Page 22 of Cold Front
She was lounging on her bed in her Crescent Hills dorm, wearing one of my old hoodies—one she’d claimed as hers years ago. Her deep brown eyes sparkled with mischief, but there was warmth there too, the kind that made my chest unclench a little.
“So?” she prompted, raising a perfectly arched brow. “How’s my favorite little brother holding up?”
“You mean your only little brother?”
“You’re still my favorite.”
I rolled my eyes, but my lips twitched. “I’m good. Settling in.”
Cheyenne narrowed her eyes. “Liar.”
I huffed out a laugh. “Fine. It’s been... an adjustment.”
She hummed knowingly. “Roommate troubles?”
I hesitated, then sighed. “He’s... something else. Grumpy. Hot and cold. Half the time, it’s like I don’t exist, and the other half, he’s pissed off about something I don’t even get. One day, he’ll be talking to me like we’re starting to be friends, and the next, I’m gum on the bottom of his shoe.”
Cheyenne smirked. “Sounds like a man after my own heart.”
“Gross.”
She cackled, then sobered slightly. “Seriously, though. Do you want me to send a strongly worded email on your behalf? Maybe a passive-aggressive care package?”
I snorted. “What would that even include?”
“Oh, you know. A mug that says ‘World’s Okayest Roommate.’ A teddy bear wearing a ‘Chill Out’ T-shirt. A laminated list of ways to not be a raging asshole.”
I laughed, the knot in my chest easing a little. “I’ll think about it.”
“Good. And if he gets too bad, just start playing sad indie music at full volume. Works every time.”
I rolled my eyes. “Yeah, I’m sure that’ll go over great.”
Cheyenne grinned. “Hey, what are sisters for?”
We talked for a bit longer, about school, about Crescent Hills gossip, about how our parents were probably off somewhere sipping overpriced wine on their Mediterranean cruise. Eventually, though, I yawned mid-sentence, and Cheyenne gave me a pointed look.
“Go to sleep, you idiot.”
“I will.”
“Liar,” she muttered, then smirked. “Text me if you need me, okay?”
“I will.” And that time, I meant it.
After we hung up, I scrolled through my camera roll, sifting through the pictures I’d taken earlier. Finally, I selected two—one of the fountains with the first hints of yellow in the leaves reflected in the water and another of the sunlight filtering through the trees, casting dappled shadows on the grass.
The caption was‘New scenery, new perspective.’
I hit Post.
Almost immediately, a notification popped up—someone had liked my post.
I tapped the screen, not thinking much of it. But then my stomach tightened.
A thought hit me, and I decided to check my other posts with the photos I’d taken over the past few days.
The same person had liked those last few pictures too. I hadn’t noticed before.
