Chapter Ninety - Early Arrivals

It was late August, and the sun still clung greedily to the sky like it wasn't ready to let go of summer. The university campus buzzed in quiet preparation — a few early arrivals dragging duffel bags across cobblestones, orientation leaders moving boxes, laughter echoing faintly from an open quad. The trees shimmered in the gold heat, cicadas humming their hypnotic song. Fresh paint on the curbs, newly planted flowers by the fountain. Even the air felt new.

Harriet stepped out of her mother's car and blinked against the sunlight. Her skin prickled under the glare, her oversized sunglasses a weak barrier between herself and the world. Her mouth was dry. Her head throbbed. Her stomach churned with the nauseating mix of dehydration and quiet dread.

She hadn't meant to drink that much the night before. But the silence after her confession to her siblings had been too heavy. And everything — everything — had felt like it was pressing in, especially the quiet. 

Now, standing in front of Fredrick Hall — her new home — for now. She felt like her bones were made of sand.

"Let's go, hon." Camila called from the trunk, already lifting out a box of bedsheets and bathroom essentials.

Harriet forced her limbs into motion, grabbing the nearest box without even reading the label. Thomas gave her a crooked smile as he handed her the keys to the dorm.

"You get the honours, Hattie." he said. "Open the first door to adulthood."

She didn't reply, just nodded and trudged toward the entrance.

Her dorm room was tucked at the end of the second floor, facing the quad. It was small — barely enough space for a bed, desk, and wardrobe — but clean and sunlit. A narrow window let in warm light, and the overhead fan spun lazily, doing little to combat the heat.

Harriet dropped her box beside the bed and sat down heavily, sunglasses still perched on her face. The air felt thick. The sweat between her shoulder blades clung like a second shirt.

Camila followed in, letting out a low whistle as she looked around. "Well, it's not bad. Brighter than mine was."

Thomas entered behind her, brushing dust off his jeans. "It's almost identical to the room I had in Hawthorne Hall. Except back then, we had mold in the corners and a raccoon problem."

Camila smirked. "You were the raccoon problem, Thomas."

He laughed, leaning against the wall. "It's weird being back. Feels like we blinked and it's twenty years later."

"It's been twenty-one, actually." Camila corrected, smoothing the edges of Harriet's new bedding. "God, we were just kids."

"You were the serious one." Thomas teased. "I remember showing up to that first mixer and you were in the corner with a law textbook."

"It was biochemistry!" Camila said without looking up. "And I was studying because my mother would've disowned me if I got a B. You know what the woman was like.."

Harriet didn't respond. Her gaze had drifted to the corner of the ceiling where a tiny cobweb clung just out of reach. Her ears buzzed. Her hands ached to be doing something — anything — but the weight of the hangover, the memory of her sibling's blank stare after the confession, and the image of an ultrasound that never existed kept looping through her mind like static.

Thomas, unaware of the shift, kept talking. "I didn't even want to go, you know. I was happy just playing lacrosse and keeping my head down. But then my mother said, 'You're going whether you like it or not. My sister's going to need someone to babysit her when she inevitably burns out from overachievement.'"

They both laughed, and for a moment, the sound filled the room like sunlight. But Harriet couldn't join. Her body sat stiff on the bed like she was waiting for a verdict.

Camila finally looked at her more closely, her expression softening. "You're quiet, sweetheart. Everything okay?"

Harriet nodded a little too quickly. "Just... tired. Long drive."

Camila didn't push, but Harriet could tell she didn't quite believe her. She sat beside her on the edge of the bed, her hands brushing against Harriet's knee.

"Look, Hats." she said gently. "I know things at home have been heavy. And I know this — all of this — feels overwhelming. But I want you to know something."

Harriet blinked, sunglasses still shielding her.

"We're really proud of you." Camila said, her voice barely above a whisper. "All of us. Even Harper. And I know things aren't... clean right now. I know there's guilt. And loss. And a lot of confusion. But you're not broken. You're just bruised. And you'll heal, Harriet. You will."

Harriet's throat tightened.

Camila squeezed her hand. "You made it here. You're starting fresh. That matters."

Thomas nodded from across the room. "We're rooting for you, Hattie. No matter what."

Camila stood, brushing her palms on her jeans. "And don't forget to apply for Kappa Kappa Chi, okay? You're a legacy. It'll give you a boost. You'll make sisters.. they're so good. I loved my sisters when I was here."

Harriet forced a nod. "I'll think about it."

"Good." Camila said. "Make friends. Let people in. You don't have to carry everything alone."

The moment passed like a cloud covering the sun. Thomas clapped his hands once and stretched.

"Alright, traffic's going to be a nightmare. We should head out—"

Thomas's voice faded mid-sentence as a warm laugh rippled through the hallway — deep, familiar, and loud enough to turn heads.

Camila paused.

"Wait a second..." Her eyes narrowed toward the open door. "Was that Dylan Hart?"

Thomas was already stepping toward the hallway, eyebrows raised in recognition. "No way. That was Dylan. God, I haven't heard that voice since senior year spring formal."

They exchanged a quick glance — both of them suddenly younger, suddenly elsewhere.

