Madison's voice has been echoing in my head like a broken record since the moment I woke up this morning, threading through my thoughts no matter how hard I try to push it away.
Baby bear.
The pet name clings to me like smoke—sour, sharp, wrong in every possible way. She'd said it so casually last night, like it meant absolutely nothing, but her eyes had been glittering with that too-satisfied gleam that meant she knew exactly what kind of bomb she was dropping.
I spent half the night staring at my ceiling, trying to convince myself I misheard her. That maybe she said something else entirely and my paranoid brain twisted it into Liam's private nickname for me. But no matter how many times I replayed the moment, the words came out the same.
Still, when morning light finally filters through my bedroom curtains, it's Liam's voice that wins out over the doubt. His promise from last night, whispered warm against my ear.
Come visit me at UCLA this weekend. I've got a surprise for you.
That's the thought I force myself to cling to as I throw my carefully chosen outfits into my overnight duffel bag, double-check my makeup in the visor mirror of my car, and finally hit the road with all four windows down and my playlist cranked up loud enough to drown out any lingering anxiety.
This feels like everything I've been working toward. Freedom. Independence. Adulthood. Finally stepping into the bigger, brighter world I've been dreaming about since I was old enough to know that Sacramento wasn't the center of the universe.
The highway stretches out ahead of me like a promise, and I let myself sink into the rhythm of driving. My iced vanilla latte sweats in the cupholder, creating a perfect ring of condensation that I'll probably have to clean up later. My phone sits in its holder on the dashboard, occasionally lighting up with texts from Zoey that I glance at during red lights.
Zoey:Send me ALL the pics when you get there. I want to live vicariously through your romantic weekend.
Zoey:Also don't let those blue eyes make you forget that boys are dangerous creatures who can't be trusted.
Me:You worry way too much. This is going to be absolutely perfect.
Because it has to be. I've built this weekend up in my mind for days now, spinning elaborate fantasies about what Liam might have planned. Maybe he's set up something romantic in his dorm room—candles flickering on his desk, that playlist he made me last month playing softly from his speakers, maybe even a handwritten note in his surprisingly neat handwriting. Or perhaps he's planning to take me somewhere off-campus, some secret spot only locals know about. A rooftop overlooking the city where we can watch the sunset paint the sky in shades of pink and gold, the kind of place that looks incredible on Instagram but feels even better in person.
The daydreams get progressively bolder as the miles roll by and Los Angeles grows closer. His fingers threading through mine as we walk across campus. His lips brushing against my ear as he whispers something that makes me laugh. His voice dropping to that low, intimate register as he finally says the three words I've been hoping to hear for months.
I can almost feel the anticipation buzzing under my skin, the way my entire body seems to come alive whenever he's close.
By the time I exit the freeway and start navigating the streets of Westwood, my stomach is a tangle of nerves and excitement that makes it hard to sit still.
UCLA looks like something out of a movie. Towering palm trees line the perfectly maintained streets, their fronds swaying gently in the California breeze. Students spill across the sidewalks in clusters that look effortlessly cool—some wearing UCLA gear with the kind of casual pride that comes from belonging somewhere prestigious, others in carefully curated thrift store finds that probably cost more than they look like they should. Everyone seems to move with purpose, backpacks slung carelessly over one shoulder, conversations animated and intellectual-sounding even from a distance.
I slow my car to a crawl, drinking in every detail. This is Liam's world. Bigger than Sacramento, brighter, more polished, filled with opportunities and experiences I can barely imagine. The red-brick buildings stretch across sprawling lawns that are somehow still green despite the California drought, dotted with students sitting on picnic blankets or tossing frisbees under the afternoon sun.
And soon, if everything goes according to plan, this will be my world too.
I find a parking spot near his residence hall, my heart beginning to thud harder as I grab my duffel bag from the backseat. My white sneakers crunch against the pavement as I weave through clusters of laughing students, all of whom seem impossibly sophisticated and put-together. For just a moment, doubt pricks at the edges of my confidence. Do I look like I belong here? Am I trying too hard, or not hard enough?
But then I catch sight of my reflection in the glass door of the building, and I feel my shoulders straighten with renewed confidence. Cropped white t-shirt that shows just a hint of toned midriff, high-waisted vintage jeans that make my legs look endless, layered gold necklaces catching the light with every movement. My lip gloss is perfectly applied, my hair falls in those effortless waves that actually took me forty minutes to achieve with a curling iron. It's my own version of campus chic, and it looks good.
I belong anywhere I decide I belong.
I pull out my phone to text him as I head toward the main entrance, my pulse picking up with each step.
Me:Here! Just walking up to your building now 💕
I wait a few seconds, watching for the typing bubble to appear, but my screen stays silent. Maybe he wants to preserve the element of surprise. Maybe he's busy setting up whatever romantic gesture he has planned and doesn't want to ruin it by seeming too eager.
The residence hall buzzes with the kind of energy that only exists in college dorms. Music spills from underneath doorways—someone's playing indie rock loud enough that I can feel the bass line in my chest, while another room seems to be hosting some kind of study group based on the animated discussion I can hear through the walls. Laughter echoes from the direction of the common room, punctuated by the occasional shriek of delight that suggests someone just won whatever video game tournament is happening.
The walls are plastered with posters advertising everything from club meetings to open mic nights to student government elections. Everything smells faintly of leftover pizza, expensive cologne, and that particular scent of young adults living independently for the first time—equal parts freedom and barely controlled chaos.
I count the door numbers as I make my way down the hallway, each step bringing me closer to whatever surprise Liam has waiting. My palms are actually sweating now, nerves and excitement mixing together until I can barely tell them apart.
Finally, I reach his door. Room 247. The same number I've memorized from all our FaceTime calls, the same door I've seen in the background of his Instagram stories.
This is it.
My pulse hammers against my throat as I raise my hand to knock, anticipation bubbling over like champagne that's been shaken too hard. This is the moment all my doubts will dissolve. This is where Madison's cryptic comments and Zoey's warnings will prove to be nothing more than paranoid overthinking. This is where Liam will sweep me into his arms and make me feel like the most important person in his universe.
But before my knuckles can make contact with the wood—
I freeze.
Because from inside the room, muffled but unmistakable, I hear a sound that makes my blood turn to ice water in my veins.
A laugh.
Not just any laugh. Not the kind of generic giggle you might hear from any random college girl.
This laugh is familiar. This laugh has been part of my life for eighteen years, heard across dinner tables and through bedroom walls and during family vacations that always somehow became competitions.
This laugh belongs to Madison.
My sister.
Every hair on my arms stands on end as the reality of what I'm hearing crashes over me like a wave. My vision seems to narrow to a pinpoint, the hallway around me fading to static as one simple, devastating question loops through my mind on repeat:
What the hell is she doing here?