1
NATALIE
The first thing I did upon arriving in Northwood was lock my keys inside my car.
The second was spill an entire iced coffee down the front of my shirt.
And the third, which was arguably the most embarrassing, was call my mother and seriously consider asking her to come get me.
I’d been in Massachusetts for approximately forty minutes.
Things were going great.
“Please tell me you’re kidding,” Mom said.
I stood on the sidewalk outside my new apartment building, staring through the driver’s-side window at the keys sitting in the cup holder. My empty coffee cup was on the pavement beside my sneaker, and a wet, brown stain covered most of my white tank top.
“Which part?”
“The keys, Natalie.”
“Unfortunately, that part is real.”
“Oh, honey.”
“I know.”
“Did you call roadside assistance?”
“I’m currently working through the emotional stages of locking myself out of my own vehicle. I haven’t reached problem-solving yet.”
Mom laughed.
I closed my eyes and tipped my head back, letting the late-August sunshine warm my face. Somewhere behind me, a car horn sounded. A group of students walked past carrying shopping bags, and somebody across the street was attempting to maneuver a mattress through a doorway that clearly wasn’t wide enough.
Northwood was busy.
Not the kind of busy I’d grown accustomed to at my previous university, where the campus had always seemed enormous and strangely impersonal. This was different. The streets were narrower, the buildings older, and practically every storefront had some combination of navy and silver hanging in its windows.
There were banners attached to the lampposts, welcoming students back for another year. The sidewalks were crowded with people dragging suitcases, carrying boxes, and shouting greetings to friends they hadn’t seen all summer.
It was exactly the kind of place I’d pictured when I decided to transfer.
Although, admittedly, my imaginary first day hadn’t included being defeated by a Honda Civic.
“Where are your spare keys?” Mom asked.
“At home.”
There was a pause.
“Natalie.”
“What?”
“You told me you packed them.”
“I did pack them.”
“Then why are they at home?”
“Because I unpacked them when I was looking for my sunglasses, and apparently I forgot to put them back.”
I could practically see her expression.
My mother had a very specific look for moments like these. She’d press her lips together, tilt her head slightly, and somehow communicate an entire lecture without saying a word.
“I thought we went through everything before you left,” she said.
“We did. Extensively. You made a checklist.”
“And you told me you checked everything.”
“I did check everything. I just didn’t check it very well.”
She sighed, although there was amusement in it. “All right. Let’s figure this out. Is there someone in the building who can help you?”
“Unless my landlord moonlights as a car thief, probably not.”
“Natalie.”
“I’m calling roadside assistance.”
“Good. And change your shirt.”
I looked down at the coffee soaking into my tank top.
I smiled despite myself.
That was my mother. She could be three hours away and still somehow find a reason to worry about whether I was dressed appropriately.
“I’ll call you when I get inside,” I promised.
“Okay. And sweetheart?”
“Yeah?”
“Don’t let one bad morning convince you that you made the wrong decision.”
My smile faded a little.
I stared across the street at the brick buildings lining the opposite sidewalk.
“I won’t.”
“I mean it, Natalie. You wanted this. You’ve been excited about it for months.”
“I know, Mom.”
“And I’m proud of you.”
Something tightened unexpectedly in my chest.
“Thanks.”
“I love you.”
“Love you, too.”
After we hung up, I stood there for another moment, holding my phone against my stomach.
Then I opened my roadside assistance app.
Apparently, becoming an independent adult involved a surprising amount of waiting on hold.
By eleven thirty, I’d recovered my keys, changed into a clean shirt, and managed to carry exactly three boxes upstairs.
I had seventeen left.
Seventeen.
I stood in the middle of my apartment, hands on my hips, trying to determine whether I actually needed everything I’d brought.
The answer was probably no.
Unfortunately, I had already spent the better part of July convincing myself that I absolutely needed four throw blankets, an excessive collection of books, and a kitchen appliance specifically designed to make miniature waffles.
The apartment itself was small, but I loved it.
