Boots Guy

 

Advanced Reader Copy: February 19, 2026

Copyright ©2026 G. Younger

ISBN-13: 978-1-955699-26-6

Author: Greg Younger

Editing Staff: Bud Ugly, Old Rotorhead, Pixel the Cat, Rusty, and Zom

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be resold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

All characters depicted in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

 

Chapter 1

Evan

Evan Miller had driven three hours to get here and already missed the kind of silence that made sense.

He backed his 2008 Ford F-150 into the last available slot in Lot E overflow parking. He had to maneuver the long bed between a white Range Rover and a Lexus SUV with the dealership sticker still in the window. Evan checked his mirrors, adjusted the angle to leave equal room on both sides, and killed the engine. The truck shuddered once before settling into silence.

The air conditioning had died somewhere on I-57, and the cab was baking. Evan rolled down the window. The humidity of central Illinois in late August hit him like a wet towel, but at least it wasn’t as stifling as inside the truck’s cab.

He opened the door, stepped down, and stretched his back, hearing a quiet pop in his lumbar region. The drive from the farm had taken a long time. And that was on top of his father insisting on checking the oil and tire pressure three separate times before letting him leave the driveway.

Evan walked to the tailgate and dropped it.

The truck bed held a green canvas duffel bag, a garbage bag holding his sheets and comforter, a standard-sized pillow, and a red toolbox he kept strapped to the cab. It was otherwise empty.

He looked around.

The parking lot was crawling with parents and their kids moving into the dorm. To his left, a father in a polo shirt wrestled a futon frame out of a rental trailer. To his right, a family of four formed a bucket brigade. They were moving matching sets of plastic storage bins, a mini-fridge, a rug, three floor lamps, and a case of bottled water toward the dorm entrance.

Evan watched them. He wasn’t judging, exactly, just suffering a mild confusion, like he’d shown up to a job site with a hammer and everyone else had brought a sledgehammer.

Evan grabbed the handle of his duffel bag and the garbage bag, slung them over his shoulder, tucked the pillow under his arm, and slammed the tailgate shut. He clicked the lock on his key fob and checked the handle to be sure.

The walk to Allen Hall was a gauntlet of sweaty fathers and mothers fanning themselves with orientation pamphlets as the heat radiated off the brick walkways. Evan moved with a long, efficient stride, weaving through the congestion without breaking pace. He was used to work that made you sweat; this was just walking.

Inside the double doors of Allen Hall, the noise doubled. It was a cacophony of screeching dolly wheels, shouting RAs in bright orange shirts, and the constant, rhythmic thud of heavy doors slamming.

Evan checked the room assignment on his phone: 214, second floor.

The elevators had a line backing up into the lobby. A girl with a terrified expression stood by a stack of boxes labeled “WINTER CLOTHES” while her mother argued with a man who seemed to be hoarding a luggage cart.

Evan took the stairs.

The stairwell was cooler. He took the steps two at a time, his boots echoing against the cinder-block walls. On the second-floor landing, he had to stop.

The hallway was narrower than he expected, lined with industrial beige tile, and it was choked with people. Doors stood open, revealing cramped rooms rapidly filling with debris.

Evan navigated the crush, holding his bags close to his body to avoid snagging them on passing pedestrians. He counted the door numbers. 208 … 210 … 212 …

At 213, movement stopped.

A woman in a linen sundress stood in the center of the hall, directly in Evan’s path. She had both hands over her face, her shoulders shaking. A man, presumably her husband, stood awkwardly beside her, patting her shoulder with the rhythmic, mechanical precision of someone trying to burp an infant.

“It’s just so small, Richard,” she sobbed into her hands. “It’s a shoebox. How is he going to live in a shoebox?”

“It’s a dorm room, honey; it’s standard-sized,” Richard said, looking over her head and locking eyes with Evan.

The man’s eyes begged for some help, anyone, to intervene or at least acknowledge that this was insane. His parents had divorced, and Evan knew it was best not to get involved.

With that at the forefront of his mind, he turned his body forty-five degrees, made himself thin, and slid through the twelve-inch gap between the grieving mother and the wall.

“Excuse me,” Evan said, his voice low and flat.

The woman didn’t hear him. Evan cleared the obstacle and stepped into the open doorway of Room 214.

The room was indeed a shoebox. It was split down the middle by an invisible line. On the left side, the standard university-issued mattress was bare, the desk empty, and the wardrobe was closed.

On the right side, civilization had been established.

A plush gray rug covered the linoleum. The bed was already made with high-thread-count sheets and an orange-and-blue comforter, Illinois’s team colors—someone had school spirit. A massive television sat atop the dresser, flanked by two high-end speakers. A mini-fridge was plugged in and humming.

Standing in the middle of this fully furnished empire was a guy Evan’s age. He was slightly shorter than Evan, about six-one, with hair that looked like it had been cut by a professional. He wore a Vineyard Vines t-shirt and boat shoes.

‘This is going to be interesting,’ Evan thought.

The guy was also tilting his head back, holding a can of Miller Lite to his mouth. He cracked the tab, punctured the side with a key, and inhaled the beer in three seconds. Foam dripped onto his chin. He wiped it away with the back of his hand, tossed the crushed can into a pristine wastebasket, and burped.

‘Oh, fuck me.’

“Timing,” the guy said and pointed a finger at Evan. “Impeccable.”

Evan stood in the doorway, duffel and garbage bags still on his shoulder.

“Room 214?”

“The penthouse suite,” the guy said and extended a hand. “Jake Holloway, Chicago. Well, Winnetka, but let’s stick with Chicago.”

Evan shifted his pillow to shake his hand. Jake’s grip was firm, practiced.

“Evan Miller. Downstate.”

“Downstate, like Peotone? Or downstate, like, ‘I have no cell service’?”

“Downstate, like I drove three hours north to get here,” Evan said.

