Ashes & Roses

Chapter 10

Genevieve Oakley

The morning light cut across my room with an aggressive precision that felt entirely unwarranted for a Tuesday, slicing right through the gap in my blackout curtains to land squarely on the edge of my duvet. I rolled over, blinking against the dust motes floating lazily in the sliver of gold, and reached blindly across the nightstand until my fingers grazed my phone. The screen lit up with a glare that felt borderline hostile: 9:14 AM.

I let out a slow, deliberate breath, deciding right then and there that I was under no circumstances going to rush. There was nothing more undignified than scrambling through a morning routine just because the sun had decided to show up on time. Wynter was already long gone, having vanished into her world of classical music and dance. I saw her pink duffle bag sitting on her bed with brown stains scattered across the bag, something I'd have to ask about when I see her but other than that, the room is blissfully quiet and smelling faintly of her floral laundry detergent. The space was entirely mine, and I intended to enjoy every minute of it. Throwing off the duvet, I padded across the hardwood floor and stood in front of my full-length mirror. A messy tangle of dark hair, a slightly sleep-creased cheek, and a black slip dress. A tragic look, truly, but easily remedied.

Deciding on an outfit is not a task to be rushed; it is a curatorial process. I debated between a cream-colored ribbed knit sweater paired with a pleated plaid tennis skirt and black ankle boots, or a tailored tweed midi skirt paired with a fitted silk camisole and sleek black leather heels. The tweed skirt and heels won out. It gave the exact silhouette I wanted: polished, sharp, and subtly expensive without looking like I was trying too hard.

Hair came next. I blow dried my hair with a round brush, smoothing the layers until they fell in soft, glossy waves that framed my face just right. Makeup was a similar labor of love a lightweight tinted moisturizer, a dusting of warm blush, a swipe of lengthening mascara, and a tinted lip balm.

By the time I locked my dorm door behind me and stepped out into the crisp morning air, it was past ten. The campus was humming with that specific mid-morning energy where half the students looked like they had been awake since dawn conquering the academic world, and the other half looked like zombies who had sleepwalked through a hedge maze.

I kept my pace measured, my heels clicking rhythmically against the concrete as I wove past clusters of freshmen huddled over clipboards. The red-brick academic halls caught the pale sunlight, casting long, geometric shadows across the paved walkways. My destination was the local coffee and bookshop tucked just off the edge of campus a familiar building with mismatched vintage armchairs, excellent espresso, and a staff that usually knew my order before I even reached the register. I liked consistency. I liked knowing that when I paid six dollars for a meticulously crafted beverage, it would taste exactly the way I wanted it to.

I pushed open the heavy glass door, the familiar brass bell chiming overhead. The warm scent of roasted beans and toasted vanilla immediately hit me. I scanned the counter, expecting to see Sarah or Marcus, the usual weekend crew who knew better than to make small talk before I had my first hit of caffeine. Instead, there was a stranger.

He was leaning casually against the back counter, wiping down the stainless-steel steam wand with a microfiber cloth. He had long black hair resting right in the middle of his neck, gathered up into a loose, slightly messy bun with a few dark strands slipping free. He wore a soft, loose-fitting charcoal sweater beneath a dark canvas apron. I slowly stepped up to the register, gripping the strap of my purse . He tossed the cloth over his shoulder and walked over, offering a polite, pleasant smile.

"Good morning," he said, his voice smooth and calm, I picked up on a slight accent I couldn't place. "What can I get started for you?"

I gave him my standard, highly specific order, rattling it off with the practiced ease of someone who had refined her caffeine intake into an exact science.

"I'll take an iced, half-caf, double-shot blonde vanilla latte," I recited clearly, keeping my tone crisp. "Sub oat milk, exactly two pumps of vanilla instead of four, light ice, and make sure the espresso is pulled long so it doesn't taste burnt."

His expression didn't flinch. He just nodded slowly, absorbing the avalanche of specifications as if I had just asked for plain water.

"Got it," he said, his tone entirely level, completely devoid of the usual syrupy customer-service cheer. "One vanilla latte coming right up for-?."

The young man held my gaze along with an uncapped black marker hovering over a cup.

He didn't know me.

