Six Steps
There were three things I hated about mornings at Westhaven University.
The first was the coffee.
The second was people who insisted on speaking before I’d had the coffee.
The third was football players.
Not football itself.
Football was fine.
I actually liked watching it, in the same way I liked watching people fall off bicycles. There was something deeply satisfying about witnessing an impressive amount of confidence meet an unexpected patch of grass.
Football players, however, were different.
They tended to travel in packs.
They were loud, perpetually hungry and possessed an alarming belief that the entire female population of Westhaven University was somehow waiting for them to take their shirts off.
I had been here for three years.
I knew better.
My coffee had gone cold exactly four minutes after I left the library and cut across the lower path toward the criminology building.
I was carrying two books, a notebook, my phone and the rapidly declining patience of a woman who had been awake since six.
The morning was cool enough that I shoved my hands into the sleeves of my hoodie as I walked, leaving my arms to carry the weight of everything else.
Westhaven was beautiful.
Annoyingly so.
The town sat between the ocean and the mountains, which meant that every time I thought I had become immune to the view, it managed to catch me off guard again.
The mountains rose behind the university in dark green ridges, their upper slopes disappearing into a pale layer of morning cloud. Below them, Westhaven stretched toward the water, all narrow streets, rooftops and little pockets of trees.
Beyond the town, the ocean was a strip of silver.
The last of the Winterlight decorations were still hanging along Main Street, despite the festival having ended weeks ago.
A fox painted on the window of the bakery.
A string of white lights still stretched between the buildings.
An old poster taped crookedly to the bus shelter advertised the Winterlight Festival.
WESTHAVEN WINTERLIGHT: SEASON BEGINS NOVEMBER 28
Underneath was the usual photograph of the festival mascot.
A fox.
Cute.
Fluffy.
Smiling.
I looked away.
My phone buzzed.
Mum: Can you get milk on your way home?
I stopped walking.
Me: You have legs.
Three dots appeared.
Mum: Just finished.
I glanced at the time.
Of course she had.
Me: What kind?
Mum: The white one.
I stared at the screen.
Me: Extremely helpful.
Mum: You know what I mean.
I did.
Me: Fine.
I put my phone away and kept walking.
That was when I heard the whistle.
One sharp blast.
Then another.
I glanced toward the football pitch.
The lower training grounds sat just below the main campus, separated from the walkway by a chain-link fence and a narrow strip of grass.
The Wolves were training.
The entire university seemed to have been built around the fact that someone, somewhere, might one day discover the next professional football star.
Westhaven University wasn’t exactly known for producing Nobel Prize winners.
It was known for producing athletes.
Or, more accurately, for giving athletes somewhere to be while scouts decided whether they were worth millions.
There were worse things to be known for.
I kept walking.
Then I saw him.
He was standing near the edge of the pitch, listening to one of the coaches.
At first, I only noticed the height.
Then the shoulders.
Then the hair.
Then I realised I had stopped walking.
Not fully stopped.
More of a temporary interruption in forward momentum.
Which was different.
Technically.
He was ridiculously tall.
Not tall in the normal, attractive, six-foot-something way.
Tall in the someone should probably check whether he’s been assembled incorrectly way.
His blond hair was slightly messy, as though he’d run a hand through it one too many times. He wore the Wolves training kit, dark shorts and a long-sleeved top, and there was nothing particularly flashy about him.
No swagger.
No performance.
No trying to make sure everyone knew he was the most interesting person on the pitch.
He was simply listening.
I should have kept walking.
Instead, I looked at him.
He looked up.
Our eyes met.
For a second, neither of us moved.
His expression didn’t change.
He wasn’t smiling.
Wasn’t trying to charm me.
He just looked...
Interested.
I looked away.
Immediately.
Not because I was embarrassed.
I just wasn’t giving him the satisfaction.
I kept walking.
I didn’t look back.
The criminology building came into view.
I checked the time.
Eight minutes.
Perfect.