Evan walked past Jake and dropped his bags onto the bare mattress on the left side of the room. He set the pillow on top of them.

That was it. He was moved in. He was going to have to wrap his brain around other people having unnecessary ‘stuff.’

Jake watched him, waiting for the second trip. When Evan didn’t move toward the door, Jake’s eyebrows went up.

“That’s it?” Jake asked.

“That’s it,” Evan said.

“No TV? No rug? No beanbag chair for the ladies?”

“Didn’t see the need.”

Jake laughed; it was a sharp, barking sound, but the laughing expression didn’t quite reach Jake’s eyes. He walked over to the mini-fridge, opened it, and revealed a densely packed interior of silver-and-blue cans.

“You’re a minimalist; I respect it. Monk vibes, very austere.” Jake grabbed another beer, not opening it this time, just holding it like a prop. He looked down at Evan’s feet.

He stared at the boots.

Evan looked down, too. They were boots. Leather toes, rubber soles, laces. They covered his feet.

“You working construction later?” Jake asked.

“No.”

“Hunting trip?”

“No.”

“So,” Jake gestured with the beer can, tracing a circle in the air toward Evan’s shins. “You trying to make a statement? Is this like a blue-collar authenticity play? Because if it is, it’s solid. It plays well with the poli-sci girls, but so does just having a pulse, from what I’m told.”

Evan rubbed his thumb over the scar on his knuckle. He didn’t understand the question.

“They’re my boots. I wear them.”

“Right. You wear them.” Jake nodded slowly, as if decoding a complex riddle. “Every day?”

“Most days.”

“Okay. It’s bold; I like it. Bold choices get noticed.”

There was a knock on the open doorframe. A tall man in a navy blazer and a woman with perfect blonde highlights stood there. They had to be Jake’s parents.

They didn’t step inside because the room was too small.

“We’re taking off, Jake,” Jake’s father said. He checked a gold watch on his wrist. “Traffic getting back to the city is going to be a nightmare if we don’t beat rush hour.”

“All good,” Jake said. He didn’t move to hug them, just leaned back against his desk, the beer can hidden casually behind his hip. “Thanks for the gear.”

The mother looked around the room, her eyes landing on Evan’s bare mattress, then sliding away. She looked at Jake. There was a moment when she seemed like she might say something sentimental, something about her baby leaving the nest, but the moment passed in a vacuum of conditioned restraint.

“Card is on the dresser,” she said. “Don’t max it out in the first week.”

“No promises,” Jake grinned.

“Bye, Son,” his dad said.

“Later, Dad.”

And they were gone.

Evan stood by his bed, feeling the phantom pressure of the goodbye he hadn’t had yet. His mom had texted him three times since he parked, while Jake’s parents had treated the departure like a foregone conclusion. Evan knew his own exit had involved his dad staring at the truck’s tires, trying not to ask him to stay.

The silence in the room stretched out.

“Right,” Jake said, pushing off the desk and cracking open the second beer. “The parental units have evacuated the premises. Now the actual orientation begins.”

Evan sat on his bare mattress. Great, the springs creaked.

“I thought orientation was tomorrow at the Union.”

Jake stared at him.

“That’s academic orientation, where they tell you how to plagiarize and where the library is to sleep. I’m talking about life orientation, baseline requirements.”

“Baseline requirements,” Evan repeated.

“Yes. Have you ever been to a real party?”

Evan thought about the bonfires in the sprawling fields behind McCullough’s property senior year. Cheap light beer, a Bluetooth speaker on a tailgate, and fifty people standing around a fire until someone passed out, or the cops rolled by.

“I’ve been to parties,” Evan said.

“I’m not talking about standing in a cornfield drinking Grain Belt,” Jake said, grinning as if he’d read Evan’s mind. “I’m talking about a house with letters on the front, a sound system that’s booming, and a ratio of three-to-one.”

“Three to one what?”

“Girls to guys, Evan. The golden ratio.” Jake took a long pull of his beer. “Tonight is Sigma Chi. It’s invite-only for freshmen, but I know a guy who knows the rush chair. We’re on the list.”

Evan looked at his duffel bag. He’d unpacked his toothbrush and a framed photo of his dog, Buster. He hadn’t even put sheets on the bed yet.

“I was going to get settled,” Evan said. “Maybe walk the campus, find the ag buildings.”

“You can find the ag buildings on Monday; they aren’t moving.” Jake walked to the fridge, pulled out a third beer, and held it out to Evan. “Start hydrating. It’s a marathon, not a sprint.”

Evan looked at the can. It was 4:15 in the afternoon. The room was hot, and he was thirsty, but the idea of warm, carbonated alcohol sitting in his stomach while he tried to organize his drawers made his head ache.

“I’m good,” Evan said.

Jake froze; the can hovered in the space between them, as though he couldn’t believe his ears.

“You’re good?”

“I don’t need a beer right now.”

Jake lowered the can slowly and looked at Evan with a mixture of pity and scientific curiosity.

“You don’t drink?”

“I drink,” Evan said, “just not right now.”

“It’s move-in day, and the RA is hiding in his room, so the floor is lawless. This is the time.”

“I’ll take a water, if you have one,” Evan said.

Jake sighed, a long, theatrical exhalation through his nose. He turned back to the fridge, shoved the beer back into the stack, and pulled out a generic cola, tossing it across the room.

Evan caught it one-handed.

“Soda,” Jake said, popping the tab on his own beer. “Okay, we’re working with soda. I can work with that. It’s a pacing strategy; I respect the discipline.”

Evan opened the soda and drank half of it in one go, the sugar engaging his brain.

His phone buzzed in his pocket.

Mom: Did you get the room set up? Is it clean? Send a picture.

Evan looked around the room. His side was a prison cell, while Jake’s side was a showroom. The floor between them was littered with Evan’s boots and a stray cardboard box from Jake’s TV.