"Genevieve.." I stated. After scribbling my name down on the cup, he offered a faint, infuriatingly mild smile, turning to the espresso machine without a single trace of intimidation. He went to work with a quiet efficiency. He didn't look rushed, nor did he fumble with the pitchers. He pulled the shots, steamed the oat milk, and assembled the drink, sliding the plastic cup across the counter toward me within two minutes flat. I picked it up, slipping off the plastic lid to inspect the contents before taking a cautious, evaluative sip. My lips parted in quiet disbelief. It tasted entirely wrong. It was too sweet, the oat milk completely overpowering the subtle notes of the blonde espresso, and there was entirely too much ice clinking against the sides. I set the cup back down on the counter with a sharp clack.

"Hi, Excuse me," I said, my voice dropping into that cool, unimpressed tone I reserved for service errors. "This isn't right."

He stopped wiping the counter, looking up with a neutral expression. "Is there a problem with it?"

"Yes, there is," I said, crossing my arms. "I asked for half-caf, two pumps of vanilla, and light ice. This tastes like regular milk loaded with syrup. Did you use the blonde roast?"

He leaned slightly against the back counter, resting his weight on one hip. He didn't look defensive. He just looked mildly, quietly attentive.

"I used the blonde shots and measured two pumps of syrup," he replied smoothly, his voice remaining entirely even. "Maybe the proportions just aren't what you were hoping for."

I stared at him for a beat, slightly taken aback by his lack of immediate contrition. "I order this exact drink three times a week. I know what it tastes like. This is far too sweet."

"I can make another one if you'd like," he said, though he didn't sound particularly apologetic, just practical. He said pushing himself off the counter already reaching for an empty cup.

"Though if I use the same recipe, it might taste similar."

I let out a short, incredulous breath. "Most people would offer to remake it properly."

"I did offer," he pointed out gently, his dark eyes meeting mine without a shred of nervousness. "I'm just letting you know what to expect."

I stared at him, my patience thinning. "Are you seriously arguing with me over a drink you made incorrectly?"

"I'm not arguing with you," he said, his tone infuriatingly steady. "I'm explaining that I made what you ordered."

"And I'm explaining that it tastes wrong."

His eyes stayed on mine, a faint trace of amusement lingering at the corner of his mouth.

"Okay. I can remake it. But if you're going to order the exact same thing, it's probably going to taste the same."

I glared at him, absolutely floored by his audacity. "You are incredible. Most people would just apologize."

"I apologize when apologies are in order," he replied calmly. I let out an incredulous breath, shaking my head.

"Fine. I'll drink it. But I am certainly not coming back here if you're going to be working."

He didn't look offended by the threat. Instead, he simply glanced past me toward the person waiting right behind me in line.

"Good morning," he said smoothly, flashing a warm, entirely genuine smile that transformed his whole expression. "What can I get started for you?"

I stood there for a second, completely disregarded, before grabbing my obnoxious, overly sweet latte and turning on my heel. As the glass door swung shut behind me, the cold autumn wind hit my face, but it wasn't nearly enough to cool down the irritation burning right under my skin. I took another sip of the terrible coffee, winced, and dropped the entire cup straight into the nearest recycling bin. I kept walking anyway, my heels carrying me steadily toward campus as though nothing about the morning had gone wrong.

By the time I reached the humanities building, I had almost managed to convince myself that I had forgotten about the coffee entirely. Almost. The obnoxious sweetness still seemed to cling to the back of my throat, and every time I thought about the stranger behind the counter looking at me with that infuriatingly calm expression, another spark of irritation flared beneath my ribs. It was ridiculous, honestly. He had gotten my order wrong and then somehow managed to behave as though I were the inconvenience. I pushed through the double doors of the building, already deciding that I was going to avoid the coffee shop for at least a week on principle. The hallway was crowded with students moving between classrooms, backpacks slung over their shoulders and conversations overlapping beneath the fluorescent lights. I adjusted the strap of my purse and continued toward the stairs, eager to get to class. I had almost reached the end of the hallway when someone called my name.

"Genevieve!"

I kept walking. Not having the energy to stop and I already the momentum of my long legs striding down the hall. I hoped maybe they were talking to someone else.

"Genevieve Oakley!" The female voice screeched making me wince with slight annoyance. I stopped abruptly and unwillingly. There were very few reasons for anyone to use my full name that early in the morning, and none of them were particularly promising. Slowly, I turned around.

A girl was hurrying toward me through the crowd, weaving around a group of students with an expression so openly excited that I immediately knew she wanted something. Her blonde hair was impossible to miss. It was long and wildly untamed, a mass of frizzy waves spilling around her shoulders as though she had spent the morning standing near an open window on a beach somewhere and simply decided that brushing it would ruin the experience. She wore a pair of faded denim overalls over a bright pink shirt, along with white worn dirty sneakers that looked considerably more practical than anything I had ever voluntarily put on my feet. She came to a stop in front of me, slightly breathless but smiling, I took a step back to avoid the heavy breathing getting caught in my personal bubble.

