Better than Him

Fine

MARA

The roses arrived before I was even out of the shower.

Twelve of them, deep red, wrapped in brown paper with a gold ribbon tied in a perfect bow. The card was tucked between two stems. I read it standing in the doorway of my dorm room, my hair dripping onto the floor and my towel slipping down my shoulder.

‘I was drunk Mara and I said things I didn't mean. You deserve better than my bad night. I'm sorry, babe. —D’

I read it twice. Then I read it a third time, because the words were so nice that I wanted to make sure they were real.

They were real. Derek had said sorry.

He had also said sorry first.

My chest did something warm and loose. I pressed the card against my heart and laughed at myself a little, because I had spent the whole drive home from the Kappa house rehearsing what I would say to him. Now I didn't have to say anything at all.

By Tuesday, the roses had a friend. A pink tote bag from the bakery on Ridge Street, full of still-warm cinnamon rolls and a note that said ‘for my favorite journalist’. By Wednesday, he was waiting outside Adkins' lecture hall with a black coffee and a hug that lasted a little too long, and he said, "How's my girl doing? You look tired, so I'll stop talking," and then he kissed my forehead and let me go.

He picked me up for lunch on Thursday. He ordered for me without asking, the way he always did, but this time he said, "Pasta, right? You always get the pasta," and I nodded, and he smiled like I had made him happy by being predictable.

Every day that week, he was softer. Gentler. He asked about my draft. He listened when I talked about the donor reports, even though his eyes kept drifting to his phone. He put his jacket over my shoulders when the wind picked up near the fountain, and he tucked my curls behind my ear without me having to do it first.

It felt good. It felt like a warm blanket after a cold night.

So I decided I had overreacted.

I told myself that in the shower, and again in bed with my laptop open, and again on Friday, sitting in the journalism lounge with my notes spread across the table. The party had been loud and messy. People said things after too many drinks. Derek was stressed about his pre-law applications. Everyone had bad nights. Maybe the library girl was just a girl who liked sketches, and maybe Ethan had reacted big because he was Ethan and he always had to be the protector of the room.

That was the thing about Ethan. He never let anyone else handle anything.

"You're doing that thing again," Cassie said from across the table.

I looked up. "What thing?"

"Staring at your notes like they owe you money." She grinned and slid her laptop over. "Read this and tell me I'm not a genius."

Cassie Monroe had been my journalism partner since the first week of sophomore year. She had sharp eyes, a laugh that could fill a hallway, and the best red lipstick on campus. Whenever I got stuck on a paragraph, she was the one who knew exactly which word to cut.

I read her draft. Then I read it again.

It was good. Better than good. She had taken my messy interview notes about the university's budget gaps and turned them into something clean and punchy, with a lead that made me want to keep reading.

"Cassie," I said slowly. "This is really good."

"Shut up." She was blushing, though. "I had a great editor."

"You had a great partner." I tapped the screen. "Your opening paragraph? I'd have buried that under three layers of background. You went straight for the money."

"Because the money is the story." She leaned back, pleased, and pushed a stray curl off her face. "Honestly, Mara, when you write, people stop breathing. You know that, right?"

I smiled. It was nice to hear. It was nice to be seen by someone who understood the work.

My phone buzzed on the table. I turned it over.

Derek: ‘Lunch tomorrow? Just you and me.’

I typed back: ‘Yes!! Can't wait.’ Then I let my thumb hover over the other thread, the one I had been avoiding since Monday.

Ethan's name sat there, the last message from him still sitting at the top. It was from two weeks ago, a dumb meme about a squirrel stealing a cafeteria sandwich.

I had been so distant. He had been so patient. He hadn't texted me once since the party, not even to ask if I got back to my dorm safely. He was giving me space, and I knew it, and it made my stomach hurt every time I thought about it.

‘I'm sorry for being so weird lately,’ I typed to Ethan. ‘I miss you. Can we get coffee soon?’

I hit send before I could take it back.

The reply came in under a minute.

‘Hey, Mara. You don't have to apologize. I miss you too. Coffee sounds good. Name the day.’

I stared at the words. No questions. No hint of the party. No "are you okay?" or "why didn't you say anything?" Just warmth, plain and steady, like nothing bad had ever happened between us.

That should have made me feel better. Instead, it made my throat tight.

‘Friday?’ I typed.

‘Friday works for me.’ Then, after a few seconds, a second message: ‘Are you eating enough? You looked pale in the library.’

I laughed out loud, and Cassie looked up from her screen. "What?"

"Nothing," I said, pressing my hand to my mouth. "Ethan being Ethan."

Cassie smirked. "The boy who counts your coffee cups?"

"He does not count my cups."

"Mara, he literally brought you a drink with your name on it."

I didn't answer. I just smiled at my phone and kept my thumb still on the screen.

That night, Derek called while I was brushing my teeth. I put him on speaker and spat into the sink.

"Did you have a good day, babe?"

"I did," I replied. "Cassie loved my notes. Well, she said my draft was really good."

"Mm." He sounded distracted, like he was walking somewhere. "Good for you. Hey, I want to ask you something, and I don't want you to take it the wrong way."

My stomach dipped. "Okay."

"Ethan texted you, didn't he?"

I turned off the faucet. The bathroom went quiet except for the drip. "Yes. I texted him first, actually. I said sorry for being weird."

"Oh, that's sweet of you." His voice warmed up, and then cooled down again, slow and careful. "Listen. I think maybe we should give Ethan some space for a while. Just for now. For us."

I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand and stared at my own reflection in the mirror. My eyes looked too wide. My hair was still tangled from the day.

"Space," I repeated.

"Just for a little while, Mara. He's been… a lot. You know that. You've seen how he gets around me." He let out a soft breath, like it pained him to say it. "I don't want you to feel like you have to choose."

I wanted to say that I hadn't chosen anything. That Ethan was my best friend and had been since we were little, and that a year ago I would have laughed at anyone who said I'd have to pick between him and the person I was dating.

But the words stuck. My tongue felt heavy.

"Okay," I said quietly.

"That's my girl," Derek said. "Get some sleep. Love you."

The call ended. I stood there with the phone in my hand, the screen dimming in my palm.

Then it buzzed one more time.

It was a new message from Ethan, sent at 11:42 p.m., just after Derek had hung up.

‘Thinking about you. Goodnight, Mara.’

I should have typed back. I should have said something, anything.

Instead, I stared at his message until the screen went black, and I heard Derek's voice in my head, soft and sure.

‘Maybe give Ethan some space for a while. For us.’

And for the first time all week, I wondered why space was the only thing Derek ever asked me to give away.