A picture would panic her; she would see the bare walls and assume he was depressed. Then the beer cans on Jake’s desk would make her think he was in danger.

He put the phone back in his pocket without replying.

“You have a bathroom kit?” Jake asked.

“Yeah.”

“Go wash up. We leave at six.”

“Six?” Evan checked his watch. “Sun’s still up.”

“Pre-game at six; party at nine. Trust the process, Miller.”

Evan grabbed his towel and his baggie with his bathroom supplies.

“I’m just going to wash my face.”

“Whatever you gotta do. Just scrub the …” Jake gestured vaguely at his own face, then at Evan’s hands, “the outdoors off you.”

Evan walked down the hall to the communal bathroom. It was empty for the moment.

He set his stuff on the sink ledge and turned on the tap, splashing water onto his face.

He looked at his hands.

His knuckles were broad, and dust settled into the creases. There was a thin line of black grease under his fingernails from fixing the tractor that morning. There was dirt—real dirt, loam and clay—ground into the calluses on his palms.

Evan pumped the pink liquid soap from the dispenser; it smelled like bubblegum.

He scrubbed.

He dug his thumbnail under the nails of his other hand, scraping at the grease. It was stubborn, as if it were part of him. He scrubbed until the skin around his cuticles turned red, then rinsed, checked, and scrubbed again.

Under the harsh fluorescent lights of the bathroom mirror, his tan looked wrong. It wasn’t the golden, leisurely tan of the guys he’d seen in the parking lot, but a farmer’s tan—dark on the forearms and neck, pale where the t-shirt sat. His face was weathered by wind, not by leisure.

Evan dried his hands on the paper towel; they were clean, but they still looked rough.

He walked back to the room.

Jake had changed; he was wearing a different polo shirt now, this one striped, tucked into khaki shorts that hit exactly above the knee. He was spraying cologne into the air and walking through the mist.

“Better,” Jake said as Evan entered. “You clean up okay.”

Evan reached into his duffel bag and pulled out a clean black T-shirt, then began unbuttoning his flannel.

“Whoa, whoa,” Jake said. “Pause.”

Evan stopped, his shirt half-open.

“What?”

“You’re not wearing a black t-shirt.”

“It’s clean.”

“It’s an undershirt. You’re going to a fraternity, not a gym.” Jake walked over to his wardrobe; it was packed. Hangers slid continuously along the rail as he rifled through his shirts, the fabric rustling softly.

He pulled out a light-blue button-down Oxford shirt.

“Here.”

He tossed it to Evan.

Evan caught it. The fabric was soft, already broken in.

“I have clothes, Jake.”

“I saw what was in that bag, Evan. You have work clothes and church clothes. This is neither; this is the uniform.”

Evan held the shirt. It seemed presumptuous to wear another man’s clothes within an hour of meeting him.

“I don’t need to borrow your shirt.”

“You do,” Jake said. “Evan, nobody knows who you are yet; right now, you’re a blank slate. You walk in there wearing a Hanes t-shirt and those boots, you’re ‘Farm Boy.’ That sticks. You want that nickname for four years? ‘Hayseed’? ‘Tractor’?”

Evan frowned; he didn’t mind tractors.

“I don’t care what they call me.”

“Maybe, but I care,” Jake said. “I have to live with you. If you look like a project, I look like a social worker. Put on the shirt.”

Evan looked at the shirt, then at his own crumpled flannel. He was tired. He didn’t understand the rules here, and Jake seemed to have the rulebook memorized.

Evan took off his flannel and put on the blue Oxford.

It was slightly tight in the shoulders, but it fit.

“Button the collar,” Jake instructed. “No, not the top one. The little buttons that hold the collar down. There. Leave the top open. Roll the sleeves up twice, just below the elbow. Precision, Miller; the devil is in the details.”

Evan rolled the sleeves. He wasn’t quite comfortable, as if he were in a costume.

Jake nodded, walking in circles around him.

“Okay. Now, the jeans are … fine; they’re dark, no holes. We can work with the jeans. But the boots.”

Evan looked down.

“What about them?”

“They have to go.”

“I only brought one other pair. Running shoes.”

“Running shoes are worse. Just … don’t you have anything else? Loafers? Boat shoes? A decent sneaker?”

“No.”

Jake stared at the boots with a pained expression.

“Okay, we can’t fix everything in one day. But take them off for now. We’re just hanging out here for a bit, and you’re tracking mud on my rug.”

Evan hesitated. The boots were his anchor; without them, he felt off-balance. But Jake was right about the rug; it was pristine.

Evan sat on the edge of the bed and unlaced the boots. He pulled them off and set them neatly under the metal frame of the bed, out of sight.

Evan stood up in his socks. He felt shorter and more vulnerable, for some reason.

Jake stepped back, framing Evan with his hands like a director. He squinted.

“Presentable,” Jake said.

Evan looked down at himself. Blue shirt, dark jeans, socks. He didn’t recognize the guy. He looked like everyone else he had seen in the hallway.

“I look like a banker,” Evan complained.

“You look like you belong here,” Jake corrected. “That’s ninety percent of the battle. The other ten percent is knowing when to laugh and knowing when to buy a round.”

Evan’s phone buzzed again.

Mom: Evan? Are you okay?

Evan looked at the screen and glanced at Jake, who was checking his hair in the mirror, practicing a smile that looked both friendly and arrogant at the same time.

Evan typed.

Yeah. I’m good. The room is great. Jake is a nice guy. Everything is fine.

He hit send. It was a polite lie. The room was suffocating, Jake was exhausting, and nothing felt fine, but it was the answer that kept the peace.

“Ready?” Jake asked.

Evan put on his boots, daring Jake to complain, and said, “I guess.”

“Remember,” Jake said, grabbing his room key and checking his pockets. “Don’t ask what major people are, ask where they summered. Don’t stare at the floor, and for the love of God, if someone hands you a beer, you take it.”