"Oh my God, hi," she said, and there was such genuine enthusiasm in her voice "I'm so sorry. I've been trying to catch you since you walked into the building."

I glanced toward my classroom, that was notably more far away than I had hoped and then back at her.

"Congratulations," I said flatly, holding my text and notebooks close to my chest. "You caught me."

For the briefest moment, her smile faltered. Only briefly, before recovering quickly.

"I'm Kailani," she said quickly pushing an open hand in my direction, apparently deciding that my standoffish tone wasn't worth acknowledging. "Kailani Hale. I just wanted to thank you."

"For what?" My brows drew together as I slowly looked down at her hand then back up at her.

"The scholarship." Her entire face brightened again, she noticed her hand hanging untouched and pulled it back to her side. "The Oakley Foundation scholarship. I got the email a few weeks ago, and I know your family is behind it, and I just—I really wanted to tell you thank you."

There it was, I should have expected it. The moment someone recognized my last name, there was always a possibility that the conversation was going to turn into something like this. Sometimes it was a request. Sometimes it was networking disguised as casual interest. Other times, like apparently this morning, it was gratitude directed at the wrong person. I shifted my purse higher onto my shoulder.

"You don't need to thank me. I didn't give you the scholarship. My family runs the foundation," I continued, already glancing toward the hallway clock. "I don't personally decide who receives funding."

"Oh." She nodded quickly, but her smile remained in place. "Well, I know, but still. Your family created it, right? And it helped me, so I just thought—"

"You don't have to explain." The words came out sharper than I intended. Not cruelly but sharp enough to dismiss the rest of her sentence. Kailani went quiet. I saw it register in her face before she quickly rearranged her expression, the smile returning almost immediately. There was something strangely impressive about how fast she recovered.

"Oh." She gave a small, awkward laugh. "Okay. Thanks anyway."

I stared at her for half a second, unsure whether she had just thanked me for dismissing her.

"Right," I said. Then I turned and continued down the hallway. Behind me, I heard her footsteps following, of course I did, the plastic soles of her Converse screamed against the floor

"So, are you going to Introduction to Fashion?" Kailani asked. I closed my eyes for a brief moment before opening them again.

"Yes." I small sigh escaped my lips. Without my latte my patience was pretty much nonexistent.

"Oh, me too!" she said brightly. "I was hoping I had the right building because I looked at my schedule, like, four times this morning, and then I looked at the building map, but I still wasn't sure because the numbers are kind of confusing."

"They're on the signs." I explained.

"I know, but there are a lot of signs." She said with a small giggle. I looked at her and Kailani smiled. Something told me this was going to be a very long walk to class.

By the time we reached the lecture hall, I had learned considerably more about Kailani Hale than I had intended to before ten-thirty in the morning. She had apparently transferred from Hawaii, which explained the faint warmth that seemed to follow her even in the middle of a crowded academic building. She talked with her hands, occasionally interrupted herself when another thought occurred to her, and possessed the remarkable ability to continue a conversation even when the person beside her contributed almost nothing. I had tried to dismiss her twice and she had not noticed. Eventually, I stopped trying.

The classroom itself was already beginning to fill. It was one of the few spaces on campus that actually felt appropriate for the subject being taught, with tall windows along one wall and long tables arranged in a wide semicircle instead of the usual rigid rows. Fashion sketches and historical photographs had been framed along the walls, and at the front of the room, a large projection screen displayed the course title in clean black lettering.

INTRODUCTION TO FASHION: HISTORY, CULTURE, AND DESIGN.

I felt myself relax slightly. This was the part of my schedule I actually looked forward to. I enjoyed business. I understood it. I had grown up listening to conversations about acquisitions, investments, contracts, expansion, and the countless moving pieces required to keep a company alive. Business was familiar to me in the same way that the Oakley name was familiar to everyone here. Fashion was different, fashion belonged to me. Before Kailani could say anything else, I spotted a group of girls seated near the middle of the room and headed in their direction, I found myself sitting next to them or near them during our first few classes. They looked exactly like the kind of people I expected to find in an introductory fashion course at this university with perfectly styled hair, coordinated outfits, expensive handbags resting beside their chairs. One of them immediately looked up when she saw me approaching, her eyes widened.

"Oh my God. I love your skirt."

