Playing for Real - Book 2

Chapter 2

Quinn 

The light changes, and I dash across the street with a small crowd. The buildings directly in front of me aren't an illusion I've been imagining for the past month. Harvard is an architectural masterpiece, and the Business School campus is breathtaking. As I approach Batten Hall, the glare from the early morning sun bounces off the windows. I glimpse at myself in their reflection and smile at my casual attire—black leggings, a cream cable knit sweater, and a patterned infinity scarf around my neck. I didn't have time to style my hair because I was already late for class. I pulled it into a messy bun and didn't splash an ounce of makeup on. My stomach grumbles as I pull open the door. I also didn't have time to eat breakfast.

Usually, my roommate (a.k.a. Aiden) wakes me unintentionally when he sneaks out of our apartment to hit the gym. But this morning, I slept through his early exit and forgot to set my alarm.

When I stepped into the foyer of the building, the space was open and big, and the far wall was decorated with an eclectic mix of colourful paintings. To my right, a staircase travels upward, leading the way to two upper levels of modular learning classrooms developed to support the field-method courses of the MBA curriculum.

A warm breeze stirs through the hallway, carrying the sounds of student traffic. I push through the crowd of other students and travel up the staircase, focused on getting to class.

Since the start of the fall term, I've been surprisingly punctual to every class, study group, and lecture, considering I spend my nights awake and overthinking.

It's been almost a month since I left Bexley, but the questions about Cash haven't disappeared. Time does not heal all wounds because, for me, time isn't helping—it's slowly wrecking me. On the outside, I appear well-put-together, academic and focused. But on the inside, I am still a mess, without closure, wondering if I'm being too harsh or if I made the right choice by leaving without hearing Cash out.

Sometimes, late at night, my finger will hover over his name on my phone until logic defeats my internal feud, and I toss my phone to the side. It would be impossible to hear his voice and not want to be with him. But regardless of what he might say, it wouldn't change the fact that he has a wife.

"Quinn!" Aiden calls, signalling me to a table to my right in the student lounge area.

I wave and then hurry in his direction. Why is he sitting out here and not in class?

"Fancy seeing you show up late for class." He smiles and stands as I near the table.

"I forgot to set my alarm. Why aren't you in class?"

"Class was cancelled. Professor Markland left a note on the door. It's rescheduled for tomorrow afternoon."

"I rushed out of the apartment for nothing?"

"Hey, I'm here. I'm not nothing. I even waited for you to show up and grabbed you a tea." He motions toward the two paper cups on the table. "I knew you'd be pissed about the class being cancelled, so I thought we could spend a couple of hours studying together."

I sink into a chair across from him. "You're the best roomie ever."

"I even ordered you a blueberry muffin. You always get a blueberry muffin. And you like two milk in your vanilla rooibos tea?"

"Yeah," I answer slowly. Lately, I find myself becoming irrationally annoyed by his pleasant persona, and today, it's even worse as I eye his still-damp hair and the way his sweater clings to his torso. He works out religiously daily and comes to class with a healthy glow while I still get very little sleep.

I pull my textbook out of my bag, flip it open, and place it on the table.

He meets my eyes, looking a little anxious. "Did you want something else? I can go back to the cafeteria."

"No..." I take a deep breath, open my mouth and close it again. It's such a small thing—the tea and muffin I always get, the fact that he waited for me to tell me the class was cancelled. But I can't help but feel bad when Aiden's constantly such a great friend, and I'm not. He's always so sweet, and I can't keep up with his kindness.

He shrugs. "Quinn, it's just a tea and a muffin."

"Well, it is nice of you. You are always so thoughtful, and I'm just a mess."

He looks somewhat taken aback. "How so?"

I sigh. "You're always looking out for me. You visited my hotel that first day and went phone shopping with me. You offered me a room in your already secured apartment, you walk me from class to class, you study with me on Saturday nights, and you get me a tea and muffin just because."

He sits back in his chair and lets out a slow breath.

He doesn't like what I'm saying, but I continue. "I just . . . I want you to know that I appreciate it. You're a great friend, Aiden."

And that isn't even stretching the truth. He is a fantastic friend. Aiden is thoughtful and kind and everything an intelligent girl would want in a man.

His brows draw together, and he stares at his coffee instead of looking at me. "Thanks. Just, you know, helping out my buddy."

"Thank you," I say, feeling relieved.

 "You're welcome." He looks up, wearing a playful little smile. "Now get your thinking cap on, Ashby. We need to ace this next project."