Page 43 of The Dating Coach
"As ready as one can be for Frank's victory rituals," I said. "He's not going to make me wear a crown again, is he?"
"That was one time," Liam defended. "Besides, you looked cute in it."
"I looked like a demented prom queen."
"A cute demented prom queen," he corrected, then offered his arm with exaggerated formality. "Shall we? Your victory pancake cake awaits."
I tucked my hand into the crook of his elbow, letting him lead me toward his car. The gesture felt natural now, weeks of careful distance eroded by shared crisis and quiet moments. But underneath the comfort was an awareness that thrummed like a live wire – the conversation we'd been avoiding forever.
The hockey house was in full celebration mode when we arrived. Banners hung across the doorway reading "CHEMISTRY CHAMPION" in Frank's messy handwriting. Music poured from the speakers, and I could smell something sugary baking.
"GEMMA!" Mia appeared in the doorway, flour in her hair and frosting on her nose. "You passed! I mean, of course you passed. I never doubted. Except for this morning when you tried to convince me that electrons were a government conspiracy, but I figured that was just stress."
"I did not—" I started, but she was already dragging me inside.
The kitchen looked like a bakery had exploded. Every surface was covered in mixing bowls, measuring cups, and what appeared to be three different attempts at frosting. In the center of the chaos sat a lopsided stack of pancakes with candles stuck haphazardly throughout.
"It's perfect," I said, meaning it completely.
"Frank wanted to make it chemistry-themed," Mia explained. "But I vetoed his idea to shape it like a benzene ring. Some things are sacred."
"Benzene rings are sacred!" Frank protested from where he was attempting to clean frosting off the ceiling. "They're the basis of organic chemistry!"
"They're also terrible pancake shapes," Karen interjected, entering with a bottle of champagne. "Victory bubbles for the conquering hero!"
"It's 2 PM," I pointed out.
"Time is a social construct," she countered, already popping the cork. "Besides, you just defeated the organic chemistry final boss. Day drinking is practically required."
The afternoon dissolved into the kind of easy celebration I'd never allowed myself before. We ate pancake cake straight from the platter, everyone sharing their favorite "Gemma stress moments" from the past weeks. Apparently, I'd been more entertainingly anxious than I'd realized.
"Remember when you tried to explain hybridization using swim strokes?" Henry contributed. "And somehow convinced yourself that butterfly was actually an sp3 orbital?"
"Or when you made us all quiz you during movie night," Frank added. "Poor Mia just wanted to watch her rom-com, but no, we had to name functional groups every time the main character said his signature line."
"You were all very patient," I admitted, warmth spreading through me from more than just the champagne.
"We were invested in your success," Henry said simply. "That's what friends do."
Friends. The word settled around me like a comfortable sweater. When had these people become so essential? When had celebrating in a messy kitchen become preferable to suffering alone?
I spotted Liam across the room, a gentle smile at his lips. He’d been quieter than usual, letting others lead the celebration while he watched—but his presence never wavered: he refilled my glass before I even noticed it was empty, chuckled at Frank’s terrible chemistry puns, and steadied me when Karen’s enthusiasm nearly knocked me over. When our eyes met across the crowded room, I realized he’d been looking out for me all evening. A warm gratitude bloomed in my chest—one that had nothing to do with the champagne.
As the afternoon wore on and the champagne bottle emptied, people began dispersing. Henry left for a study group, Frank for his shift at the campus bookstore. Karen dragged Mia shopping for "grocery shopping," which sounded ominous.
And then it was just Liam and me in the destroyed kitchen, the celebration detritus surrounding us like evidence of joy.
"I should help clean," I said, not moving from my spot on the counter.
"It can wait," he said, moving closer. "How do you feel? Really?"
I considered the question. For weeks, I'd carried the weight of that failed exam like a stone in my chest. It had colored everything – my confidence, my future plans, my sense of self. Now, with it lifted, I felt... light. Unmoored but free.
"Like I can breathe again," I admitted. "Like maybe I'm actually capable of the dreams I've been chasing."
"You were always capable," he said seriously. "The exam was just a formality."
"You have to say that. You're biased." The words came out teasing, but his expression remained serious.