I smiled politely as I approached the table. "Thank you."

The attention shifted quickly from one girl to the next. Another complimented my shoes. Someone else asked where I had found my blouse. Their voices were warm, their smiles perfectly arranged, and within less than a minute, they had created the illusion that I had just stumbled into a group of people who were genuinely delighted to meet me. I knew better. I had spent my entire life around people who knew how to perform interest. Still, I pulled out the chair beside them and sat down. There was no reason to make assumptions before people gave me a reason to. Kailani lingered nearby for a moment.

"Um," she said, looking between me and the group of girls, "I'll sit over there, then."

I glanced toward the opposite side of the room, where a few empty seats remained.

"Okay." I breathed needing a mental break from her enthusiastic energy so early in the morning.

"Okay. See you after class!" Kailani exclaimed, her smile was still there.I gave her a brief nod before turning back toward the girls. One of them leaned closer almost immediately.

"So, Genevieve, right?"

"Yes."

"Ive bee dying to talk to you since the first day of classes. Your parents are legendary, I mean everyone knows about the Oakley foundation on campus"

I looked at her with a blank expression but her almost rehearsed smile only widened. She seemed to sense that and moved on quickly, though the interest in her eyes didn't disappear. "My father knows your father, I think. At least professionally."

"I'm sure he does." I said with a hint of hidden sarcasm, I don't think she picked up on. That answer seemed to satisfy her, and for the next several minutes, I allowed the conversation to drift toward easier subjects. Clothes. Professors. Parties. Campus gossip. Nothing particularly meaningful, but nothing that required much of me either. The professor entered shortly afterward, and the room slowly settled. I opened my notebook and pulled out a pen, allowing myself to focus on the front of the classroom as the lecture began. For the first twenty minutes, the professor discussed the role clothing had played throughout history not simply as decoration, but as an indicator of culture, wealth, identity, and social status.

It was interesting enough that I had nearly forgotten about the girls sitting beside me. Nearly. My attention shifted when I heard a quiet snort from somewhere to my left. One of them was looking across the room. I followed her gaze. Kailani sat several tables away, already taking notes. Her blonde hair was even more impossible to ignore beneath the overhead lights, and the bright pink shirt beneath her overalls stood out against the sea of muted neutrals surrounding her.

"That's certainly a choice," one of the girls murmured.

Another covered her mouth to hide a laugh. I kept my eyes on my notebook having no interest on the childish middle-school like behaviors these girls are displaying.

"For someone taking fashion, you'd think she'd know what a coordinated outfit looks like."

"Maybe that's the point," the first girl whispered.

"Maybe she coordinated it badly on purpose." A few quiet laughs followed.

I slowly set my pen down taking in a small breath. The professor was speaking at the front of the room, and Kailani was far enough away that she couldn't hear them. She hadn't turned around. She hadn't noticed the looks being exchanged or the amusement quietly passing between the girls beside me. I turned my head. The girl closest to me was still smiling when she noticed I was looking at her.

"It's tragic, right the way she dresses?" Her expression remained expectant, as if dying for me to agree with her. I was almost offended that she think I'd do anything of the sorts.

I held her gaze for a moment before continuing, keeping my voice low enough not to disturb the lecture.

"I'm just wondering if the only thing you have to contribute to a class about fashion is criticizing what someone else can afford to wear."

Her smile disappeared. For a second, none of them said anything.

My eyes scanned over their outfits very slowly, very obnoxious and tacky. "If I were you I would probably stop assuming that having more money automatically means you have better taste-" I picked up my pen and motioned over their choice of styling.

"Because in your case, it doesn't.." I looked toward the front of the room again and brought the tip of my pen back to the paper. The silence beside me was immediate. I returned my attention to my notes as though nothing had happened and the lecture continued. And across the classroom, completely unaware that she had just been defended by the same person who had spent the morning trying to get away from her, Kailani kept writing.

The rest of class passed without another comment from the girls beside me. By the time the professor dismissed us, I had almost forgotten the exchange entirely. Almost. As I gathered my notebook and slid it back into my bag, Kailani passed behind me on her way toward the door. She spotted me immediately and lifted a hand in an enthusiastic wave.

"Bye, Genevieve!"