"Come on." Camila said, her voice tinged with delighted disbelief. "We have to say hi before we leave."

Before Harriet could reply — not that she would have — her parents were out the door, their laughter mixing with Dylan's like an old song that only they remembered the lyrics to.

She was alone.

The silence that followed wasn't truly silent. Outside, the campus buzzed faintly with the sounds of summer — early arrivals dragging suitcases across pavement, someone playing music two rooms down, the low rumble of a vending machine spitting out a Coke. But inside her dorm, the air had thickened. It was close. Still. Like everything had stopped breathing.

The sunlight slanted in through the half-open blinds, slicing across her bed in narrow golden stripes, lighting up the small pile of clothes she hadn't yet folded. A forgotten hoodie slouched over her desk chair, her toothbrush lay unpacked by the sink, and a dry-erase calendar on the wall waited blankly for something to be written.

She exhaled, sharp and slow.

Harriet crossed to the narrow closet, crouched beside her largest suitcase — the pink one with the peeling corner — and unzipped the side pocket. Her movements were quiet, careful, like she was unwrapping something sacred.

There it was. The silver flask.

Its surface gleamed slightly in the light, scratched from being stuffed into backpacks, drawers, under car seats. She turned it over in her hand once before unscrewing the cap. The scent of vodka — stale, acidic, merciless — hit her like a slap, but she didn't flinch. Not anymore.

She took a sip.

It burned. Always did. First her lips, then her throat, then her stomach. But the burn was grounding. It made everything else — the guilt, the what-ifs, the hollow stretch of months behind her — blur just a little.

She took another.

From somewhere down the hallway, she could still hear her parents talking to their old university friend. Their voices bubbled with memory — stories of campus antics, old professors, drunken nights, all gilded with that fuzzy warmth of people who have survived the worst and now get to romanticise the best.

Harriet's breath hitched as a soft knock echoed through the quiet dorm room. The sharp sound startled her from the haze swirling behind her eyes. She fumbled, quickly screwing the cap back onto the silver flask, then zipped the side pocket of her suitcase shut, hiding it beneath the clutter of unpacked clothes and scattered papers.

The door creaked open a fraction, and a ray of sunlight spilled into the room, illuminating dust motes drifting lazily in the air.

"Hey!" A bright, cheerful voice floated in, breaking the heavy silence. The girl who stood in the doorway seemed to carry summer itself with her—golden hair woven into a loose braid that caught the light like spun silk, soft freckles dusting her cheeks, and a warm smile that looked practiced but genuine.

"I'm Lacey!" she said, stepping inside without hesitation, her voice bubbling with a kind of easy confidence. She carried a large canvas tote emblazoned with the Kappa Kappa Chi crest, and the scent of coconut sunscreen lingered faintly on her skin.

"I heard you'd be moving in today from Ms Montez, and I wanted to come introduce myself personally." Her eyes flicked to Harriet's half-unpacked room, taking in the boxes, the rumpled sheets, and the lonely chair shoved against the desk. "You must be Harriet Baldwin."

Harriet swallowed past the dry lump in her throat and managed a small nod. "Yeah, that's me."

Lacey's smile widened, a sparkle in her gaze. 

"So, funny thing — I found out your mom and my mom were sisters back in their college days. Kappa sisters, actually. Legacy status! That definitely helps with recruitment. You're kind of a VIP around here."

She gave a little playful wink, and Harriet felt a strange mix of warmth and pressure squeeze her chest.

"Oh." Harriet blinked, forcing a faint smile. 

Lacey's gaze softened, scanning Harriet's tired face with a flash of understanding. 

"Look, I know this whole move-in thing can be overwhelming. I cried during rush week last year—twice—and pretended it was just allergies. Seriously. I get it. It's a huge move from high school."

Her laugh was light, disarming.

"We'd really love to have you join. Not just because of legacy, but because you'd fit in! We all have our stuff going on. It's kind of a safe space. Think about it!"

Harriet's heart thudded, a fragile thread of hope flickering, quickly buried beneath years of self-doubt and the weight of secrets she carried close.

"Thank you." she said, voice quiet but steady. She brushed a loose strand of hair behind her ear, trying to steady the tremor she felt in her hands.

Lacey nodded, giving a small, encouraging smile. "No rush. Just know you're welcome anytime. If you need help unpacking or just want to hang out, I'm around! I know a good coffee shop off campus."

With a quick, casual wave, she turned and padded down the hall, the soft click of her sandals fading into the background.

Harriet remained still, the empty dorm room suddenly feeling colder, the shadows lengthening as the golden summer light waned. She looked down at the neatly stacked notebooks on her desk, the photo of her parents tucked in a frame — a snapshot of a happier, simpler time she wasn't sure she could reach anymore.

Her fingers grazed the frame's edge as a thousand "what ifs" whispered through her mind — what if she hadn't had to keep that secret, what if she'd been brave enough to hold on to the parts of herself she'd pushed away.

Her gaze drifted to the bed — untouched and unmade — and for a moment, she imagined filling the space with laughter, friendship, and maybe even hope.

She didn't reach for the flask again.

Not yet.

But somewhere deep inside, she knew the path ahead wouldn't be easy.