It was on the second floor of a three-story brick building a few blocks from Northwood University’s main campus. The living room had two tall windows overlooking the street, hardwood floors that creaked in certain places, and a narrow doorway leading into a kitchen with white cabinets and a refrigerator that looked older than I was.
The bedroom was barely large enough for my bed, dresser, and desk.
The bathroom had questionable lighting.
And the closet was going to require some serious organizational creativity.
But it was mine.
Well, technically, it belonged to a landlord named Mr. Harris, who’d made me sign approximately four thousand documents before handing over the keys.
But for the next year, it was mine.
No roommate.
No awkward conversations about whose turn it was to clean the bathroom.
No worrying about whether someone would be annoyed if I stayed up reading until two in the morning.
Just me.
I’d specifically looked for a one-bedroom apartment when I started planning my transfer. My parents had offered to help with the rent, and after weeks of comparing listings, budgeting my savings, and trying to decide whether living alone would make it harder to meet people, I’d signed the lease.
It was more expensive than sharing a place, but I’d worked throughout the summer, and my parents were covering part of the cost while I finished school.
I knew I was lucky.
I also knew that after two years of feeling like I didn’t quite belong anywhere, I wanted somewhere that felt entirely my own.
Even if I currently had nowhere to sit.
My couch was being delivered tomorrow.
My mattress was leaning against the bedroom wall.
And the only piece of furniture I’d successfully assembled was a small bookshelf, which I’d somehow managed to put together backward.
I stared at it.
“Fantastic.”
My phone buzzed on the kitchen counter.
ETHAN: You there yet?
I picked it up.
ME: No. I’m answering this from the side of the highway.
Three dots appeared almost immediately.
ETHAN: Very funny.
ETHAN: Seriously. Everything okay?
ME: Yes. I’m at the apartment.
ETHAN: You need help moving anything?
I glanced toward the window, where my car was parked directly below.
ME: Unless you’ve developed the ability to teleport, I think I’m on my own.
ETHAN: I know people in Northwood, genius.
Of course he did.
My older brother had attended Northwood for four years, played hockey for the Wolves, and apparently spent enough time making friends that he still considered the entire town his personal social network.
He’d graduated two years ago, but he talked about Northwood like he’d left yesterday.
ME: I’m fine. Just have some boxes left.
ETHAN: How many?
I considered lying.
ME: A normal amount.
ETHAN: Natalie.
ME: Seventeen.
My phone rang.
I stared at Ethan’s name before answering.
“Don’t.”
“Seventeen boxes?”
“Hello to you, too.”
“What the hell did you pack?”
“Clothes. Books. Things people generally own.”
“Did you bring your entire bedroom?”
“Most of it.”
He laughed.
I leaned against the kitchen counter and tucked a strand of hair behind my ear.
Ethan was twenty-four, and despite having graduated from college and started a real adult job, he still seemed to believe his primary responsibility in life was making fun of me.
He’d been doing it for as long as I could remember.
“How’s the place?” he asked.
“Cute.”
“That’s helpful.”
“It’s small, but I like it. The kitchen’s nicer than the pictures made it look, and there’s a coffee shop down the street.”
“Obviously the most important thing.”
“Obviously.”
“You check the locks?”
I rolled my eyes.
“Yes.”
“Windows?”
“Yes.”
“Smoke detectors?”
“Ethan.”
“What?”
“I’ve been here for three hours. Can you give me a little time before you conduct a full safety inspection?”
“I’m just asking.”
“And I’m just telling you that I am twenty-one years old and capable of living in an apartment without adult supervision.”
He laughed again.
“Yeah, well, you also called me last month because you couldn’t figure out how to reset your router.”
“That’s different.”
“How?”
“Because technology is evil.”
“Right.”
I smiled and looked around the living room.
For a moment, neither of us spoke.
Then Ethan’s voice softened.
“You doing okay?”
I knew what he meant.
He wasn’t asking about the apartment or the boxes.
“Yeah,” I said. “I think so.”
“You sound tired.”
“I’ve been awake since six.”
“You nervous?”
I considered pretending I wasn’t.