Several people turned to look. I heard a few scoffs of disapproval. I stared at her, then, despite myself, I lifted my hand in acknowledgment. Kailani smiled as though I had done something considerably more meaningful than return a wave before disappearing into the hallway. I looked down at my bag and exhaled slowly. Maybe I should have tried harder to avoid her or load up on caffeine to even compete with her natural upbeat energy. But as I followed the rest of the students out of the classroom and headed toward the next part of my day. The afternoon passed in a blur of lecture halls, notebooks, and increasingly unnecessary purchases from vending machines. I had a business management seminar after lunch followed by an introductory course in corporate finance, both of which I tolerated considerably more than enjoyed. Business had never been difficult for me. I understood numbers, negotiations, and strategy because I had spent most of my life surrounded by them. My father could turn a casual dinner conversation into a discussion about expansion opportunities before dessert had even arrived, and my mother possessed the unnerving ability to identify whether a brand was failing based on a single campaign.

When I reached into my bag for my phone outside the dorm, there was still nothing from Wynter after texting her numerous times today. My brows pulled together as I unlocked the screen and opened our messages. I had sent two throughout the day, neither particularly urgent, but Wynter usually answered eventually. Even if it was only a heart or a vague response sent hours later.

Genevieve: You alive?

Genevieve: Did you survive class?

Both sat unanswered.

I stared at them for another second before slipping my phone back into my bag. She was probably busy. Dance had a way of swallowing entire days, and Wynter had never been particularly attached to her phone anyway. There was no reason to think twice about it. I still found myself checking it again before I reached our door and still nothing. The lights inside were off when I stepped into the room. For a moment, I thought Wynter might not be there. Then I saw her sitting on her bed near the window, one leg folded beneath her, her phone resting loosely in her lap.

Something about her looked wrong. Not dramatically. She wasn't crying, and there was no obvious disaster waiting for me to discover. If anything, that was what unsettled me. Wynter was already quiet by nature, but this was different. She looked as though someone had taken whatever little bit of energy she normally kept tucked away inside herself and simply drained it. I closed the door behind me and stood there for a moment, studying her.

"Hey."

"Hey."Her head lifted slowly.

"You didn't answer me." I said carefully not wanting to sound accusatory.

"I was busy." She mumbled, I almost didn't hear her.

"All day?" I questioned, with a faint smile on my face. Whatever was wrong I didn't want to add to it.

She gave a small shrug before looking back toward the window.

"Mostly."

That answer alone was enough to make me suspicious. I set my purse down beside my desk, watching her carefully as I asked,

"Are you okay?"

Her head turned toward me almost immediately.

"Yes."

Too fast as if she was rehearsing this moment before I walked in through the door. I narrowed my eyes. Wynter seemed to realize it too because she sighed softly, dropping her gaze back to her phone.

"I'm fine, Genevieve. I just had a long day."

I studied her face for another moment. Something had happened. I didn't know what, but I knew Wynter well enough to recognize when she was trying to fold herself into the smallest possible version of herself and hope no one noticed. Part of me wanted to keep asking. The other part knew she wasn't going to tell me. Not yet.

So instead of pressing, I kicked off my heels and walked toward my closet. Behind me, I heard her shift on the bed. "What are you doing?"

"Getting changed."

There was a brief pause before she asked,

"Why?"

I pulled open the closet doors and glanced over my shoulder.

"Because we're going to a party tonight."

Her expression changed immediately.

"A party? Genevieve, I don't really feel like going to a party."

I turned back toward my clothes, pushing aside a few hangers as I considered what to wear.

"Exactly why we're going."

She stared at me. I could feel it without even looking.

"That makes no sense."

"It makes perfect sense." I pulled out a dress, held it against myself, and immediately decided against it. "You've spent the entire day ignoring me, and now you're sitting in the dark looking like someone canceled Christmas. We're going out."

A faint smile tugged at her mouth despite herself. There it was. Small, but there.

"I don't want to stay out late." She argued softly.

"Then we won't."

"And I'm not drinking." Wynter added

"I never said you had to."

She hesitated, her fingers tightening slightly around her phone. I waited without turning around, giving her the space to make the decision without feeling like I was watching her do it. Finally, Wynter let out a quiet breath.

"Okay."

I turned back toward my closet and happily began to look for an outfit for her.

"But I'm bringing my dance bag."

That made me pause. I looked over my shoulder. "To the party?"

"Yes, well not exactly." Her expression softened slightly as she looked down at her hands. "Afterward, I want to go to the studio."

I understood immediately, of course she did. If there was one place Wynter knew how to make sense of herself, it was there.

"Fine," I said, returning to my clothes. "Bring the bag." I said reluctantly knowing the bag is going to clash with whatever I put her in.

She smiled faintly, and this time, it lasted a little longer.