Chapter 25: Any

Hazel's POV

Whitney found me on the thirteenth day, outside the cohort's listening room, with nine people watching.

The cellist saw her first and stepped in front of me with her cello case on her back.

"Not today," the cellist said.

"It's okay," I said.

I could hear her from ten feet away, over the hum of the vending machine.

Her breathing was quick and shallow. Her heels clicked unevenly on the tile.

Her bag made a small leather sound, and nothing in it made any other sound.

"Phone," I said.

Whitney blinked. "What?"

"Take out your phone. Put it on that table, screen up, where everyone can see it."

She took it out of the blazer pocket, the one she had always kept it in, and set it on the table.

The screen was dark. It was not recording anything.

"Thank you," I said. "Now you can talk."

The cohort had stopped pretending to look at their own phones.

Whitney folded her hands in front of her.

"I'm sorry," she said. "I'm sorry I rented you an apartment and watched you move in."

"Okay."

"I'm sorry I called your program. Twice."

"Three times," I said. "The third one was a hang-up. I heard the dishwasher."

Her face went white, and then it went red.

"Yes," she said. "Three."

"Why?"

"Because you were the first person who ever looked at me and saw someone worth keeping, and I wanted him more than I wanted that."

She said it fast and flat, with no catch in her voice.

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