Page 32 of Built to Fall
And I’m still unwilling to accept that fact.
So I throw on a hoodie, lace up my sneakers, and slip out into the foggy New Haven morning.
It’s October. The chilly morning air slaps against my skin as I continue running.
The streets are quiet—a few delivery trucks and the occasional flicker of an old streetlamp. My footsteps are the only sound. It’s not smart. I know that. But running helps. At leastuntil I can force the burn in my lungs to be worse than the ache in my chest.
Eventually, I made it to campus. I’m rounding the edge of the football field when a door slams behind me.
It startles me for a second, but I’ve decided the only thing I can do is keep running. Whether it’s to remain unnoticed or outrun whoever’s behind me.
“Lina?” I hear, followed by a tortured groan. “Are you serious right now?”
The voice stops me cold. Not because it’s loud or angry—though it’s definitely both—but because it’s familiar.
And I especially remember that voice. Deep. Sharp. Pissed off and bored in that infuriating Grant Vandenberg way.
I turn, already bracing myself.
As I suspected, there he is. Grant stands a few feet away, wearing a Yale football sweatshirt and a pair of athletic shorts, as he so commonly does. His hair is damp and messy, clinging to his forehead like he just showered. The kind of effortlessly disheveled that most people have to try for, while also looking effortlessly expensive.
His calves flex when he shifts his weight, and his jaw is tight with what I assume is judgment.
He always looks like he’s halfway to a fight or halfway through one. All muscle and impatience.
There’s a duffel slung over one shoulder and earbuds dangling from around his neck. He must have just finished a workout.
Or maybe he fought a bear. Probably won, too.
This is the first time I’ve talked to him since the morning he and Braxton crashed our breakfast at the diner, which was a few days ago.
My classes have kept me preoccupied. Now that we’re finally in the bulk of the semester, things have started to pick up. It doesn’t bother me. I like the distraction.
Economics is still a pain. International Law is dense with material but fascinating nonetheless. Kara likes hearing about my Global Health class—this week we’re covering the intersections of climate change and disease burden, and I haven’t shut up about it since Tuesday. I’m also halfway through outlining a case study on post-coup transitional governments for my Comparative Politics class.
I’ve still seen Grant, though. He’s the kind of guy who holsters attention like a gun strapped to his waist. Grant is hard to avoid, and it doesn’t help that our circle of friends are intertwined.
Everyone close to us seems to love our tiff. I heard Eden and Kara joking about it last night. How Grant and I will“inevitably break under all the sexual tension,”as Eden put it.
Kara had laughed so hard that she nearly choked on the spoonful of ice cream she was eating, while Meredith rolled her eyes and fought a smile.
They treat it like it’s movie-night entertainment, but I shut it down immediately. Not because I hate Grant. In all reality, I don’t. But I also can’t see myself giving Grant—the most notorious playboy on campus—any reason to view me as something convenient.
I blink. “What?”
He starts walking toward me, slow and reluctant, like he doesn’t want to be seen with me. There’s a faint sheen of sweat on his neck, catching the early light. His sleeves are pushed up to his elbows, forearms tanned and veiny, littered with tattoos. The only one I can make out in the dark is the artsy-looking picture frame.
I can’t help but narrow in on them, wondering what the difference between his forearm flexed and relaxed looks like.
He’s also chewing gum. He’salwayschewing gum.
“Is this a normal thing for you?” he asks. “Running in the middle of the night instead of sleeping?”
I cross my arms. “Why is it any concern of yours?”
And how does he know I didn’t sleep?
It’s a stupid question. Even I can acknowledge the bags under my eyes and the slump in my shoulders. It’s a logical conclusion.
