ethan teased, but his smile didn’t quite reach his eyes. “You’ve been weirdly quiet since you got here. And you’re all…” He gestured vaguely at her face.
“All what?”
“Shiny. Did you do something different?”
Her hand flew to her cheek. She hadn’t. She’d scrubbed her face raw that morning, trying to remove the scent of citrus and smoke. But her eyes felt heavy, laden. She blinked slowly. Her lashes seemed to catch the light, thick and dark. Mascara. She never wore mascara for a 8 AM breakfast. A phantom sensation, cool glass against her skin, a hissing spray.
“Just tired,” she repeated, dropping her hand. A restless energy thrummed under her skin. She fiddled with the buttons on her sensible oxford shirt—the one she’d worn for interviews since freshman year. The top button was tight. Constricting. Her fingers worked at it absently, popping it open without thought.
Ethan’s gaze dipped, then snapped back to her face, his expression shifting. “Soph?”
“Hmm?” The second button came undone easier. A sliver of her lace-edged bra, a pale pink push-up she didn’t remember choosing that morning, became visible.
“Your shirt.”
“It’s hot in here,” she said, her voice lighter than she intended. A giggle bubbled up, born from a nervousness she couldn’t name. She glanced away from his confused stare, her eyes tracking a movement near the door.
A guy in a Sigma Chi hoodie was ordering at the counter. Tall. Broad-shouldered. Familiar in a way that sent a jolt through her system, a Pavlovian ping of recognition. Her gaze lingered on the Greek letters stretched across his back.
“Sophie.” Ethan’s voice was firmer now, a note of alarm cutting through. “What is going on? You’re undressing in a coffee shop and checking out some frat dude. Did something happen last night?”
She dragged her eyes back to him. The concern on his face was so deep, so Ethan, that it cleaved through the fog for a second. This was her boyfriend. The person who knew her. A sharp, clarion moment of panic sliced through her. What am I doing?
“No, nothing happened, it was just an interview,” she said, forcing the words out. But her tone was wrong. It came out airy, dismissive, a breezy wave of her hand. She heard it herself. It was the voice of the girls she used to privately mock, the ones who prioritized a party invite over a thesis draft.
She tried to laugh it off, to make it normal. “God, Ethan, relax. You’re so serious all the time.”
The laugh that escaped was high, tinkling, and utterly foreign. It hung in the air between them, a grotesque, shiny bubble.
And then she froze.
The sound of it—that empty, pretty noise—echoed in her own ears. It died in her throat. Her smile shattered, leaving her lips parted in confusion. Her mind, the sharp, analytical instrument she’d relied on for twenty years, went quiet. A blank screen. She stared at Ethan, seeing her own horrified reflection in his eyes.
He saw it too. The moment she fractured. “Sophie?” he whispered, reaching across the table for her hand.
She jerked back, her chair legs scraping loudly on the tile. The noise made people look. Her skin crawled with a sudden, feverish heat. The Sigma Chi brother left with his coffee, throwing a casual, appraising glance her way. Her body instinctively straightened, her shoulders pulling back before her mind could issue the command.
“I have to go,” she blurted, standing so fast her knees knocked the table. Coffee sloshed over the rim of her mug, a dark brown tide spreading across the wood.
“Go where? We need to talk about this. You’re scaring me.”
“I have a… a study group. I forgot.” The lie was pathetic, transparent. She couldn’t meet his eyes. She fumbled with her bag, her fingers clumsy. The buttons on her shirt were still open. She didn’t fix them.
She fled into the bright, mocking sunshine, Ethan’s worried voice swallowed by the closing door. The campus walkway stretched before her, but she had no destination. Her mind was a stuck record, playing only one senseless, repeating phrase that had woven itself into her subconscious in the dark, firelit room.
Isn’t it easier to be pretty?
She walked faster, her high heels—another unfamiliar choice—clicking a frantic rhythm on the pavement. She needed her notes. She needed to check her recorder. She needed proof of what had, and had not, been said. The concrete proof would anchor her, would explain this hollow, giggling creature that had momentarily possessed her.
But a deeper, colder part of her, a part that was slowly being numbed and submerged, already knew. She remembered his smile as he’d put the recorder away. She remembered the soft click she’d dismissed as the latch on the box.
She knew, even before she’d sprint up her dorm stairs and torn through her bag, that she would find nothing at all.