chapter 7
1317 Words
Eleanor’s pov
Saturday night crept in with a hum of activity outside Eleanor’s door. The apartment had taken on that chaotic, weekend buzz—heels clicking down the hall, a Bluetooth speaker pulsing bass from someone’s bedroom, bursts of laughter between curling iron whines and makeup brushes tapping on ceramic sinks.
Eleanor sat cross-legged on her bed, hair up in a loose bun, the soft glow of her desk lamp casting a warm light over the open book resting on her lap. She wasn’t reading anymore, not really. Her eyes had passed the same paragraph three times without absorbing a word.
A gentle knock sounded, and Serena popped her head into the room, already dressed in a fitted black top and high-waisted jeans, her hoop earrings catching the light. “Hey, heading to that off-campus party I told you about. You coming?”
Eleanor offered a small smile, setting her book aside. “Thanks, but I think I’m going to stay in tonight.”
Serena stepped in fully, eyeing her with mock disapproval. “El, you’ve been here two weeks and you haven’t been to one party. You sure you don’t want to go? Just for an hour?”
“I appreciate it, really. But I’ve got a meeting tomorrow for that project with Dalton,” she said, trying not to roll her eyes. “I want to get everything in order.”
Serena snorted. “Zack Dalton? Please. He’s got his own revolving door at parties. You’ll be lucky if he even shows up.”
Eleanor quirked a brow. “Well, I’m not planning to sit around and wait if he doesn’t.”
“That’s my girl.” Serena grinned, then leaned against the doorframe. “You know he’s gorgeous, right?”
Eleanor didn’t answer, just returned her focus to the textbook as Serena took the hint.
“Alright, grandma,” she teased gently. “Don’t wait up.”
When the door shut behind her, Eleanor exhaled and sank back against the pillows. She wasn’t trying to be uptight. She just didn’t have time for distractions—not ones with dimples and reputations. She had worked too hard to get here. She wasn’t about to get swept into someone else’s chaos.
---
By Sunday morning, she was up before the sun finished rising, already dressed in leggings and an oversized sweatshirt, sipping on warm tea as light poured in through the blinds.
At 7:03 a.m., after reviewing her notes and highlighting a few final lines in the textbook, she typed a message:
Eleanor: Does 3pm at the library work for you?
She didn’t expect an immediate response, but by 2:50 p.m., there was still no reply. She settled into a table near the back of the second floor, laptop open, documents pulled up, her highlighters neatly aligned. She tried reading through their shared outline again, but the longer the silence stretched, the harder it was to stay focused.
At 3:12 p.m., she sent the second message.
Eleanor: Zack. It's after 3pm. We agreed to work on the project today. I'm at the library.
She waited.
And waited.
A group of students walked past her table laughing. Someone two rows over sneezed. The sound of typing surrounded her like a swarm of gnats.
She waited an hour.
No sign of him.
At 9:47 p.m., curled up on the couch in the common area with her laptop still open in her lap, Eleanor sent her final message.
Eleanor: Zack—this may not be important to you, but it is to me. If you aren’t going to take this seriously, just say so. I’m not depending on you to do this. I value my time.
She stared at it for a moment after it sent, heart thudding with more frustration than anything else. Not disappointment—because she hadn’t let herself expect much from him in the first place.
Still, she couldn't help but wonder if he'd even bother to read it.
---
Zack’s pov
Saturdays were for him.
Always had been.
Zack Dalton’s Saturdays followed a predictable script: sleep in, skate hard, party harder. And this one was no different.
After morning practice, he hit the gym with Deeks and Cole, crushed a protein smoothie, and spent the rest of the day lounging in their apartment, shirtless and half-watching a hockey rerun while texting half a dozen people at once. The invite to the party came in just after 5 p.m.—off-campus, packed house, familiar crowd. No-brainer.
He didn’t remember when the drinking shifted from light to heavy. It always crept up that way. Someone brought shots. Someone else brought a speaker. The place turned into a sea of bodies and red solo cups.
By 4 a.m., Zack was stumbling out the door with a girl whose name he only vaguely recalled. She wasn’t new—he’d hooked up with her once before—but she had that look in her eyes like she thought she could be the exception. She wasn’t.
She left his apartment just after 6 a.m. He didn’t walk her out.
He let himself fall back into bed with a sigh, the spinning room slowly giving way to black.
When Zack finally woke up again, it was dark.
8:11 p.m.
His head throbbed. Mouth dry. Stomach tight with something sour and heavy.
He groaned, blinking at the soft blue glow of his phone screen lighting up the nightstand. Two unread messages. He squinted through the blur and tapped into them, thumb sluggish.
> 7:03 a.m. — Eleanor Jones
Does 3pm at the library work for you?
> 3:12 p.m. — Eleanor Jones
Zack. It's after 3pm. We agreed to work on the project today. I'm at the library.
His stomach dropped.
“s**t,” he muttered aloud, dragging a hand over his face as he sat up. The messages stared back at him, damning.
He hadn’t put it in his calendar. They never confirmed a time out loud. But it didn’t matter.
He’d said Sunday. He’d agreed.
And he forgot.
Completely.
Panic turned to guilt as he stood and began pacing the room. His room was a mess—hoodie on the floor, his stick bag by the door, water bottles and takeout containers cluttering the desk.
He hadn’t even thought about the project.
He hadn’t thought about her.
But now? It was all he could think about.
He was still pacing, still replaying every second he should’ve been at the library, when her third message came in:
> 9:47 p.m. — Eleanor Jones
Zack—this may not be important to you, but it is to me. If you aren’t going to take this seriously, just say so. I’m not depending on you to do this. I value my time.
He stopped in his tracks, the weight of that last sentence slamming into him.
“I value my time.”
It echoed in his head like a slap.
This wasn’t just about a project. It was about basic respect.
He grabbed his phone and opened the message thread, tapping out half a dozen replies, deleting each one before they left his drafts.
None of them sounded right.
She deserved honesty. Not excuses.
So at 10:14 p.m., he finally hit send.
> Zack Dalton:
Eleanor—I messed up. You’re right. I didn’t put it in my calendar and I should’ve. I wasn’t thinking, and I didn’t mean to waste your time, but I did. That’s on me. I don’t expect you to be okay with it, but I’ll show up from here on out. You deserve that. Let me know when you want to meet next—I’ll be there.
He stared at the screen after sending it, heart pounding harder than it had after any game.
He didn’t know if she’d reply.
He didn’t know if she’d forgive him.
But for the first time in a long time… he cared.
- Writer