“I thought you said I didn’t have to drink.”

“You don’t have to drink it,” Jake said, opening the door. “You only have to hold it. It’s a prop, Evan; it makes you approachable.”

Jake stepped into the hallway, the noise of the dorm washing over them again. He looked back, impatient.

“Trust me,” Jake said. “Tonight’s gonna change everything.”

Evan followed him out, closing the door.

The hallway was louder now. Music was thumping from three different rooms—bass-heavy rap clashing with pop country. Groups of guys were roaming in packs, the loudest voices winning.

Evan walked behind Jake. He noticed how Jake walked—loose shoulders, head up, owning the space. Evan tried to mimic it: he lifted his chin and put his hands in his pockets. Then he realized that he looked closed off and took them out. He rubbed his thumb over his knuckle scar, then stopped himself.

They reached the stairwell.

“Are we taking the elevator?” Evan asked.

“Elevators are for moving freight and fat people,” Jake said, pushing the stairwell door open. “We walk; it’s good for the calves.”

They descended.

“So,” Evan asked, trying to find his footing, “what’s your major?”

Jake stopped on the landing, turning toward him with genuine disappointment on his face.

“We literally just went over this. Don’t ask about majors; nobody knows, nobody cares. I’m ‘Pre-Business,’ which means nothing; you’re ‘Ag,’ which means you grow corn. Keep it vague.”

“I don’t just grow corn,” Evan said, defensive. “It’s Ag-Econ, systems management.”

“Corn,” Jake summarized. “Stick to corn. People understand corn—it’s charmingly rustic.”

They hit the ground floor. The lobby was less chaotic now, with the parents mostly gone. It was just students. The energy had shifted from panic to social anxiety. Everyone was looking at everyone else, sizing them up, checking wristbands and shoes, scrolling on their phones.

Jake breezed through the automatic doors and into the humid evening air.

The sun was to the west, casting long, orange shadows across the quad. The heat hadn’t broken; it hung heavy and wet, smelling of cut grass and impending rain.

Jake pulled out a pack of cigarettes. He didn’t light one; he just tapped the pack against his palm.

“Frat row is four blocks that way,” Jake pointed with the pack. “We walk fast, we look like we have a destination, we don’t rubberneck.”

Evan nodded.

“Okay.”

“You got your student ID?”

“Yeah.”

“Good.” Jake started walking. “And Evan?”

“Yeah?”

“Loosen up; you’re stiff as a board. Relax, I’ve got you.”

Evan forced his shoulders down and lengthened his stride to match Jake’s. He looked at the campus stretching out before him—the brick buildings, the manicured lawns, the groups of people laughing in circles that seemed impenetrable.

A distinct, gnawing sensation popped up in his stomach. It wasn’t hunger; it was something that made him nervous. Like he was standing on the edge of a frozen pond, hearing the ice groan, and stepping out anyway because the guy in front of you said it was safe.

“So, Sigma Chi,” Evan said. “Is that the one with the—”

“Don’t worry about what it is,” Jake said over his shoulder. “Just follow my lead. And if a girl named Courtney talks to me, you are my childhood friend who plays linebacker. Got it?”

“I don’t play linebacker.”

“You do tonight.”

Evan sighed, the sound lost in the campus’s ambient noise. He touched the collar of the borrowed blue shirt; it felt scratchy against his neck.

He thought about his truck, parked alone in the overflow lot, its windows up, the cab baking in the heat, the toolbox in the back. Evan thought about the dirt under his fingernails that he had scrubbed until he almost bled, and how, even now, with his hands clean, he could still feel the grit.

He caught up with Jake.

“Linebacker,” Evan said. “Got it.”

Jake grinned, clapping him on the back.

“That’s the spirit. Welcome to the show, Miller.”

‘We’ll see,’ Evan thought.

◊◊◊

Chapter 2

Lena

The bass from the Sigma Chi living room hit Lena Rodriguez in the chest before she even cleared the entryway. It was a physical force, rattling her ribcage and vibrating the floorboards beneath her feet.

Lena adjusted her leather jacket, checking the zipper. It was too hot in there for leather, but the jacket was a look. It signaled that she wasn’t there to be sweet, and she certainly wasn’t there to hold anyone’s hair back later that night.

“Jesus,” Maddy yelled over the noise, her voice cracking. “It’s packed.”

Lena wasn’t looking at her friend; she was busy scanning the room. It was the first Friday night of the semester, and the room smelled like frat boys: cheap body spray and spilled beer.

“It’s a frat house, Maddison,” Lena said, though she knew Maddy couldn’t hear her. “Packed is the point.”

Lena moved forward, her eyes narrowing as she surveyed the terrain. The living room had been stripped of anything breakable. What remained were heavy, abused leather couches pushed against the walls, and a makeshift DJ booth on a folding table draped in a plastic tablecloth. The lighting was a seizure-inducing mix of strobes and red gels taped over the recessed can lights.

She took a step and felt resistance: her boot had stuck to the hardwood.

‘Great.’

She looked down and saw that the floor was glazed with a mixture of reduced sugar and alcohol. A crumpled red Solo cup lay flattened near her toe, a casualty of the stampede. Lena lifted her foot with a wet peeling sound and navigated around a puddle of mysterious brown liquid.

“I’m getting a drink!” Maddy shouted, pointing toward the kitchen where a dense knot of bodies suggested a keg.

Lena waved her off.

“Good luck with the livestock.”

Maddy disappeared into the crush. Lena drifted to the side, claiming a spot near a bookshelf that was tragically empty of books and currently holding a collection of empty cans. She leaned back, crossed her arms, and let her face settle into a bored expression.

This was her favorite part: the observation phase.

