The Hoodie That Wasn't His to Give Back

"You're not going down to watch?" Spencer asked again, his voice low.

I scrubbed the rough cotton over my scalp, pressing the fabric into my wet hair. "No."

"He's making a spectacle."

"He always does." I pulled the towel away from my face. The hem caught the harsh overhead light, revealing three faded numbers—407—embroidered in navy thread. Spencer's student ID suffix. I traced the stitching with my thumb. "I knew about her six months ago."

Spencer pushed off the window sill. "What?"

"On his birthday." I draped the damp towel over the back of his desk chair. "He left his phone unlocked on the kitchen counter while he was blowing out his candles. One hundred and forty-two messages between him and Coraline."

"You counted them?"

"I scroll fast."

"And you didn't say a single word."

"There was nothing to say." I pulled my knees to my chest, burying my chin in the collar of his oversized gray hoodie. "I read the first ten. They were talking about a study group. By message fifty, he was calling her late at night. By message one hundred, he was telling her she understood him better than anyone."

Spencer's eyes narrowed. "He said that to you last week."

"He recycles his material. It's efficient."

"You should have confronted him."

"Why? So he could lie to my face? So he could call me paranoid?" I dropped my hands to my lap. "I just closed the door on him right then. He evaporated. I looked at him cutting that stupid ice cream cake, and I felt absolutely nothing."

Spencer stared at the towel on his chair, then shifted his gaze to me. The harsh lines around his mouth softened, just a fraction.

"So you've been playing along for half a year?" he asked, his tone sharpening again.

"I haven't been playing anything. I just stopped caring."

"You let him parade around thinking he was fooling you."

"It kept him busy." I tugged the long sleeves over my hands. "And it kept me from having to have a messy public breakup. Until tonight, apparently."

Spencer walked over to the bed. "Stand up."

"I told you, I'm tired."

"Stand up, Juniper. You're soaking my mattress."

I slid off the edge, my bare feet hitting the cold linoleum floor.

He didn't yell. He didn't complain about the water damage a second time. Instead, he grabbed the corners of the fitted sheet and stripped it off the mattress with quick, efficient pulls. He bundled the damp fabric in his arms, his movements surprisingly gentle for someone who looked ready to punch a wall.

"I can sleep on the floor," I offered, watching him pull a fresh set of dark blue sheets from the bottom drawer of his dresser.

"You're not sleeping on the floor."

"It's your bed."

"I'll take the floor." He tossed a clean pillowcase onto the bare mattress. "Help me with the corners."

I grabbed the top left corner of the fitted sheet, stretching the elastic over the edge. "You're very accommodating for a guy who claims I'm a menace."

"I just want to go to sleep."

"You were trying to study ten minutes ago."

"Now I'm trying to sleep." He smoothed out the wrinkles on his side of the bed, his hands moving with measured precision. "Because my roommate is currently screaming his lungs out in the courtyard, and his ex-girlfriend is ruining my laundry cycle."

"I'll do your laundry."

"You don't know how to separate colors."

"I know how to separate colors."

"You washed my white t-shirt with a red sock last semester. It's still pink."

"It brings out your eyes."

Spencer glared at me across the mattress. "My eyes are brown."

"Exactly."

He snapped the top sheet in the air, letting it float down over the bed. "You are unbothered by all of this."

"I told you. I processed this breakup six months ago."

"He didn't."

"He's confessing to someone else over a PA system."

"Technicalities."

Spencer grabbed his pillow and shoved it into the new case. "He's going to come up here."

"Andrew? He's probably halfway to the diner by now."

"No." Spencer tossed the pillow against the headboard. "He wants the drama. He wants you to cry. When you didn't show up in the courtyard, it ruined his script."

"I don't cry over boys who buy cheap microphones."

"He'll still expect it."

"Let him expect it." I climbed right back onto the freshly made bed, crossing my legs in the center of the dark blue sheets. "I'm comfortable right here."

Spencer let out a harsh breath, shaking his head. "You're impossible."

"You're secretly a softie."

"I'm kicking you out in the morning."

"Sure you are."

The cheering outside faded into a low murmur, then nothing. The microphone feedback whined one last time before clicking off. The show was over.

"Told you," I said, leaning back against the wall. "He's gone."

"Don't bet on it." Spencer crossed his arms, staring at the closed wooden door.

Silence stretched between us. The rain lashed against the windowpane, filling the quiet space in the room. I picked at a loose thread on the gray hoodie, suddenly hyper-aware of how quiet it was.

"If he comes up here," I said, keeping my voice low, "what are you going to do?"

"Nothing."

"You're not going to defend my honor?"

"You don't need me to defend your honor. You need me to provide fresh linens."

"You're a terrible knight in shining armor."

"I'm an engineering major."

"Same thing."

Heavy footsteps pounded up the stairwell.

Spencer froze. His jaw locked tight. He tilted his head toward the hallway.

The footsteps grew louder, slapping against the tile floor. They were moving fast. Sprinting. They didn't pass our door. They stopped right outside.

"Juniper!" Andrew's voice bled through the cheap wood, loud and frantic.

I didn't move. I just looked at Spencer.

"He thinks you're hiding in his room," Spencer whispered.

"This is his room."

"He thinks you're crying on his bed."

"His pillows smell bad."

The brass handle turned.

The door shoved inward, slamming against the wall with a deafening crack.

Andrew stood in the threshold, chest heaving, his wet hair plastered to his forehead. He held the stupid cheap microphone in his left hand. His eyes darted around the small space, ready to deliver his tragic apology speech.

Then he saw me.

Sitting in the middle of his roommate's bed.

Wearing his roommate's clothes.

Andrew's mouth fell open, and he didn't take another step.