I pushed through the doors, took the stairs two at a time and walked into class precisely as Professor Bell was putting her laptop down.
She looked at me.
I looked at her.
She looked at the coffee in my hand.
Then at the clock.
“You’ve cut that rather close.”
“I’ve been told my timing is one of my less attractive qualities.”
“Who told you that?”
“People with taste.”
A few people laughed.
Professor Bell sighed.
“Sit down, Paige.”
“Already moving.”
I slid into my usual seat.
The guy beside me glanced over.
“You know she likes you, right?”
I looked at Professor Bell.
“Who?”
He nodded toward her.
“Her.”
I lowered my voice.
“She tolerates me because I’m academically useful.”
“You think you’re academically useful?”
“I know I’m academically useful.”
He laughed.
I opened my notebook.
Professor Bell turned toward the board.
“Today we’re discussing victimology.”
My pen stopped.
Not dramatically.
Just for half a second.
Then I kept writing.
Victimology.
One of my favourite subjects.
Not because of the obvious reasons.
That was the assumption people made when they knew enough about me to know there were reasons.
I hated assumptions.
Victimology fascinated me because victims were rarely as simple as people wanted them to be.
Neither were offenders.
Neither were witnesses.
Neither were communities.
People liked neat categories.
Good people.
Bad people.
Victims.
Monsters.
Heroes.
Villains.
Reality was considerably messier.
That was what I liked about criminology.
It didn’t ask me to like people.
It asked me to understand them.
Professor Bell started talking about patterns in victim-offender relationships.
I listened.
I took notes.
For the next forty-seven minutes, nothing distracted me.
Not even the footballer.
Then the fire alarm went off.
Everyone groaned.
Professor Bell swore under her breath.
And I laughed.
Not because it was funny.
Mostly because Westhaven University had a deeply impressive ability to schedule fire drills during the only lectures worth attending.
Chairs scraped.
People gathered their bags.
Everyone started filing toward the door.
I waited.
I always waited.
Not because I was patient.
Because crowds were idiots.
Someone would shove.
Someone would stop.
Someone would decide the middle of the doorway was the perfect place to check their phone.
So I waited until the room had thinned.
Then I followed.
Outside, the campus had erupted into noise.
Students spilled across the pathways.
Someone was already complaining.
Someone else was filming.
A group of football players came around the corner, laughing.
I recognised one of them from the pitch.
Not him.
Another one.
I looked away before my brain could start searching.
“Paige.”
I stopped.
Maddie from my class caught up with me.
“You coming to the café?”
“I have to get home.”
“Why?”
“Milk.”
She stared at me.
“That’s the most depressing answer I’ve ever heard.”
“My mother is very passionate about dairy.”
She laughed.
“Are you coming to the welcome-back party Friday?”
I glanced at her.
“Which one?”
“The one at Alder House.”
“That’s not a party. That’s thirty-seven people standing around a kitchen pretending they don’t want to go home.”
“You’ve been?”
“Unfortunately.”
“Then you know it’s fun.”
“That is not the conclusion I reached.”
She laughed again.
“You’re coming.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You don’t have to. I’m telling you.”
I looked at her.
“You’re very bossy.”
“I’m organised.”
“That’s what bossy people call themselves.”
She grinned.
“Friday. Eight o’clock.”
I sighed.
“Fine.”
“That’s a yes.”
“That’s a reluctant surrender.”
“Same thing.”
“It absolutely isn’t.”
We started walking.
She talked about the party.
I pretended to listen.
Mostly, I watched where I was going.
The football pitch disappeared behind the buildings.
Good.
That was that.
We reached the student centre and stopped outside the café.
“I’ll see you Friday.”
“Maybe.”
“That means yes.”
“It means maybe.”
She gave me a look.
“Eight.”
“I heard you.”
She disappeared through the doors.
I stood there for a moment.
Eventually I decided my mother could wait and went inside.
The café was packed.
Of course it was.
I joined the line, pulled my phone from my pocket and checked the time.
