Chapter Text
Belly doesn't get into Finch.
She's not surprised. By the time she graduates, her grades are subpar at best despite her last-ditch effort to salvage her GPA. And losing her team captain status halfway through junior year, she knows, didn't exactly help her chances with volleyball scouts either.
Instead, she enrolls at a local community college while the rest of her world seems to move forward somewhere far off in the distance, picking up speed without her.
"There's nothing to catch up to, Bean," her mom promises. "Don't worry."
"Yeah, I know," Belly agrees, but she still turns off her Instagram notifications during the first week of the semester, trying to avoid the way her stomach dips every time Jeremiah, Taylor, or the girls from her volleyball team post something reflecting their new, exciting lives that feel galaxies away.
Belly doesn't get into Finch, which means Taylor doesn't bother going either.
Instead, she decides on Roger Williams University, a school far enough from her mom to feel like freedom but close enough to come home if she has to. Its acceptance rate isn't, like, insane either, Taylor adds on a random afternoon over one of their weekly FaceTime calls, dropping the hint so loudly it feels like stones settling in Belly's ears.
She brings it up a few more times during the first month of the semester, practically Belly's own guide dog, nudging her closer and closer until she applies for a transfer on a whim.
She's accepted for the upcoming fall semester, and less than a year later she's standing in a three-bedroom apartment she's meant to share with two complete strangers, unpacking boxes while Laurel watches on with unmistakable concern.
Not total strangers, she reminds her fretting mother, they're both Taylor's friends.
Well. Sort of. They're more like classmates who live about twenty minutes from campus; not exactly strangers but not quite friends either. With Taylor already committed to living with one of her sorority sisters at the start of their sophomore year, this apartment had been Belly's only option, found through a friend of a friend of a friend.
Still, this loose thread of a connection feels much better than the alternative of the complete unknown.
"I know, I know," Laurel eventually relents as they break down cardboard boxes and assemble small pieces of furniture together, side tables and a dresser taking shape under their hands.
It's the start of the school year, and everyone else is already pulled in different directions. Belly's dad is knee-deep in work, preparing his year long materials; Steven is buried in his own studies, and Jere is drowning in fraternity duties this weekend but promises to visit her the moment he catches his breath.
Only Laurel's able to join; it's sort of all Belly really needs though.
"I'm really proud of you, you know," her mom says before heading back to Philly, after everything in Belly's new room has been neatly tucked away like a dollhouse. The careful order makes it feel a bit plastic and unfamiliar, as though none of the worn corners of her childhood came with her. "Doing this all on your own. It's a big step."
Belly thinks of all the other milestones she's measured her life by—the Deb ball, becoming volley captain, the loss of Susannah, the choice to end things with Conrad and begin with Jeremiah—and feels like this doesn't really belong among them. In the wider constellation of her bigger moments, it barely glows. It's more like another passing comet, something rather unremarkable that'll fade from the sky eventually.
Still, she nods along anyway.
Belly doesn't get into Finch; turns out, Conrad doesn't go to Stanford either.
She's reminded this unexpectedly, and rather painfully, a few days after she's finished moving in. Taylor is supposed to come over later that afternoon but first asks Belly to swing by her weed dealer's place, who happens to live in the same complex, before he heads out for the day.
Easy enough, Belly thinks, as she checks the apartment number Taylor texted her. To her surprise, it's only ten doors down the hallway, and she makes her way to the unit within no time. She knocks a few times and pauses to wait when she hears some light movement on the other end.
A girl—a very pretty one, just a couple of inches shorter than Belly—answers the door. Her silky black hair is mussed over, like someone's run their hands through it a few times, and she seems to be missing part of her outfit, wearing only a casual sports bra and a pair of relaxed jeans hanging low on her slim hips.
She flashes Belly an easy, friendly smile before glancing over her shoulder and calling further into the apartment. "Did you order something?"
"Oh, I'm not—" Belly begins to explain, but her words fade suddenly when another voice cuts across her own.
"Not that I'm aware of."
The girl arches an eyebrow and opens the door a little wider, revealing the apartment's other occupant.
A few feet behind her stands a tall man, his t-shirt still annoyingly crisp and neat despite the obvious rush to pull it on. Green eyes suddenly meet Belly's head-on, catching her in abrupt, disorienting recognition, like a deer caught in headlights.
And then, she realizes, almost instantly and very unfortunately—
Conrad Fisher is staring at her.
Oh...Oh fuck.
Belly thinks she says something, thinks she manages to force out a few words that pass for a greeting when strung together, though she can't be too sure. For a long moment, every sound around her feels warped and distant, stretched thin and dulled at the edges.
