Chapter 1
Hunter
“You’re overthinking this,” Sydney said from the bedroom doorway, looking amused.
I was standing in front of the bathroom mirror, holding up two shirts, and genuinely could not decide.
“I’m not overthinking it. I’m just... considering my options.”
“Hunter, you’ve been considering your options for twenty minutes. You’ve tried on six shirts. You almost put on a suit.”
“What’s the problem with a suit?”
“You’re going to a PhD seminar, not a shareholders meeting.” She walked over and pulled the Henley out of my hand, then the button-down. She tossed them both on the bed and opened a drawer, pulling out a white t-shirt. “Here. Wear this. Throw a jacket over it if you’re cold.”
“A t-shirt? To my first day?”
“Yes, a t-shirt, Hunter. You’re a student now, you gotta dress the part.”
She had a point. I pulled the shirt on and looked in the mirror. It felt weird. Too casual.
I reached for my new shoes, a pair of Vans that Sydney had helped me pick out last weekend. They were black and white, simple, and made me feel approximately twenty years younger than I was. I’d never owned a pair of sneakers that weren’t specifically designed for running or working out.
“These are cool, right?” I asked, holding them up. “These say ‘I’m a normal student,’ not ‘I’m a corporate refugee having a midlife crisis’?”
Sydney burst out laughing. “Yes, Hunter. The Vans are cool. Now put them on before…”
A blur of golden fur shot past her legs, and Elvis launched himself at the shoes, sinking his teeth into one and dragging it under the bed.
“Elvis! No!” I lunged for him, but the puppy was fast. He scrambled under the bed frame with my left shoe clamped in his jaws, his tail sticking out, wagging.
“Apparently, Elvis doesn’t think they’re cool,” Sydney said, not even trying to hide her laughter.
I got on my hands and knees and peered under the bed. Elvis stared back at me, my shoe in his mouth, looking extremely proud of himself.
“Give it back, buddy. Those are my cool student shoes. I need those.”
Elvis’s tail wagged harder. He was not giving it back.
It took five minutes and a treat bribe to recover the shoe, which now had tiny puncture marks along the sole. Great. First day of school, and my shoes had already been mauled.
“Perfect,” I muttered, wiping the slobber off. “Very cool.”
Sydney kissed me at the front door, straightening my jacket, her hands lingering on my chest.
“Hey,” she said, looking up at me. “You’re going to be great.”
“You think so?”
“I know so. Just don’t be a geek. Don’t answer every question in class.”
I grinned. “No promises.”
“I’m serious, Hunter. Let other people talk. You don’t need to prove anything on the first day.”
“Okay, okay. I’ll try to restrain myself.”
She kissed me again. “I’m proud of you. Now go to class, or you’re going to be late.”
Walking to the car, I felt both excitement and dread that I hadn’t experienced since I was eighteen years old, heading to Stanford for the first time. Except back then, I’d been nervous about living up to my family’s expectations. Today, I was worried about whether I was going to be able to make it through the day.
The Olin Business School was a building I’d walked past dozens of times since moving to St. Louis. I’d visited it a couple times, back when I was applying to the program.
But walking in today, as an actual student, with a backpack slung over one shoulder and a student ID clipped to my jacket, felt surreal.
The hallway was crowded with people who all looked like they belonged here. Most of them were in their mid-to-late twenties, carrying laptops and iced coffees, talking animatedly about research methodologies and their summer internships.
They moved through the building like they’d never left academia, who’d gone straight from undergrad to MBA to PhD without anything else in between.
I found the seminar room for my first class, Organizational Theory, and took a seat near the middle. Not the front, because I didn’t want to look eager. Not the back, because that felt like hiding.
Students filtered in around me. I tried to look unbothered, but I was anxious. Based on a quick scan of the room, I was probably the oldest person here by a comfortable margin.
Professor Whitfield arrived at exactly nine o’clock. She was a woman in her early forties. She set her bag on the desk, pulled out a stack of syllabi, and looked around the room.
“Good morning,” she greeted. “Welcome to Organizational Theory. I’m Dr. Whitfield. Before we get into the syllabus, let’s go around the room. Name, where you’re from, and your professional background before the program. Keep it brief.”
Here we go.