To her left, a group of guys in pastel polos were shouting at each other and high-fiving with forceful aggression. They looked like they were trust-fund jerks with poor impulse control. To her right, three girls in identical tube tops were taking a selfie, their lips puckered in synchronized duck faces. They were unaware that the guy behind them was pouring beer onto the floor just to see it splash.

It was a performance; everyone here was acting. The freshmen were pretending they weren’t terrified, and the seniors were feigning boredom. The guys were fantasizing about being alpha predators, and the girls were imagining they didn’t know they were being hunted.

Lena watched a guy in a backward hat try to lean casually against a wall, miss the stud, and stumble. He recovered quickly, looking around to see if anyone had noticed.

Lena caught his eye and raised an eyebrow.

He flushed red and turned away.

‘Too easy.’

She sighed, feeling the humidity of a hundred sweating bodies pressing against her skin. Lena needed amusement—real amusement, not just the schadenfreude of seeing newly minted college kids fail at social interaction.

She scanned the far side of the room.

That’s when the pattern broke.

Standing near the sliding glass door to the backyard, separated from the main herd by a few feet of buffer space, was a guy who didn’t fit.

He wasn’t shouting, wasn’t dancing, and wasn’t looking at his phone to avoid eye contact.

He was just standing there.

Lena straightened up, her interest piqued.

The guy was tall, broad-shouldered, taking up space without apologizing for it. He wore a blue Oxford shirt that looked crisp, almost too clean for this environment, but he hadn’t tucked it in; it hung over dark denim jeans.

But it was the boots that caught her eye.

They weren’t fashion boots, not the polished Timberlands the city kids wore to appear rugged. They were battered, dark leather work boots with thick soles, the kind of boots that had seen things nastier than a sticky fraternity floor.

He held a red cup in his right hand, but he wasn’t drinking from it. He held it loosely, like a tool he’d been handed and didn’t quite know where to store.

Lena watched him.

A girl with glitter on her cheeks bumped into him hard, spilling her drink down his arm.

Most guys in this room would have snapped or used it as an excuse to hit on her.

The guy didn’t flinch, just looked at his arm, then at the girl. He said something short, and the girl laughed, apologized, and stumbled away. He watched her go, his expression unreadable—not angry, not lecherous, just … perplexed.

The guy stood with his weight evenly distributed, his feet shoulder-width apart, looking like a security guard who hadn’t been hired yet.

‘Potentially safe,’ Lena thought. ‘Temporarily amusing.’

He wasn’t posturing; in a room full of peacocks, he was a rock. And Lena was currently adrift in a sea of noise; the idea of a rock was appealing.

She pushed off the bookshelf.

The journey across the room was a tactical operation. Usually, Lena moved fast, cutting through gaps before they closed. But this night, the density was too high, and she had to weave.

She sidestepped a guy gesticulating wildly with a slice of pizza. She ducked under the arm of a tall, basketball-player type who was using his wingspan to box out two shorter girls.

The music shifted, and a bass drop shook the windows, causing the crowd to surge.

An elbow dug into Lena’s ribs, so she planted her feet and shoved back with her shoulder, hard. The owner of the elbow, a lanky guy in a jersey, stumbled and looked at her.

“Watch it,” Lena said, though he couldn’t hear her—her eyes said it loud enough.

He backed off.

Lena kept moving, approaching the sliding door. The air there was slightly cooler, getting a draft from the backyard.

She stopped about three feet from the guy in the blue shirt.

Up close, he was bigger than he looked from across the room, solid, with short brown hair, no product. His jaw had a faint shadow, but it looked like he’d shaved in the last six hours. He was staring at the crowd, his brow furrowed slightly, as though he was trying to solve a math problem involving fluid dynamics.

He hadn't noticed her; he was watching a guy attempt to do a keg stand in the kitchen doorway.

Lena leaned in, pitching her voice to cut through the thumping beat.

“You look like you’re waiting for the fire marshal to shut this down.”

The guy blinked, turned his head, and looked down at her. His eyes were dark brown and serious. There was no flicker of recognition, no instant scan of her body; he just looked her in the face.

“I’m waiting for my hearing to clear up,” he said, his voice deep and level, a calm baritone in a room full of screeching tenors.

Lena smirked.

“Good luck. The tinnitus in forty years is part of the tuition.”

He looked back at the crowd. A group of girls shrieked with laughter nearby, the sound piercing, and he winced, just a fraction.

“I’ve never seen anything like this,” Evan said, sounding genuinely baffled. “How do people do it?”

He wasn’t trying to be cool or doing the brooding loner act; he was asking a logistical question.

Lena laughed, a sharp, short sound.

“Alcohol and lowered expectations,” Lena said. She stepped closer, invading his personal space just enough to be heard clearly without shouting. “Mostly the alcohol.”

He looked down at his own red cup. It was full.

“I think I’m doing it wrong,” he said.

“You’re holding it like a grenade,” Lena observed.

“Because it feels like one. I’m pretty sure that if I drink this, I won’t wake up for class on Monday.”

Lena glanced at the cup.

“Jungle juice? Yeah, that’s battery acid and Kool-Aid. Don’t drink it unless you want to text your ex-boyfriend at 3:00 a.m. Or girlfriend.”

“No girlfriend,” he said, simply and factually. “And I don’t text much.”

“Smart man.”

But that didn’t answer her question of whether or not he was gay.

She looked him over again. Up close, she saw the scar on his knuckle, saw that his hands were rough, the skin weathered. These hands built things—or broke things.

“So,” Lena said, “you’re obviously not from the suburbs; you stand too still.”

“I’m directly from a cornfield,” he said.

“A cornfield?”

“About three hours south, a place called Kettle Falls. Not a joke; that’s the name.”

“Figures,” Lena said. “I’m Lena. Chicago, North Side.”

“Evan,” he said. He shifted the cup to his left hand and extended his right.

Lena stared at the hand for a second. A handshake? At a frat party? It was so formally absurd she barely knew how to process it.