Her stomach churns, a sharp, barbed sensation splintering through her when the girl gives Conrad a bright, effortless smile. He hands her what appears to be the rest of her clothes, a hoodie and a pair of socks, as if it's nothing at all. The girl, in turn, doesn't rush to pull them on. She lingers instead, unbothered and clearly at home in the space. The ease of it all makes everything inside Belly feel tight and razor-edged, pressing deeper into her until an ache breaks open.
The girl—Kimmy, Belly thinks, though the name won't fully settle in her mind—finally seems to have finished tidying up and fixing her hair, now pivoting to leave. Before fully turning, she takes a moment to look over at Conrad once more as she casually suggests , "Call me later tonight?"
There's a slight pause, a fraction of a second that splits the moment, and then, like the first beam of spring sunlight cutting through winter gray, Conrad smiles softly.
But not at Belly—at her. At the girl not merely standing there, but blooming in the space between them.
Belly tries to ignore the pressure building behind her eyes, though it eases almost immediately when he offers a noncommittal reply. "Let me see how much studying I can get done tonight."
The girl—bright and beautiful, with glossy dark hair and plush, full lips—doesn't flinch at his nonchalance. Instead, she winks at him, then offers Belly a warm goodbye before weaving around her to head down the shared hallway, toward the elevators. It feels as though she takes gravity with her, time now seeming to pick its pace back up at a normal rate.
When Belly turns back to Conrad, his face is blank and, disappointingly, unmoved. As he parts his lips to speak, she rushes to fill the silence with her own words before she can stop herself. "Is your street name G-Ram?"
Finally, there's a crack in his expression as his brow furrows. "What?"
Belly's chest constricts as humiliation rises in her throat. What if she actually knocked on the wrong door? What if some invisible thread had drawn her here by mistake, instead of Taylor's actual weed dealer's apartment that could be another two doors down?
This all feels like a sick joke, she wants to say miserably. Instead, she swallows and forces out the explanation: "This is unit 1026, right? Taylor sent me down here to pick up weed from someone named G-Ram."
A small flicker of relief breaks through the horror of the moment when the name seems to register with him. A confirmation, at the very least, that she's in the right place.
"Oh," he says, "That's my roommate. Garret."
"You're, uh, not living on campus anymore?"
"Moved out after freshman year," he answers flatly.
Belly feels the subtle shift immediately as a beat of silence follows. A clear sign that he has no intention of offering any more explanation; that he simply wants out of this conversation.
Her throat burns. She knows she should leave it alone. The silence already says enough. But she's never been good at letting spaces remain empty, always trying to close them before they can close in on her, so the next question escapes her before she can cage it back in. "You're totally cool living with a drug dealer?"
Conrad pauses, and blinks once, twice; then deadpans: "Yeah. I guess I really mellowed out, huh?"
Belly thinks she'd laugh if she didn't want to cry so bad.
It's a rather strange experience, talking to Conrad like this. His voice is careful; his words measured in a way that makes him feel completely shuttered off. It's such a stark contrast to a few years ago, when he pressed his chin into the dip of her shoulder while she clung to the soft fabric of his sweater, wishing she could somehow absorb the weight of his grief over Susannah's impending fate.
It's so unexpectedly painful being spoken to at a distance now.
When the conversation lulls again, she does the only thing she can think of: she gathers what's left of her composure and turns to leave. "Well, I'll just—"
As if on cue, another door opens, followed by the sound of someone shuffling into the living room. Belly can't see past the narrow sliver of space Conrad has left her through the angled doorway, and she doesn't dare try to widen it.
Just like she hasn't tried to look further into his life, only gathering fragments from Jeremiah or her mom; pieces that never quite formed a full picture.
For a moment, the hallway feels just as closed off as his world has been to her for the past few years. But this time, she doesn't have to pretend not to wonder what lies beyond the wall. Because the door swings open fully to reveal...a very normal-looking college guy. Garret, presumably.
He's as tall as Conrad, with short brown hair and a golf polo tucked into dark-colored pants. Another unassuming university student who could've met Conrad in class or at a party.
It stings, she admits, not knowing how or where they met—or how Conrad knows the girl from earlier. Even with the door wide open now, she still feels like a stranger at the window of a glass storefront, looking in at something bright and carefully arranged, knowing she's only passing by.
"Thought I heard someone say my name," Garret grins. "Look at you, C-man. New friend?"
Conrad rolls his eyes, a flash of the old him surfacing for a moment. "Not exactly. This is Belly—"
"Isabel," Belly interrupts quickly.