The introductions went around the room. A guy named John who’d come from a consulting firm in Chicago. A woman named Priya who’d done her MBA at Columbia. Another guy, David, who’d worked in fintech in San Francisco.
All of them younger. All of them sharp. All of them using words like “synergistic frameworks” and “cross-functional paradigms” in their introductions, which made me want to quietly crawl under my desk.
Then it was my turn.
“Hunter Boyd,” I started. “I’m from New York originally, living in St. Louis now. Previously worked in telecommunications.”
“What company?” the guy next to me asked. David, the fintech guy.
I hesitated. “A family business.”
David nodded, apparently satisfied. Professor Whitfield’s eyes lingered on me for a beat longer than the others, and I wondered if she knew. She probably did. But she moved on without comment.
The seminar itself was fascinating. Whitfield was a sharp lecturer who clearly loved her subject. She talked about institutional theory, about how organizations develop identities that become self-reinforcing, and I found myself drawn in almost immediately.
This was different from the MBA program at Stanford, where everything had been about application, strategy, bottom lines. This was about understanding why organizations behave the way they do. Why companies resist change even when the data screams they need it.
I wanted to raise my hand six times during the lecture. I raised it once, on a point about organizational inertia. Professor Whitfield nodded at my contribution and said, “Good observation,” and moved on.
Sydney would be proud. I’d restrained myself.
After the seminar, I grabbed my backpack and was heading for the door when someone fell into step beside me.
“Hey. Hunter, right?”
I looked over. A woman, maybe late twenties, with dark hair pulled back in a ponytail and a smile that was a little too eager.
“That’s me,” I said.
“I’m Natalie. I thought your comment about institutional resistance was really interesting. Have you read Hannan and Freeman’s paper on structural inertia?”
“I’ve skimmed it,” I said carefully. “It’s on the reading list, right?”
“Yeah, but it’s so much better than the summary suggests. I could send you some supplemental stuff, if you want. We could grab coffee and discuss it.” She tilted her head slightly, her eyes holding mine a little too long. “I always think the best way to learn is through talking it out.”
Oh.
I was not so far out of the game that I couldn’t recognize when someone was hitting on me. And Natalie was not being subtle about it.
“That’s really nice of you,” I said, keeping my voice friendly. “I appreciate the offer. I’ll definitely check out the reading.”
“Here,” she said, pulling out her phone. “Let me give you my number.”
“I think the class has a group chat being set up,” I deflected. “Maybe we can share resources there.”
Natalie smiled, undeterred. “Sure. But the offer for coffee stands.”
She walked away before I could say anything else, and I stood there in the hallway, feeling like I’d just been ambushed by a very academically inclined flirt.
The rest of the day was more of the same: syllabi, introductions, and information overload. My second class, Research Methods, was taught by a professor named Dr. Kimura, who was roughly my age and had zero interest in anyone’s professional pedigree. He spent the first ten minutes talking about the importance of intellectual humility in research, which was something I never thought about before.
During a break between sessions, I was standing by the vending machine when another classmate approached. This one was a guy named Trevor, tall with red hair and what I could only describe as aggressive friendliness.
“Hey, man. Hunter?” He extended his hand. “Trevor Laughlin. I couldn’t help but notice you said you were in telecom. That’s actually adjacent to some of my research interests. Maybe we could connect?”
“Sure,” I said, shaking his hand.
“Cool. Cool.” He stood there for a moment too long, smiling. “So, like, are you free after class today? A few of us are grabbing drinks at the Moonrise Hotel. You should come.”
“I appreciate that, but I’ve got some things to take care of at home tonight.”
“Oh, totally. Totally.” Another lingering smile. “Well, the invitation’s open anytime.”
He walked away, and I stared after him, trying to figure out if that had been networking, friendliness, or something else entirely.
In my last class of the day, a woman named Camille, who was sitting across from me in the seminar, spent the entire two-hour session glancing at me every few minutes. When the class ended, she “accidentally” dropped her notebook near my desk.
“Oh, silly me,” she said as I picked it up and handed it to her. “Thank you, Hunter. That’s so sweet.”
“No problem,” I said, trying not to laugh.