She took his hand; it engulfed hers. His grip was firm, dry, and calloused. He shook once, firmly, then released.

“Nice to meet you, Evan, from Kettle Falls.”

“Just Evan is fine.”

A guy wearing a backward hat stumbled past them, nearly clipping Evan’s shoulder. Evan didn’t move his feet; he simply shifted his weight, absorbing the impact without giving an inch. The stumbling guy bounced off him like he’d hit a support column.

“You’re an anchor,” Lena noted.

“I’m just standing here.”

“That’s what I mean. Everyone else is flailing,” she said, gesturing to the room. “This place is chaos. I’m surviving, somehow, but you seem to be enduring it.”

Evan rubbed his thumb over the scar on his knuckle. It was a nervous tic, she realized. He wasn’t as stoic as he looked; he was just holding it in better.

“My roommate told me I had to come, said it was critical for social integration.”

“Your roommate sounds like a business major,” Lena said.

“Pre-business, he was very specific.”

Lena rolled her eyes.

“Of course he is. Let me guess: he’s wearing boat shoes and talking about networking?”

“And he’s wearing a pink shirt and trying to find a girl named Courtney.”

Lena laughed again.

“God, they’re all clones. And you?”

“Agriculture,” he said. “Ag-Econ.”

“So, you count the corn.”

“I manage the systems that make the corn profitable. But, sure, I count the corn.”

He wasn’t offended, didn’t get defensive, or try to explain how complicated his major was. He simply owned it.

Something flickered in Lena’s chest—not attraction, exactly; not yet. But intrigue. He was solid, he was honest; in a room full of smoke and mirrors, he was a brick.

“You actually want to know?” Lena asked, sensing he was still analyzing the room.

He looked back at her. “Know what?”

“Why we do it. Why we stand in sticky rooms and drink poison and shout at each other.”

Evan nodded.

“Yeah. I actually do.”

There was no irony on his face; he treated her cynical deflection as a genuine offer of information.

“Because,” Lena said, leaning in closer, smelling soap and clean laundry on him, “nobody wants to be alone on a Friday. And if the music is loud enough, you don’t have to think about how much money you’re spending to be here.”

Evan processed this while looking out at the sweating, shouting mob.

“Seems expensive for noise,” he said.

“That’s the tagline for higher education, Evan.”

He looked at her then, really looked at her, and a slow smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. It wasn’t a dazzling, practiced grin; it was small and reluctant, like he didn’t want to give it away for free.

“You’re cynical,” he said.

“I’m observant.”

“You’re not pretending to be anyone,” Evan said. “That’s … different.”

The line hit her, and Lena blinked. She was pretending: pretending to be detached, cool, above it all; pretending she didn’t care that her boots were ruined. But he didn’t see the performance; he saw the person critiquing the performance.

“Careful,” Lena said, her voice dropping a register. “You start handing out compliments like that, people might think you have game.”

“I don’t even know what that means,” Evan said instantly.

“It means you’re doing better than the guy in the pink shirt.”

The music changed again, and a remix of a pop song that had been popular a few years ago started blaring. The crowd screamed the lyrics: “TONIGHT’S THE NIGHT”

Lena winced.

“Okay, my threshold for nostalgia is low. Can you move?”

Evan looked at his feet. They were planted.

“I can move.”

“Good, follow me, before someone vomits on those boots. They look like they actually work for a living.”

“They do,” Evan said, sounding defensive for the first time.

“I like them,” Lena said. “Come on.”

She turned and started cutting a path toward the corner of the room, near the hallway that led to the stairs. It was slightly less populated there, defended by a sunken couch that no one wanted to sit on because it looked like a petri dish.

She didn’t glance back to see if he was following. It was a test: if he were interested, he’d keep up; if he were trapped by inertia, he’d stay by the door.

She sensed his presence behind her. He moved differently from the others—he didn’t push; he simply occupied space so effectively that people moved around him. It was like walking in the wake of an icebreaker ship.

As they reached the corner, the volume dropped from ‘ear-bleeding’ to merely ‘deafening.’

Lena spun around and found he was right there. He hadn’t spilled a drop from his red cup.

“Better?” she asked.

Evan looked around.

“Fewer elbows. I’ll take it.”

He leaned against the wall, creating a little pocket of safety. He checked his watch—a plain, analog watch with a leather strap.

“Got a curfew, Prince Charming?” Lena teased.

“Just wondering how long these things usually last.”

“Until the cops come or the keg floats; usually around one.”

He looked horrified.

“It’s nine-thirty.”

“Welcome to college. You learn to pace yourself.”

Lena leaned against the wall next to him, shoulder to shoulder but not touching. She surveyed the room from this new angle. From this spot, they were observers together.

“So,” she said, “Chicago versus Kettle Falls. What’s been the biggest shock so far? Besides the jungle juice.”

Evan thought about it; he didn’t rush his answer to fill the silence.

“The noise,” he said finally. “Back home, when it’s night, it’s quiet; you hear crickets, maybe a coyote. Here … even the quiet parts are loud—the air conditioners, the cars, the plumbing.”

“City noise is reassuring,” Lena countered. “Silence is suspicious. If it’s quiet in Chicago, it means someone’s stealing your catalytic converter.”

Evan chuckled; it was a dry, rusty sound.

“I’ll keep that in mind. Is that where you learned to walk like that?”

“Walk like what?”

“Like you’re expecting someone to jump you.”

Lena stiffened slightly, then relaxed. He noticed.

“I walk like I have somewhere to be,” she corrected. “And, yes, it’s Chicago survival skill number one: look purposeful. Nobody bothers the girl who looks like she’s about to fire someone.”

“You look like you’re about to fire everyone,” Evan said.

Lena looked up at him. His face was deadpan, but his eyes were bright.

“I might spare you,” she said. “You’re entertaining.”

