Serena’s POV
Scandal has a shelf life, and ours just expired.
I notice it on the walk to Mia's apartment Friday evening — the absence of stares. A group of girls from my constitutional law seminar passes us on the sidewalk, and one of them waves.
Not the tight, performative smile of someone being polite to the campus pariah. An actual wave, the kind you give someone you recognize but don't think twice about.
Two months ago, Serena-and-Caleb was a spectacle. A dining hall debate topic wedged between midterm stress and whether the new cafeteria pasta bar was a health code violation.
Now we're just two people walking down Birch Street in the fading light, and the world has moved on.
"She waved at you," Caleb says beside me.
"People do that. It's a social convention."
"Two months ago, that same girl crossed the quad to avoid eye contact with you."
"Maybe she got over it. Maybe she has finals brain and forgot my name. Either way, I'm accepting the wave and not psychoanalyzing it."
He reaches over and takes my hand, right there on the sidewalk, where anyone can see his fingers threading through mine. No hesitation, no checking over his shoulder. The gesture is so casual it makes my throat tight, because casual is the thing we never got to be.
The article still exists online. The trial transcripts are public record. But people have short memories for other people's scandals, especially when summer is close enough to taste.
College students would rather spend their finite energy on exam prep and beach plans than dissecting the love life of two stepsiblings who refuse to be ashamed.
We are yesterday's news, and I have never been so grateful to be forgotten.
Mia's apartment building is a walk-up with a buzzer that hasn't worked since October, so she leaves the main door propped open with a brick she stole from the landscaping.
We climb to the third floor, and I can already hear Derek's voice carrying through the thin walls.
"Brace yourself," I tell Caleb. "He's going to ask about the hot sauce."
"Obviously." He holds up the bottle he brought. "Why do you think I came prepared?"
Mia swings the door open before I can knock, dark hair piled in a knot on top of her head, wearing an oversized hoodie that says EMOTIONALLY UNAVAILABLE in cracked iron-on letters.
"Finally," she announces, pulling me into a hug that smells like garlic bread and cheap vanilla candles. "Derek has been spiraling about the Godfather for twenty minutes and Priya is ready to commit actual murder."
"It's not spiraling, it's film criticism," Derek calls from inside.
"It's grounds for eviction from my home," Mia calls back. She gives Caleb a pointed look. "Hot sauce?"
He holds up the bottle.
"Perfect. Owen thinks he can handle it this time." She grins with the specific delight of someone who's already positioned the camera.
The apartment is small enough that six people make it feel full — Derek and Owen crammed into beanbag chairs, Priya cross-legged on the rug with a paper plate on her knee, pizza boxes on every flat surface.
Mia reclaims her perch on the kitchen counter, legs swinging, orchestrating the chaos with effortless authority.
Caleb and I take the couch. His arm settles around my shoulders — not a performance, not a declaration. Just the quiet habit of a body that knows where it belongs against mine.
VERIFYCAPTCHA_LABEL
Comments
The readers' comments on the novel: Hate Me Like You Love Me (Serena and Caleb)