Garret grabs her hand before she even offers it, giving her a quick once-over before dropping it when Conrad clears his throat.
"My brother's girlfriend," he adds flatly.
Garret's eyes widen. "No shit! Isn't your bro at Finch? And his girl's over here? Small world."
"Yeah," Conrad huffs out a rough laugh at that. "Real small." He gestures toward the back of the apartment. "I'm gonna get back to studying. Isabel here was waiting for you."
Belly clears her throat. "I'm just here because of my friend Taylor. She said you had something she could buy?"
Garret's eyebrows lift in immediate understanding. "Ah. Gotcha. I remember her texting about a friend stopping by. I've got it ready."
Thankful for the distraction, she relaxes slightly, managing a faint smile. "Thanks, um, G-Ram...?"
"Garret," he corrects with an easy grin. "Dumb nickname I picked up freshman year when I started this. Thought it'd be a cryptic name for 'gram'. You know, with measurements and all." He shrugs. "Anyway, give me one minute to grab it. Feel free to hang on the couch if you want!"
By now, Conrad's already gone, retreating fully into his room. The offer of the couch sounds a bit enticing with how wobbly Belly's legs feel but she politely declines, her feet remaining rooted in their place as Garett disappears momentarily.
She uses this brief moment alone to sweep her gaze over what she can see; a brown couch dotted with gray throw pillows, a coffee table neatly arranged with coasters and a few stray magazines, and a handful of posters scattered across the walls visible to her. Some in frames, others simply tacked up.
It looks nothing like a drug den. Just a normal, somewhat boring college apartment.
Despite herself, her mind drifts further down the space and wonders what Conrad's room looks like behind his closed door. Whether it's just as neat and impersonal, or if pieces of him have found their way in. Maybe his old boating knot trophies sit somewhere on a shelf, or a stack of records he once loved puzzling through on the guitar when they were kids.
When Garett returns, he hands her a sealed baggie. "A little extra," he adds, "as a welcome to the complex gift. You a freshman at Brown or...?"
"Sophomore at Roger Williams," she answers, feeling the bag crinkle in her hand as she grips onto it tightly, unsure where to place it.
"Nice. I've noticed more students from there moving into this complex lately. Guess it's a little more affordable." He keeps talking while she nods along, quietly scanning for a gap to excuse herself. She almost finds one too, a thin opening in the conversation, until he cuts across it when he adds: "If you and Taylor aren't busy tonight, there's a party about ten minutes from here. Mostly Brown people, but I'm sure no one would mind if a few more friends swung by."
Surprised by the invite, and the causal way Garret tossed in the word friends, Belly takes a few moments to collect herself. Conrad must've never told his roommate their messy history, or what he even considers her or them.
Truthfully, she hasn't been too sure herself, not since a few summers ago. But now she thinks she completely understands, considering how he practically fled the moment he saw her. Conrad wants nothing to do with her.
The confirmation stings.
She swallows around the dry knot in her throat and finally forces herself to respond, "oh, uh, that sounds...cool."
"Great," Garret beams, unaware of the pit forming low in her stomach. "I'll text your friend the address. See you later?"
She wants to say I'd rather walk straight into Mount Hope Bay and drown actually, but figures that'd probably ruin his business relationship with Taylor and settles on: "yeah, maybe."
Belly doesn't get into Finch. Now, she desperately wishes she had; a sudden spike of anxiety flares inside her, making her wonder if she should try transferring again.
It's easy to imagine how different—and how much easier—things might have been, if she were at Finch with Jere. Dorms close by freshman year; late nights within reach. And eventually, maybe a place like this, something shared instead of separate.
But instead, in what feels like a particularly cruel twist of fate, she's somehow ended up in the same complex as his brother. Exactly ten doors down from Conrad Fisher.
Who, per their interaction today, seems to fucking hate her. Or, at the very least, wants nothing to do with her.
The spike of anxiety from earlier has twisted itself into a tightly wrung ball of panic now. It sits white-hot and fizzing in the hollow of her chest as her mind replays the distant and disengaged way he looked at her hours ago. Is this what it'll always be between them now? Every conversation pared down to something brittle and unfamiliar?
Before the thought can fully unravel her, Taylor smoothly intervenes.
"He doesn't hate you, babe," she assures her, pausing to take a casual hit of Garret's weed from her pink, glossy pipe. Smoke drifts lazily upward between them. "But it's kinda weird Jere didn't say anything about him living here. Does he even know?"
"I don't know," answers Belly, waving her hand around to break up the lingering smoke. "If he did, he didn't mention it to me at all."