“A little.”
“That’s normal.”
“I know.”
“Northwood’s a good school, Nat. You’ll like it there.”
“You’ve mentioned that once or twice.”
“I’m serious.”
“So am I.”
He was quiet for a second.
“I’m glad you decided to go.”
I looked down at the chipped polish on my thumbnail.
“Me, too.”
And I meant it.
Mostly.
There was still a small, persistent part of me wondering whether I’d made a terrible mistake.
Transferring universities wasn’t exactly something I’d imagined doing when I graduated high school.
Back then, I’d been so certain about everything.
I’d chosen my first college because I liked the campus, the psychology program looked good, and the idea of living somewhere new had sounded exciting. I’d imagined making lifelong friends, going to football games, attending parties, and having the kind of college experience people talked about years after graduation.
Instead, I’d spent two years feeling like I was waiting for my life to start.
There hadn’t been some enormous disaster.
Nobody had betrayed me.
I hadn’t gone through a devastating breakup or been forced to leave.
I’d made friends, gone to classes, attended parties, and earned decent grades.
On paper, everything had been fine.
That was almost the worst part.
Because every time I tried explaining why I was unhappy, I felt ridiculous.
How did you tell people that nothing was particularly wrong, but nothing felt right either?
I’d spent most of my sophomore year telling myself things would improve. That I’d find my people eventually. That I’d stop feeling like an outsider in a place where I’d already spent nearly two years.
Then, sometime in March, I’d realized I didn’t actually have to keep waiting.
I could leave.
I could transfer.
I could start somewhere else.
The decision had terrified me.
It had also been the first thing in months that made me genuinely excited.
“Natalie?”
I blinked.
“Sorry. What?”
“I asked if you’ve eaten.”
I looked toward the kitchen.
There was a bag of pretzels on the counter and a half-empty bottle of water beside it.
“Define eaten.”
“Jesus Christ.”
“I had breakfast.”
“Go get lunch.”
“I have boxes.”
“The boxes will still be there when you get back.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of.”
He chuckled.
“There’s a diner near campus called Rosie’s. Good burgers. Or there’s a sandwich place on Main Street. Can’t remember the name.”
“Very helpful.”
“I’m full of useful information.”
“I’ve noticed.”
“And if you need anything, call me.”
“I know.”
“I mean it.”
“I know, Ethan.”
He hesitated.
Then he said, “I’m proud of you, Nat.”
My throat tightened for the second time that morning.
Apparently, my family had collectively decided to make me emotional today.
“Thanks,” I said quietly.
“You’re gonna have a good year.”
“I hope so.”
“I know so.”
We talked for another few minutes before he had to get back to work.
After hanging up, I set my phone on the counter and looked around my apartment again.
Sunlight spilled across the hardwood floor.
Outside, people were laughing on the sidewalk.
Somewhere nearby, music was playing through an open window.
And for the first time all morning, I let myself stand still long enough to appreciate where I was.
Northwood.
My new apartment.
My new school.
A completely different life waiting just outside the door.
I smiled.
Then I remembered the seventeen boxes downstairs.
“Fuck.”
By two o’clock, I was seriously considering abandoning the rest of my belongings and becoming a minimalist.
Not the attractive kind of minimalist who owned expensive neutral-colored furniture and kept fresh flowers on the kitchen counter.
The kind who owned one plate, three shirts, and a mattress on the floor because she couldn’t physically carry anything else upstairs.
I’d made eleven trips between my car and the apartment.
My arms hurt.
My back hurt.
And the muscles in my thighs were beginning to protest every time I approached the stairs.
I was halfway through dragging a box labeled BOOKS — HEAVY across the second-floor landing when the apartment door across from mine opened.
A woman stepped into the hallway carrying a trash bag.
She looked to be in her forties, with short blonde hair and glasses perched on top of her head.
“Oh, honey,” she said, taking one look at me. “You need a hand?”
I stopped, breathing harder than I wanted to admit.
“I’m starting to think I need a forklift.”
She laughed.
“Moving in?”
“Trying to.”