I got out of the building and into the September afternoon, feeling like I’d survived a huge ordeal. The air was warm, the campus was beautiful, and my brain was full in a way it hadn’t been in months. The classes seemed challenging, the material was engaging, and for the first time in a long time, I felt like I was doing something that was just for me.
I started walking toward the main quad in the direction of the math building. Sydney’s building. The Widtsoe Building, where she’d spent countless hours working on her research, teaching her students, becoming the academic powerhouse she was.
I pulled out my phone and saw a text from her, sent around noon: “How’s it going?? Are you surviving??”
I’d been too caught up to even look at my phone. I typed back now: “Survived. Barely. Tell you everything tonight.”
I almost walked up to her building. I wanted to see her, to tell her about my day, to sit in her office while she worked on equations I’d never understand. But I stopped myself. She had office hours this afternoon, and I didn’t want to make her feel like she needed to drop everything for me. She had her own life here, and I needed to respect that.
I was turning to head toward the parking lot when movement at the building’s entrance caught my eye.
Cooper.
He was walking out of the Widtsoe Building, a messenger bag over his shoulder, his hair doing that thing where it stuck up in every direction. He must have felt me, because he looked up, and our eyes locked.
For a moment, there was no acknowledgement.
It was strange, making eye contact with the man who’d almost married my wife. The man who’d told Sydney he still had feelings for her. The man who’d asked her, in her own office, if she ever thought about what they could have been.
Cooper gave a small nod, and I returned it. Then we both kept walking, moving in opposite directions.
But the encounter stayed with me the whole drive home. Not because I was threatened, exactly. I trusted Sydney. It was more the reminder that she’d had a whole life after we met and before we got married the second time.
A whole relationship with someone who knew her academic world in a way I never fully would. Someone who spoke her language in terms of topology and graph theory and all the things that excited her.
I knew it was irrational. But feelings don’t give a damn about logic, so I felt it, and let it pass.
When I got home, Elvis greeted me at the front door like I’d been gone for six months instead of six hours, spinning in circles and nearly tripping me as I walked in. I took him out to the backyard and sat on the porch steps while he ran laps around the yard, chasing something only he could see.
My phone buzzed. It was Lisa.
“Mr. Boyd, just checking in. We had two client calls today. Madeira Media wants to schedule a follow-up next week, and Samuel asked if you could review the Morrison proposal before Thursday.”
“I’ll be in the office tomorrow,” I told her. “We can go through everything then.”
“Perfect. How was your first day of school?”
I smiled. “Interesting.”
“I’m glad to hear it. See you tomorrow, Mr. Boyd.”
I hung up and leaned back, looking at the sky. Two worlds. The office and the classroom. The businessman and the student. I was going to have to figure out how to navigate both.
Elvis dropped a slobber-covered tennis ball in my lap and looked at me expectantly. I threw it across the yard, and he took off after it, all golden fur and unbridled enthusiasm.
I heard the front door open, and her bag hit the floor. Sydney was home.
“Hunter? Where are you?”
“Kitchen!” I called.
She appeared in the doorway.
“So? How was your first day of school?”
I turned from the counter where I’d been prepping dinner and gave her a look. “Well, I think I already have two suitors. Maybe three.”
Sydney’s eyebrows shot up. “What do you mean?”
“Well, two girls were for sure hitting on me. And maybe a guy? I wasn’t sure about him. But I’ll probably know soon enough.”
“Okay,” Sydney laughed, crossing her arms. “I want names, and I want to know exactly where I can find them. Especially the girls.”
“Well, if you come with me, I could point them out to you.” I shrugged, grinning. “But you know, I just have eyes for you, right?”
Sydney smiled, and she walked over to kiss me. “You better, Mr. Boyd.”
“I missed you today,” I pulled her closer.
“I missed you too. It was weird, knowing you were on campus and not seeing you.” She pulled back and looked at what I was doing. “Are you making dinner?”
“I just started.”
“Can I help?”
“The last time you helped, we almost had to call the fire department.”
“That was one time!”
“It was three times, Sydney. Three separate incidents.”
She swatted my arm. “Fine. Then I’ll supervise.”
What followed was twenty minutes of Sydney “supervising” in a way that involved her stirring things she shouldn’t have been stirring and turning up the heat on the pan when I wasn’t looking.