Taylor clicks her tongue in mild disbelief. "Are those guys allergic to communication or something?" She shakes her head before taking another hit. "Anyway, it doesn't matter. You're here, Conrad's here. It's probably weird for him but he doesn't hate you. And, honestly, who cares if he does?"
"I do," Belly admits, "He's Jere's brother and my—" she catches herself, searching for a label that sounds relatively appropriate, eventually settling on: "friend. Or used to be. I just... I don't want things to be awkward. With him."
"I mean, he was in you, B. Things might always be a little awkward, to be honest." The weed is clearly steering the conversation now as Taylor's bluntness lands a little too heavily in the small bedroom. When Belly shoots her a sharp look, she scrambles to add, "But that was, you know, like a century ago. He doesn't have any reason to be more of a dick than he normally is. Maybe you interrupted him? With that girl?"
Belly swallows thickly. "No," she murmurs, "she was about to leave either way I think."
And looked very satisfied, Belly immediately clocked by the faint flush on the girl's cheeks and dazed curve of her smile—though she'd rather that part remain unspoken, sitting deep in her throat instead.
"Post-orgasm and still an asshole. That's actually kind of impressive," her friend shakes her head. "I'm still not convinced he hates you. Everything seemed fine the last July we were all together, right?"
"It was... fine, I guess," she agrees quietly. "But that was years ago. And now, I don't know, I just got the vibe he'd rather, like, jump from his apartment window than have a conversation with me."
Taylor exhales a small scoff at that, as if to brush the thought aside. She drops the pipe onto the nearby nightstand and stretches across Belly's bed, the mattress dipping as she stares at the ceiling, thinking.
Eventually, she sighs before turning back to her friend. "Look, babe, we don't have to go tonight. Or to any loser Brown party ever. We don't have to spend a single night out if you don't want to. But, B, let's be real here. There's gonna be other events—like Fisher family shit— that you can't just ditch because Conrad's going. Not if you're serious about Jeremiah."
Belly's chest constricts.
She knows Taylor's right. About all of this.
It's not fair for her to carve and shape her relationship with Jere around his brother; isn't fair to allow Conrad to dictate which spaces she's allowed to take up.
And so she nods in agreement. The motion is small, but costs her something as she tries to conjure enough courage to agree to stop by Garret's stuffy Brown party. Another apartment at probably some luxury complex filled with people she doesn't know, doesn't care to know, and doesn't even go to school with.
Not that it matters. Because, in the end, she doesn't go. Can't really think past what she'd do after saying hi to Garret.
Instead, she stays in with Taylor and her two new roommates, Nikki and Ria, watching a movie that half the group barely pays attention to. Later, they head down to the complex pool, where the night air feels balmy and the water glows under the overhead string lights, sipping on seltzers Ria bought earlier.
The apartment lobby sits behind wide glass windows, positioned conveniently beside the pool. No doubt designed so prospective renters can catch a glimpse of the amenities the second they step inside, all sunlight and promise, neatly framed.
At one point late into the evening, while Taylor and Nikki lounge on some semi-submerged pool chairs, Ria glances over at Belly to ask her if she wants to "run to the bathroom real quick?"
Belly is halfway to agreeing when her gaze catches the sight of shiny black hair in the lobby. Her answer dissolves on her tongue.
Instead of following Ria inside, she turns abruptly and jumps back into the pool, submerging herself in the cool water. She pushes off the wall and begins swimming laps, strokes steady and determined, ignoring the sharp, increasingly insistent protest of her shrinking bladder.
None of the other girls seem to notice her misstep. She cuts through the water again and again, completing five full laps, leaving fractured streaks of dewy blue that shimmer under the pool lights. She continues to move like she's having fun, like dark black hair and long, thin fingers running through it aren't lodged somewhere behind her eyes; like she still feels steady in her own skin.
She doesn't know what else she's supposed to do.
It's only when Nikki declares an hour or so later—under the haze of two smoked bowls and four hard seltzers—that she's going to head back to their apartment, does Belly finally allow herself to breathe for a moment. The girls gather their things and make their way to the lobby elevators. Belly veers off last second, offering to toss their towels into the community laundromat for a quick cycle while the others go upstairs to order food.
At the suggestion, Taylor cuts her a look that's easy enough to ignore as the elevator doors slide shut. Alone, Belly heads toward the small laundry room, stuffing the four damp towels into an empty dryer before feeding a couple of quarters into its coin slot.