“I’m really not trying to be.”

“That’s why you are.”

A couple crashed into the wall three feet away, stumbling into a heavy make-out session. The guy had his hand in the girl’s back pocket. They were grinding against the plaster as if trying to start a friction fire.

Evan stared at them, then looked at Lena, seeming genuinely concerned.

“Is that … necessary?” he asked.

“It’s a mating ritual,” Lena whispered loudly. “Don’t make eye contact, or they’ll charge.”

Evan turned his back on the couple, facing Lena, effectively shielding her from the display. It was a subtle move—protective, but not possessive.

“So,” Evan said. “You’re studying … what? Law? You argue well.”

“Business,” Lena lied, and then she stopped. Why lie? This guy had told her that he counts corn. “Actually, political science, pre-law. So, good guess.”

“You like arguing.”

“I like winning; arguing is simply the process.”

“I can see that.”

“And you? You like … what? Dirt? Tractors?”

“I like things that make sense,” Evan said. “Crops grow if you treat them right. Machines work if you fix them. You put in the work, you get the result. It’s fair.”

“And people?”

“People are messy; they say one thing and do another.” He gestured with his cup toward the room. “They wear pink shirts because someone told them to.”

Lena looked at his blue shirt.

“You’re wearing a blue shirt,” she pointed out.

Evan looked down at it, thumbing the fabric.

“Jake’s. He said the flannel I was planning to wear was ‘social suicide.’”

Lena laughed, throwing her head back.

“Oh my God. He dressed you? Like a doll?”

“I prefer ‘camouflage.’”

“Well, the boots give you away, soldier. You’re undercover.”

“I refused to wear the boat shoes. There’s a line.”

“Good. Boat shoes are a crime against humanity unless you’re seventy.”

She looked at him, really looked at him. The jawline, the steady hands, the way he wasn’t looking at her chest even though her top was low-cut. He was looking at her eyes, listening to her.

Most guys there were waiting for their turn to speak, but Evan was waiting to understand.

It was disarming; it made her want to poke him again, just to see what happened.

“So, Evan,” she said, her voice dropping, becoming a little smoky. “Are you surviving the social integration? Or do you need a lifeline?”

He looked at her, confused by the shift in tone.

“I think talking to you counts as integration,” he said. “You’re the first person I’ve understood all night.”

“Don’t get used to it; I can be quite confusing when I want to be.”

“I doubt that. You seem pretty direct.”

“Direct is just a cover for being bitchy.”

“I haven’t seen that yet.”

“Give it time. The night is young.”

A guy with a tray of Jell-O shots squeezed past them. “Shots! Who wants shots?”

Lena shook her head. Evan looked at the gelatinous red cubes with suspicion.

“Is that food or drink?” Evan asked.

“Neither; it’s a mistake. Don’t do it.”

“Noted.”

The Jell-O guy moved on.

Lena shifted her weight, moving a half-step closer, now well inside his perimeter. He didn’t back up, just tilted his head down slightly to hear her better.

“You know,” Lena said, “for a guy who hates chaos, you’re handling this pretty well.”

“I’m focusing on one thing at a time,” Evan said. “Blocks out the rest.”

“What are you focusing on now?”

He paused, looked at the wall, then at the floor, and then at her.

“Trying to figure out why you’re talking to me,” he said. “You seem … out of my league, in a ‘city versus farm’ kind of way.”

His honesty hit her like a splash of cold water.

Lena stopped performing completely and dropped the smirk.

“You’re interesting, Evan. Everyone else here is a rerun, but you’re a new episode.”

He frowned, processing the metaphor.

“I’m novel.”

“Novelty is currency in a place like this.”

“I’ll take it.”

He smiled again, and this time it reached his eyes. It softened the harsh lines of his face. He looked younger, less burdened by the weight of the room.

Lena felt a distinct pull. It wasn’t just curiosity anymore—it was gravity.

She checked the room. Maddy was nowhere to be seen, likely making bad decisions near the keg. The pastel polos were getting louder, and the air was getting hotter.

But standing here, in the shadows, talking to a guy who treated a frat party like a crop failure, Lena felt grounded.

She made a decision.

She wasn’t going to leave him there to be eaten by the wolves. And she certainly wasn’t going to go back to Maddy and pretend to care about which guy had the best abs.

“Hey,” Lena said.

“Yeah?”

“You said your roommate is hunting for a Courtney?”

“Yeah.”

“That means you’re unsupervised.”

Evan rubbed his neck.

“I guess so. Until I have to carry him home.”

“Good.” Lena turned, presenting her shoulder to him, inviting him into her space. “Stick with me. I’ll teach you how to survive until one a.m. without drinking the jungle juice.”

Evan moved closer, stepping away from the wall, closing the gap between them. He didn’t touch her, but he aligned himself with her, making a united front against the chaos.

“I’d appreciate the guidance,” he said. “I’m out of my element.”

Lena looked up at him through her lashes.

‘He might actually be worth this,’ she thought.

“Don’t worry, farm boy,” Lena said. “I’ve got you.”

◊◊◊

Chapter 3

Evan

The bass resonated, which caused the floorboards of the fraternity house to vibrate with a rhythm that seemed less like music and more like a structural stress test. He adjusted his stance, planting his boots wider to maintain balance as a wave of bodies surged toward the kitchen.

“Coming through!” someone shouted, though they made no actual effort to move.

Evan pivoted, shielding his ribs with an elbow as a guy in a pastel polo slammed past him. Beer sloshed over the rim of the guy’s red cup, splashing onto Evan’s sleeve. He stared at the damp spot on the borrowed blue Oxford shirt. Jake was going to kill him or bill him; probably both.

Evan looked for an exit strategy. The sliding glass door was blocked by a wall of girls taking synchronized photos with flash, and the kitchen could only be described as a combat zone. The hallway to the bedrooms was dark and foreboding, currently guarded by a couple eating each other’s faces against the drywall.

