Brett
Cassie had plans.
That should not have bothered me.
People had plans every day. I had practice, classes, film sessions, team meetings, and enough obligations to make an empty evening feel like a luxury. Cassie had Delta, schoolwork, friends, and whatever else filled the color-coded planner she carried everywhere. There was nothing unusual about her already having somewhere to be on a Sunday night.
Except Sunday nights were ours.
Not officially. We had never called them anything, and there wasn’t some standing appointment written on either of our calendars. We simply ended up at the library most Sundays after dinner, usually because one of us had an exam, a paper, or an assignment we had ignored for too long. Cassie brought snacks. I bought coffee. We argued over which table had