“Which apartment?”
“Two-oh-four.”
“Ah. Harris finally rented it.”
“Apparently.”
She set her trash bag down and came over.
“I’m Denise. Two-oh-three.”
“Natalie.”
“Nice to meet you, Natalie. Here, let me get that end.”
“Oh, you don’t have to—”
“Nonsense. I’ve lived here twelve years. I’ve watched enough students try to carry furniture up these stairs to know when someone’s about to throw out their back.”
I smiled gratefully and took the opposite side of the box.
Together, we managed to get it through my front door.
Denise looked around.
“Well, you’ve got the good windows.”
“That’s what sold me.”
“And the radiator works, which is more than I can say for the apartment downstairs.”
I glanced toward the living room.
“That’s reassuring.”
She waved a hand.
“Don’t worry. Harris fixed yours last winter.”
I wasn’t entirely sure that made me feel better.
Denise stayed for a few minutes, telling me about the building, the laundry room in the basement, and the grocery store a few blocks away.
She also informed me that the walls were thin, the water pressure was decent, and the student living downstairs had a habit of playing guitar badly.
“Sweet boy,” she said. “Terrible musician.”
I laughed.
Before leaving, she pointed toward my stack of boxes.
“You got somebody helping you unpack?”
“Just me.”
“Well, if you need anything, knock. I’m usually home by six.”
“Thank you. Seriously.”
“Of course, honey. Welcome to Northwood.”
After she left, I closed the door and leaned against it.
Welcome to Northwood.
It was such a small thing.
A stranger helping me carry a box.
A neighbor taking five minutes out of her afternoon to introduce herself.
But it made the apartment feel a little less unfamiliar.
I looked around the room.
Maybe this was how it started.
Not with some enormous life-changing moment.
Just a series of small things that eventually made a new place feel like home.
I finally left the apartment a little after four.
I’d unpacked my bathroom essentials, made the bed, organized most of my clothes, and decided the rest could wait until tomorrow.
My hair was pulled into a messy ponytail, and I’d changed into denim shorts and a loose blue T-shirt.
I grabbed my keys, checked that they were actually in my hand, and headed downstairs.
The late-afternoon air was warm, but there was already something different about it.
Back home, August usually felt endless.
Here, the breeze carried the faintest suggestion that summer was nearly over.
I walked toward Main Street, passing students gathered outside apartment buildings and families unloading cars along the curb.
Northwood was prettier than I remembered.
I’d visited Ethan a handful of times when he attended school here, but those trips had mostly consisted of hockey games, family dinners, and the occasional hurried walk across campus.
I’d never really explored the town.
Now that I was paying attention, I noticed the details.
The brick storefronts with flower boxes beneath their windows. The old-fashioned streetlights. The little bookstore tucked between a bakery and a clothing boutique. The navy-and-silver flags hanging outside restaurants.
A large banner stretched across the entrance to the university’s main pedestrian walkway.
WELCOME BACK, WOLVES!
Underneath it was the school’s wolf-head logo.
I stopped for a moment, looking past the banner toward the campus.
Students crossed the lawn in groups, some carrying iced coffees, others balancing textbooks and shopping bags. A couple sat beneath a tree, sharing earbuds. Someone rode past on a bicycle, nearly colliding with a guy who’d stopped in the middle of the path to answer his phone.
It looked like every college campus I’d ever seen.
And somehow, it felt completely different.
I pulled out my phone and took a picture.
Then I sent it to Mom.
ME: Officially exploring. Haven’t locked myself out of anything in almost five hours.
Her response came less than a minute later.
MOM: Progress! ❤️ It’s beautiful there.
I smiled and slipped my phone into my pocket.
I walked another block before finding a coffee shop called Common Grounds.
The place was busy, with a line stretching almost to the door and a cluster of students occupying the tables near the windows.
The smell of espresso hit me as soon as I stepped inside.
I immediately decided I liked it.
A girl behind the counter greeted me while I studied the menu.
She had dark curly hair pulled into a bun and wore a navy Northwood sweatshirt beneath her apron.