Evan stayed put; it seemed to be the safest place.

He watched the room, which resembled a cattle auction, but with less order and more synthetic fabric. People shouted conversations at distances of six inches. A girl tripped over a rug, and three guys lunged to catch her, spilling more drinks in the process.

“You look like you’re waiting for a bus.”

Evan looked down at Lena; she looked entirely too calm for the chaos surrounding them.

“I’m waiting for the building to collapse,” Evan said, shouting to be heard over a song that was never meant to be played that loud. “The load-bearing walls are taking a beating.”

Lena laughed, a sharp, clear sound that cut through the bass.

“You’re serious,” she said, leaning in, her shoulder brushing his biceps. “You’re actually inspecting the architecture.”

“Someone has to.”

A guy with a backward hat stumbled backward, nearly colliding with Lena. Evan instinctively reached out, catching the guy by the shoulder and steadying him before he could crush her toes.

“Watch it,” Evan said.

The guy blinked, mumbled something that sounded like, “My bad, bro,” and drifted away.

Lena looked at Evan’s hand, then up at his face, and she stepped closer; the distance between them shrank to nothing. He could smell her now—something like vanilla and sharp citrus, distinct from the pervading locker-room humidity.

“Nice reflexes,” she said.

“Farm work,” Evan said. “Large animals are unpredictable. Drunk students are similar, but louder.”

Lena smiled, a slow expression that didn’t look like the fake smiles flashing for the cameras by the door. She reached out and touched his forearm, her fingers cool against his skin, resting right above his watch.

The contact was light, but it rippled through Evan all the way down to his boots, and he froze. In his experience, touch usually meant work—a hand on a shoulder to direct movement, a slap on the back for a job done. This was static; it was just … there.

“You’re tense,” Lena observed.

“I’m alert,” Evan corrected.

“Really?”

She squeezed his arm lightly. He looked at her hand, then back to her eyes; they were dark, intelligent, and currently amused.

“So,” Evan said, trying to redirect his brain from the sensation of her fingers. “You’re from Chicago. That’s near … uh … the Bean?”

He realized immediately how stupid that sounded. It was like asking someone from Egypt if they lived near the sparkly triangle.

“The Cloud Gate,” Lena corrected, her grin widening. “We call it the Bean if we’re tourists. But yes. I live near the big shiny legume.”

“Right, Cloud Gate; I knew that.”

He rubbed the back of his neck, feeling heat coming up his collar, having nothing to do with the room temperature.

“Sure you did, Evan. Don’t hurt yourself.”

“I don’t get out much,” Evan admitted. “My geography is mostly based on soil types.”

“Soil types,” Lena repeated as she stepped around a crushed beer can. “Okay, what’s the soil type in here?”

Evan looked at the carpet. It was sticky, gray, and had absorbed things that should never be in a carpet.

“Toxic hazard,” he said.

Lena laughed again. She kept her hand on his arm, using the contact to steer him.

“Come on. It’s too loud to talk about dirt around here.”

She turned, pulling him toward the hallway. The crowd was dense here, a bottleneck of people trying to get to the bathrooms or the bedrooms. A guy bumped Evan from behind, hard, and Evan stumbled forward, colliding with Lena’s back.

She didn’t flinch, just reached back, grabbed his hand, and pulled him through the gap. Her grip was firm.

They navigated the obstacle course. A girl was crying on a folding chair as her friends told her, “Brad is trash.” Someone had dropped a slice of pizza face-down in the middle of the corridor, and a hazard cone had been placed over it. Evan found that genuinely responsible, though he thought it would have been more effective if the cone were upright rather than lying on its side.

Lena stopped at a door near the end of the hall. She turned the knob, checking to see if it was locked; it wasn’t.

She pushed it open and pulled him inside.

The room was quieter, though the bass still thumped through the walls. It had a lofted bed, a desk buried under textbooks and protein powder tubs, and a futon that had seen better decades. A single poster of a bikini-clad woman washing a Porsche hung on the wall, peeling at the corners.

“Classy,” Lena said.

She let go of his hand and walked to the futon. She kicked a red Solo cup out of the way and sat down, patting the cushion beside her.

“Sit.”

Evan remained by the door, looking at the floor. There was a puddle of something near the closet that looked sticky.

“Is that safe?” Evan asked, pointing at the futon.

“Probably not, but c’mon, live a little.”

Evan walked over, checking his boots to make sure he wasn’t tracking mud onto the … well, the already ruined carpet. He sat down next to her, leaving a respectful foot of space between them.

The room seemed small, but without the distraction of three hundred other people, the focus narrowed aggressively. It was just him, Lena, and the Porsche girl on the wall.

Lena turned sideways, tucking one leg under her. She looked at him, scanning his face as if she were reading a menu.

“You’re different from the other guys here,” she said.

“I’m wearing boots,” Evan said, “and I don’t know who ‘Brad’ is.”

“Brad is irrelevant. I mean, you’re …” She waved a hand vaguely. “Solid; you stand still. Everyone else is twitching.”

“I like to know where I’m standing before I move.”

“And where are you standing now?”

Evan looked at her. The light in the room came from a desk lamp with a blue bulb, casting everything in cool, underwater tones. Lena’s eyes were dark, tracking him.

“I don’t know,” Evan said honestly. “I’m in a bedroom with a girl I just met, and I’m pretty sure my roommate is going to ask me for a rent payment on this shirt.”

Lena smirked and scooted closer; the foot of space vanished.

“Forget the shirt,” she said, “and forget the roommate.”

She reached out and touched his chest, her palm flat against the buttons of the Oxford.

“You’re breathing fast,” she noted.

“Adrenaline,” Evan said, “and … quiet.”

“Does the quiet make you nervous?”

“No, it just makes things loud.”

“What things?”