“Sydney, that’s too high…”
“It’s fine, it cooks faster this way…”
“It doesn’t cook faster, it just burns…”
I reached past her to turn the burner down just as the garlic started smoking. She looked at me sheepishly.
“Oops.”
“You’re banned from the stove,” I declared, kissing her forehead. “Go sit down and look pretty.”
“That’s sexist.”
“No, that’s to make sure the house doesn’t catch on fire.”
She laughed and hopped onto the counter, swinging her legs while she watched me cook. I saved the garlic, rescued the chicken, and managed to produce a dinner that was actually edible, which felt like a miracle given Sydney’s interference.
We ate at the kitchen island, talking about our days. I told her about Professor Whitfield and the institutional theory lecture, about Dr. Kimura and his speech on intellectual humility. I told her about Natalie and her coffee invitation, about Camille and the dropped notebook, about Trevor and his invitation to a hotel for drinks.
Sydney listened to all of it, and I think the suitor updates especially entertained her.
After dinner, we cleaned up together, and somewhere between loading the dishwasher and wiping down the counter, Sydney’s hand found mine, and she pulled me toward her.
“Hi,” she said, looking up at me.
“Hi.”
“I’m really glad you had a good day.”
“Me too.”
She kissed me, and this time it wasn’t a casual peck. It was slow, intense, her hands sliding up the back of my neck.
“You know,” she murmured against my lips, “you in that t-shirt, with that backpack, walking off to school this morning? In those shoes? That was kind of hot.”
“The shoes did it for you?”
“The whole thing.” She kissed me again, deeper. “I gotta say, you not knowing what to wear, it was really adorable.”
“Adorable,” I repeated, raising an eyebrow. “That’s exactly what a man likes to hear.”
“Would you prefer sexy?”
“Significantly.”
She grinned, biting her lower lip. “Fine. It was sexy. The whole lost-puppy-going-back-to-school thing. Very sexy.”
“Now you’re just making fun of me.”
“Maybe a little.” She pulled me by the shirt. “But I know how to make it up to you.”
When we got to the bedroom, I pressed her against the wall, my mouth finding her neck. “For the record,” I said between kisses, “I restrained myself in class today. Only raised my hand once.”
“Mmm,” Sydney breathed, working on my belt. “I’m very impressed. That deserves a reward.”
“I thought you’d see it that way.”
I picked her up, her legs wrapping around me, and carried her to the bed. We laughed and kissed as we lay on the mattress, pulling at each other’s clothes.
“Hunter,” she gasped as my hands found her. “I want you.”
I kissed her deeply, enjoying our moment together. I lost myself in her completely.
“God, you’re beautiful,” I murmured, looking down at her. “Especially with your new blonde hair.”
“You like it?” She asked.
“I love it.”
Her cheeks flushed, looking at me with desire.
“Now, less talking,” she pulled me back down. “More…”
And then thirty pounds of golden retriever launched himself onto the bed.
Elvis landed directly between us, his tail whipping back and forth, his tongue somehow finding both of our faces simultaneously.
“Elvis!” Sydney shrieked, laughing as the puppy trampled over her, licking her cheek. “No! Bad timing! Very bad timing!”
I rolled onto my back, Elvis immediately climbing onto my chest, his wet nose pressing against my face. “Buddy. We talked about this.”
Elvis licked my entire face in one enthusiastic swipe.
Sydney was laughing so hard she could barely breathe, her eyes watering. “Oh my God. His face. He looks so happy with himself.”
Elvis did, in fact, look immensely pleased. He settled himself between us, his head on my chest, tail still wagging, completely oblivious to what he’d interrupted.
“I think he needs his own room,” I said, wiping dog saliva off my forehead.
“He has his own room. He just doesn’t use it.”
“Clearly.”
Sydney reached over Elvis to take my hand, still laughing softly. “Welcome home, Mr. PhD Student.”
I looked at her, and then at Elvis. Despite the slobber and the interrupted moment and the ridiculousness of it all, I thought: yeah. I wouldn’t trade this for anything.
“We’re finishing this later,” I told her.
“Oh,” Sydney said, her eyes glinting. “You can count on it.”
Elvis yawned between us, apparently satisfied that the crisis had been handled, and closed his eyes.
I shook my head, smiling, and pulled Sydney next to me.
What a crazy first day.