“What can I get started for you?”
“Large iced vanilla latte, please.”
“Anything to eat?”
I glanced toward the pastry case.
There were muffins, croissants, cookies, and an enormous cinnamon roll that looked like it could feed a family of four.
My stomach growled.
Apparently, Ethan had been right about lunch.
“Actually, can I get a turkey sandwich, too?”
“Of course.”
I paid, moved to the side, and waited while the barista prepared my order.
Two girls standing nearby were discussing their class schedules.
A guy at the pickup counter was arguing with someone on the phone about whether their apartment needed a second television.
And at a table near the window, a group of students wearing Northwood hockey sweatshirts were talking loudly enough that I could hear them over the music.
I glanced at them without really thinking about it.
There were four guys crowded around a small table, coffee cups and laptops scattered between them.
One wore a navy baseball cap backward. Another had a gray sweatshirt with the wolf logo printed across the chest.
“I’m telling you, Ashford’s gonna be a problem this year,” the guy in the baseball cap said.
“Dude, you say that every year.”
“Because they’re a problem every year.”
“Yeah, and we still beat them.”
“Not every time.”
“Close enough.”
I looked away, smiling faintly.
Hockey.
Of course.
I’d grown up around the sport because of Ethan, but I wasn’t one of those girls who could name every NHL player or explain the intricacies of a power play.
I understood enough to follow a game.
I knew what icing was.
I knew that checking someone into the boards was apparently a perfectly acceptable way to express frustration.
And I knew that hockey players had a remarkable ability to turn practically any conversation into an argument.
Mostly because I’d spent my childhood listening to Ethan and his friends do exactly that.
My name was called, and I collected my drink and sandwich.
There was one empty table near the window, so I took it.
I unwrapped my sandwich, pulled out my phone, and opened the university’s student portal.
Orientation events started tomorrow.
Classes began Monday.
I had a campus tour scheduled for the afternoon, a meeting with my academic advisor later in the week, and approximately twelve emails from various university departments welcoming me to Northwood.
I scrolled through them while eating.
One advertised student organizations.
Another listed welcome-week activities.
There was a flyer for a movie night on the lawn, a downtown student discount event, and a campus involvement fair.
I bookmarked a few.
I wanted to meet people.
That was part of the reason I’d transferred.
At my previous university, I’d made the mistake of waiting for friendships to happen naturally. I’d spent too much time with the same small group of acquaintances, assuming eventually we’d become closer.
We never really had.
This time, I wanted to make an effort.
I wanted friends who invited me places because they genuinely wanted me there.
People I could call when something exciting happened.
Girls I could get ready with before a night out.
Friends who would show up at my apartment with takeout and stay until midnight talking about absolutely nothing.
It sounded embarrassingly simple.
But I’d spent two years wanting exactly that.
My phone buzzed.
Mom.
I answered immediately.
“Hey.”
“Hi, sweetheart. Did you get everything inside?”
“Most of it.”
“Most?”
“The important things.”
“Which are?”
“My clothes, bedding, and coffee maker.”
She laughed.
“Of course.”
“I’m sitting in a coffee shop right now.”
“Already?”
“Mom, you know I have a problem.”
“At least you’re aware of it.”
I took a sip of my latte.
“It’s really nice here.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. The apartment’s small, but it’s cute. And the town is adorable. There are all these little shops and restaurants, and everybody seems excited to be back.”
“I’m glad.”
“I think I’m going to like it.”
There was a brief pause.
Then Mom said, “You sound happier.”
I looked out the window.
A group of girls walked past carrying matching shopping bags, laughing about something one of them had said.
“I feel happier.”
It was true.
I was exhausted, my apartment was a disaster, and I’d spent half the morning trying to convince a roadside assistance representative that I was, in fact, the owner of my own car.
But underneath all of that, there was something I hadn’t felt in a long time.
Anticipation.
I was excited about tomorrow.
About next week.
About the possibility that six months from now, I might look back on this day and wonder how I’d ever considered staying somewhere I wasn’t happy.