Then I heard a voice behind me.
“Excuse me.”
I turned.
He was standing at the front of the line.
The footballer.
Up close, he was somehow even taller.
Which seemed unnecessary.
He was holding his phone in one hand, staring at the menu above the counter with the concentration of someone attempting to solve an international crisis.
His eyebrows pulled together.
He looked at the menu again.
Then at the cashier.
Then back at the menu.
“I think,” he said carefully, “I am doing this wrong.”
I looked at the board.
Then at him.
“You’re ordering coffee.”
“Yes.”
“That part is usually pretty straightforward.”
He glanced at me.
“I don’t know what half of these things are.”
I looked back at the menu.
“Neither does anyone else. They just pretend.”
His mouth twitched.
The cashier looked between us.
He pointed at one of the options.
“What is this?”
“An overpriced coffee.”
He nodded seriously.
“And this?”
“Another overpriced coffee.”
He looked at me.
“You are very helpful.”
“I’ve been told.”
He smiled.
Actually smiled this time.
It changed his whole face.
Annoying.
He pointed at another item.
“What do you get?”
“Black coffee.”
He looked genuinely surprised.
“Black?”
“It’s coffee. Not a personality test.”
He laughed quietly.
The sound caught me off guard.
“You are funny.”
“I wasn’t trying to be.”
“That makes it better.”
I raised an eyebrow.
“Do you always talk to strangers this much?”
“Usually no.”
“Good.”
He looked at me for another second.
Then he turned back toward the counter.
“I’ll have the black coffee.”
I stepped forward with the line.
He moved aside to let me pass.
“After you.”
“Thanks.”
I walked toward the register.
I could feel him looking at me.
I ignored it.
Mostly.
The cashier took my order.
I paid.
Then stepped aside.
A moment later, he appeared beside me with his coffee.
Neither of us spoke.
Then he looked at me.
“Paige?”
I frowned.
“How do you know my name?”
He pointed toward my cup.
My name was written across the front.
Right.
Of course.
“Observant.”
He nodded.
Then he hesitated.
“Is it... the same as the book?”
I stared at him.
“The book?”
He looked embarrassed.
“Yes. The...”
He searched for the word.
“Book have pages yes?”
I laughed.
“Are you asking if my name is a page in a book?”
He nodded.
“Yes.”
“No. My parents just lacked imagination.”
He smiled.
“I like it.”
“Don’t get attached.”
“Too late.”
I looked at him.
There was no arrogance in it.
No performance.
He’d said it so simply that for half a second I didn’t know what to do with it.
So I did what I usually did.
I made a joke.
“That’s dangerous.”
His eyebrows lifted.
“Why?”
“Getting attached to people you don’t know.”
He considered that.
Then smiled.
“Maybe.”
There was something about the way he said it.
Calm.
Certain.
Like he wasn’t trying to win anything.
Like he simply meant what he said.
I should have left.
Instead, I looked at him.
Really looked at him.
The blond hair.
The ridiculous height.
The completely unfair face.
The accent.
The strange combination of confidence and innocence that made it difficult to tell whether he knew exactly what he was doing.
I decided I wanted to find out.
I took a sip of my coffee.
“What’s your name?”
His expression shifted.
Like he hadn’t expected me to ask.
“Sindre.”
I repeated it.
“Sindre.”
He nodded.
“Yeah.”
I tilted my head.
“That’s a very serious name.”
He laughed.
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“I don’t know.”
I looked him over.
Then back at his face.
“I think I’ll call you Sin.”
He blinked.
“Sin?”
“It’s easier.”
“Is it?”
“Yes.”
He considered it.
Then shrugged.
“Okay.”
I smiled.
“Good.”
I turned toward the door.
“See you around, Sin.”
“See you, Paige in a book.”
I took three steps.
Then stopped.
Not because I was offended, quite the opposite.
But I wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction.
I looked back.
He was still watching me.
His coffee was untouched.
His mouth curved slightly.
Interesting.