When the machine lurches to life, she realizes her head feels a bit fuzzy from the alcohol. To steady herself, she hoists herself up onto the unused dryer next hers. Leaning onto her palms flattened against the cool metal surface, she closes her eyes, focusing on the rhythmic churn of the machine and the thin buzz of the fluorescent lights overhead.
She takes a slow breath, trying to ground herself.
Eventually, maybe a minute or so later, she opens her eyes and almost topples off the dryer—
—Because suddenly standing in front of her is (of fucking course) Conrad Fisher.
For a moment, he lingers beneath the doorway, gripping an empty laundry basket with one large hand. In this neutral space, to her relief, he seems less surefooted than he appeared hours ago in his apartment. Surprise is written clearly across his face; a welcomed crack in his composure.
"Conrad," she says, his name leaving her before she can stop it. He doesn't respond, his throat seeming to work around what looks like a difficult swallow. "I uh... hi. I'm just um..." Pausing, she awkwardly pats the buzzing machine next to her, "you know, doing some laundry."
His eyes track her hand's quick movement then, slowly, trails back to her. Something in his expression changes as his gaze travels upward; it darkens slightly, catching and lingering longer than it should, intentional and leisure.
—And that's when horror abruptly strikes through her.
She remembers, all at once, which swimsuit she grabbed earlier for the pool. The red one she tossed into her drawer after her last laundry day; the one she pulled the padding out of to wash and never bothered to replace.
The room suddenly feels colder than it did a second ago and her skin prickles, her hard nipples clearly outlined against the thin fabric.
Mortified, she drops her gaze downward, fixing it on a small purple bruise that's surfaced at the center of her knee. Maybe if she just shuts the fuck up right now and doesn't look at him for a few minutes, he'll leave; maybe vanish the way he had earlier, retreating into his apartment's room like a door closing on a thought.
Instead, he moves. And not in some vague, accidental direction—he walks straight toward her, like she's a pinned destination on a map.
He stops when he's about a foot or so away, his jaw ticking before he clears his throat to finally say, "excuse me."
"Oh," she flushes, realizing he must be here to collect his laundry. Which, conveniently, happens to be residing in the dryer unit she's sitting on.
"I can—" she stops.
The word can isn't quite right. That suggests there's an alternative in which she stays put, which is definitely not an option.
Clearing her throat, she tries again, "I mean, I'll get off this—"
"Stay," he tells her, the word low and certain, leaving no space for refusal.
Not that she even would try, finding herself immediately folding under the weight of his offer.
She stills where she sits, fingers curling slightly against the edge of the dryer, as if holding herself in place.
He doesn't seem to even notice, his eyes dropping lower.
Slowly, he bends a bit forward and extends a hand. She doesn't realize she's holding her breath until it slips out of her in a sharp, unsteady exhale when his fingers tap lightly against one of her legs still dangling over the front of the dryer.
She's in the way of its door, she distantly notes.
The realization rises too late; his hand already pressing against her skin, guiding her right leg aside with an ease that assumes she'll let him.
Her leg yields without question, following the quiet pressure of his hand.
It's only at the last second that she notices he could've just as easily nudged it the other way, tucked it in neatly beside her left leg.
But he doesn't. Instead, he guides it further apart, like he's opening her up, and the awareness settles in her slow and sharp, crawling down her spine in a shiver she can't quite suppress.
Conrad must sense it too, because his eyes dart up to hers, his hand going still while his face remains neutral. Waiting for a signal of any kind; to stop, to continue.
She holds his gaze, unflinching. Her throat works down a hard swallow, but she says nothing. Doesn't know what to say—doesn't really want to say anything, either.
Taking her silence as permission, he proceeds. He moves her leg, precise and deliberate, just a fraction more to create the space he needs, and he pulls open the dryer door.
A wave of heat spills out immediately, brushing against her bare skin as he reaches in. He doesn't touch her again as he gathers the warm clothes into his basket calmly. Like nothing about this is unusual.
From this angle, she can only see the top of his head; the slow flutter of his long lashes when he blinks. His hair's gotten a little longer and darker from the last time she's seen him. And he has more freckles than she remembers, scattered lightly across the bridge of his nose.
It feels greedy, gluttonous even, to take him in like this; to linger on every detail the second he's close enough again. A small part of her tries to look to the side, away; anywhere that isn't in his direction, but her gaze stays fixed on him, stubborn and unashamed. She doesn't even think to drop it when he shuts the dryer door and looks up again.
His expression is blank as he straightens.
Another shiver moves through her. His jaw flexes, like he registers it, but that's all. Then he turns.
He's halfway out of the room, his back facing her, when she hears his voice again; flat and distant like earlier.
"It gets cold in here. Bring a jacket next time."