“Good,” Mom said softly. “That’s all I wanted.”
I swallowed.
“Don’t make me cry in public.”
She laughed.
“I’ll try.”
We talked for a while longer.
She asked whether I’d eaten, whether the apartment was clean, and whether I’d remembered to bring the little tool kit Dad had bought me.
I assured her that yes, I had eaten, the apartment was reasonably clean, and the tool kit was currently somewhere inside one of the seventeen boxes.
Then she told me Dad wanted pictures of the place once I’d finished unpacking.
I promised to send them.
By the time we hung up, my sandwich was gone and my coffee was half empty.
I sat there for another few minutes, watching people pass the window.
For once, I didn’t feel the need to rush back to my apartment.
I liked being here.
I liked the noise, the music, the unfamiliar faces.
I liked the idea that any one of the people walking past could eventually become someone important to me.
A friend.
A classmate.
Someone I’d meet at a party.
Someone whose name I didn’t even know yet.
The thought made me smile.
I was gathering my things when the conversation at the hockey table caught my attention again.
“Whitmore’s gonna have them skating until they puke if they pull that shit this season,” one of the guys said.
“Probably.”
“Especially with Foster wearing the C.”
I paused.
Foster.
The name was familiar.
Very familiar.
But before I could place it, another guy spoke.
“Dylan Foster’s the best captain we’ve had in years. Half the guys on that team would run through a wall for him.”
I stopped moving.
Dylan?
Dylan Foster?
Ethan’s Dylan?
I glanced toward the table.
The guy in the baseball cap was shaking his head.
“I’m not saying he’s a bad captain. I’m saying the expectations are insane this year. He’s a senior, everybody’s talking about him going pro, and the Wolves are supposed to make a serious postseason run.”
“Yeah, well, if anybody can handle it, Foster can.”
I stared at my coffee.
Dylan Foster.
Captain of the Northwood Wolves.
For some reason, that surprised me.
Which was ridiculous.
Dylan had been playing hockey for as long as I’d known him.
He and Ethan had spent practically every winter of their childhoods at the rink. I’d grown up watching them come home with bruises, missing teeth, and hockey bags that smelled so terrible Mom used to make them leave everything in the garage.
Of course Dylan was still playing.
And of course he was good.
Ethan had mentioned it before.
I’d just never really thought about what that meant.
The last time I’d seen Dylan in person had been a couple of years ago.
He’d been home for part of the summer, and he’d stopped by our house to see Ethan.
I remembered him standing in the kitchen wearing athletic shorts and a faded T-shirt, his dark hair slightly longer than it used to be.
He’d smiled when I came downstairs.
Asked how school was going.
Then he’d gone outside with my brother, and I’d returned to whatever I’d been doing.
That was pretty much the extent of our relationship.
Dylan was Ethan’s best friend.
He’d always been around.
But he’d never really been my friend.
He was three years older than me, and growing up, that had felt like an enormous difference.
When I was thirteen, he was sixteen.
When I was fifteen, he was eighteen.
By the time I was old enough to have anything resembling an adult conversation with him, he’d already left for college.
We’d existed in the same orbit without ever getting particularly close.
And now, apparently, he was some kind of campus hockey celebrity.
I almost laughed.
Ethan was going to be insufferable when I told him I’d overheard strangers praising his best friend.
I picked up my bag and stood.
Behind me, one of the guys continued talking.
“I’m telling you, Foster’s gonna have a hell of a season.”
“Probably,” another agreed. “And if he does, every scout in the country is gonna be watching.”
I glanced once more toward the group.
Then I headed for the door.
Outside, the late-afternoon sun had begun to dip behind the buildings, casting long shadows across the sidewalk.
I slipped my sunglasses onto my face and started walking toward my apartment.
Dylan Foster.
I hadn’t thought about him much in years.
But apparently, Northwood was a place where I was going to hear his name whether I wanted to or not.
I smiled to myself and continued down the street.
At least I’d have something to tease Ethan about the next time he called.
Little did I know how often I’d be hearing that name before the semester was over.
