The Other Girl (Ongoing)

I hover at the edge of the table where Trevor is holding court in the library, my grip tightening around the straps of my bag. His head stays down, buried in his phone and neglecting the dense textbook laid out in front of him.

Of course, he’s ignoring me.

I clear my throat. No response. I tap my finger on the desk in front of him.

“What?” His glare snaps up, all sharp angles and frat boy irritation. His fingers still grip the phone like he’s thinking about throwing it.

I fight the urge to roll my eyes. I wish I could say this is the first time he’s held our study group hostage with one of his little tantrums. “Grace said you needed me.”

Trevor’s face twists, nostrils flaring, jaw tightening, before he exhales, “Not you. The other girl.”

My fingers curl into my palms. Almost a full month in this study group, and I’m still just background noise to them. It’s not like I want to be friends with any of them, but they could learn my fucking name.

I know who the other girl is.

If they’re not talking about me, then it must be Morgan.

Grace dragged her over to our group last week, after half of her original study group dropped the course. She’d looked like she was being marched to her execution that day, shoulders hunched, eyes darting like she was searching for an easy escape.

I almost felt bad for her.

Almost.

Grace zeroed in on her for a reason. Morgan’s smart, too smart to need us, and worse, she’s the kind of person who apologizes to people when they interrupt her. She gives in to every little demand with a sweet smile. A doormat in every sense of the word.

I grit my teeth. “She’s not here yet.”

Trevor scoffs, “Unbelievable.”

Like it’s my fault Morgan isn’t here to hand-deliver the notes he missed because he couldn’t be bothered to show up to the lecture.

I glance at the empty chair where Morgan usually sits, silent as a ghost. She barely speaks—not that she’d get a word in with Grace, Trevor, and Liam sucking up all the oxygen in the room. Not that she even tries.

But lately, I’ve noticed things. Small things.

The way she always takes the seat closest to me, never beside me, but always within sightline. How she brought me a coffee on Friday when the barista “accidentally” gave her two. The careful way she arranges her notes so I can easily copy them, even though I never ask.

And the staring. Christ, the staring.

When she thinks no one’s looking, when the others are too wrapped up in their own bullshit, her gaze lingers on me. Not in that obnoxious, expectant way the others do, like I’m just another resource to exploit. It’s something quieter. Studying me like I’m one of her textbooks.

Then our eyes meet, and she does this thing. A small, shy smile that starts in her eyes first, crinkling at the corners, before it reaches her lips. Like she’s testing the waters, waiting to see if I’ll smile back.

I never do.

The poor girl’s probably desperate for a friend.

Too bad I’m not interested. The only reason I tolerate this group is because I have to—and, ugh, fine, it’s helped my grade.

But that doesn’t mean I’m here to make nice. Doesn’t mean I notice how her shoulders relax when I shut one of the other assholes down. Doesn’t mean I’m aware of exactly how many times her lips have parted at the end of our meetings, like she’s trying to find the courage to strike up a conversation with me (four).

And it definitely doesn’t mean I care that she’s late today.

Not at all.

Before Grace dragged her into our group, I don’t remember noticing Morgan in lectures. Which is insane, because now that I’ve really looked at her, the girl could stop traffic if she ever ditched those frumpy librarian sweaters and stood up straight.

She’s actually stunning, she’s just perfected the art of disappearing.

Tall. Like model tall, all long limbs, peaches and cream skin. And her face. Christ. It’s one of those faces that shouldn’t work: big brown eyes and sharp angles, a nose just a little too pronounced, lips almost too full for the razor-cut line of her jaw. But somehow, it all comes together into something you can’t look away from.

Ugh.

Rejecting her timid attempts at connection makes me feel like an asshole, but I don’t have the bandwidth to take some shy girl under my wing. I’ve got enough on my plate.

The only reason I’m even in this godforsaken study group is because Professor Keating made it mandatory, even though I’m scraping the edge of a B+.

But Morgan? She doesn’t belong here.

Grace only pulled her into our group because she smelled weakness—a straight-A student who wouldn’t fight back when they inevitably started mooching off her work. And Morgan? She just… lets it happen. No protest, no bargaining. Just a quiet nod and a death grip on her notebook.

It’s none of my business. If she won’t stick up for herself, then I’m not going to do it for her.

Then why do I keep glancing at the door, waiting for her to walk through?

Trevor’s still huffing across the table when Grace slides into the seat beside him, immediately draping herself over his arm.

Her bleach-blonde Barbie looks a perfect match for his trust-fund, Ken.

I half-listen as he launches into his usual theatrics, “She can’t mess with my future like this, I need those notes,” as if it’s Morgan’s fault he skipped class.

Unbearable.

I shove back from the table, my chair screeching loud enough to draw glares from the next group over. I ignore them. If I can drag Morgan here faster, maybe Trevor will shut his mouth and I can get on with my damn day.