Under The Umbrella
Author: God's Princess
Chapter Twelve: Books & Sanity
8:04am. Orwell walked into Dr. Adekunle’s office. The door closed behind him with a soft click. AC hummed low, fighting the heat already pressing against the windows.
8:05am. He sat. Back straight against the hard wooden chair. Hands on his knees. Palms flat. Not fidgeting. Not tapping. Still.
8:06am. Dr. Adekunle pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose. Studied him. Like he was a case study that wouldn’t behave.
8:07am. “Ferguson.”
8:08am. “Sir.”
8:09am. Adekunle’s finger tapped once on a sheet of paper. Glossy. Printed. The photo from Mitchell. 4:59pm. Orwell in the rain. Josie walking away under his umbrella. His phone in her hand.
8:10am. He didn’t raise his voice. Didn’t lean forward.
8:11am. Orwell was the Course Rep. 4.9 CGPA. The department’s poster boy. The one who ran free tutorials for half of 300-level and still had time to win codeathons.
8:12am. You don’t scold Orwell Ferguson. You don’t dare. You manage him.
8:13am. “Josie Adebayo will have to get a new tutor,” Adekunle said. Voice even. “Effective immediately.”
8:14am. Quiet. The AC filled it.
8:15am. Orwell blinked. Once. Slow.
8:16am. That was it.
8:17am. No jaw clench. No flinch. No argument.
8:18am. Just: “Noted, sir.”
8:19am. Adekunle frowned. He’d braced for logic. For a cold breakdown of why this was inefficient. He got nothing.
8:20am. Orwell stood. Chair didn’t scrape. “Anything else, sir?”
8:21am. “No. Dismissed.”
8:22am. Orwell left. Door clicked shut behind him. No harder than usual.
---
9:10am. Orwell walked into his compound. The small green gate was already open. Hinges oiled. Silent.
9:11am. The compound was pretty. Obscenely so. Whitewashed walls, bougainvillea spilling over in hot pink, trimmed grass that looked cut with scissors. For a student house, it was ridiculous. Quiet. Controlled. His.
9:12am. He walked into his living room. Floor-to-ceiling windows. Bookshelves. No TV. Laptop closed on the coffee table, pushed to the corner. Josie’s phone lay face-up in his palm.
9:13am. He pressed the power button. Screen lit up. No password. No pattern. Just her wallpaper — a photo of a dog wearing glasses.
9:14am. Thumb moved. Quick. _Come. Now. My place._
9:15am. Send.
9:16am. He set the phone down next to his own. Two black rectangles. One cracked. One clean.
9:17am. Bottom drawer of the coffee table. Key turned.
9:18am. He pulled out a brown envelope. No name. No writing. Thick enough that the paper strained.
9:19am. Dropped it dead center on the glass table. It landed with a soft, weighty _thud_.
9:20am. He didn’t look at it again.
9:21am. From the kitchen, the clink of a kettle. Madam Bi. Humming something Yoruba. Old. The smell of Lipton and ginger hit the air.
9:22am. Orwell was in morning clothes. Black shirt, sleeves pushed up. Grey joggers. Bare feet. Hair a mess, sticking up at the back like he’d run his hand through it too many times and given up.
9:23am. Orwell-ish. Wrecked but deliberate. Like he’d rolled out of bed and into a war room.
---
10:02am. Josie walked up to his gate. Three knocks. Soft. Hesitant.
10:03am. Orwell opened it. He was holding a mug. Steam curling.
10:04am. Josie stood there. White shirt tucked into black trousers. Hair pulled back. No bag on her shoulder. No books.
10:05am. No classes for the day. She’d checked twice.
10:06am. Her eyes had shadows under them. But they were sharp. Watching.
10:07am. “You summoned me,” she said. Not a question.
10:08am. He stepped aside. Didn’t answer. Just: “Inside.”
---
10:10am. Josie walked into his living room. The room smelled like tea and old paper. Sunlight cut across the tile. Too clean. Too calm.
10:11am. Her eyes went to the glass table first. Always did.
10:12am. Center of the glass. Brown envelope. Thick. One corner had bent upward, showing the edge of a banded stack.
10:13am. Naira. New notes. Clean. Purple and green.
10:14am. Her stomach did something stupid. Dropped, then clenched.
10:15am. Embarrassment came first. Hot. Crawling up her neck.
10:16am. Then anger. Sharp. _Who does he think I am?_
10:17am. She shoved both down. Locked her jaw.
10:18am. Tilted her head. Smirked. “Wow. Trying to pay me for my company, Ferguson? Didn’t know you were that desperate.”
10:19am. Voice light. Teasing. Weaponized.
10:20am. Her ears were burning. She hoped her hair covered them.
10:21am. Orwell didn’t glance at the envelope. Didn’t shift. He took a sip of tea.
10:22am. “No,” he said.
10:23am. Flat. Bored. Like she’d asked if the sky was blue.
10:24am. He set the mug down. “That is reimbursement. Transport. From Moremi to here. Last three weeks.”
10:25am. Pause. He counted it. One second. Two.
10:26am. “You’ve been paying to come here. Inefficient. It stops.”
10:27am. No softness. No _I care_. Just fact.
10:28am. Like he was telling her the Wi-Fi password.
10:29am. Josie stared at him.
10:30am. Then at the envelope. Then back at him.
10:31am. The air felt heavier.
10:32am. “You… counted?” Her voice was quieter now.
10:33am. “I estimated,” he said. “Bike fare average. Two trips per visit. Eight visits. Adjusted for current fuel prices. Rounded up.”
10:34am. Josie’s mouth opened.
10:35am. No sound came out.
10:36am. “You’re insane,” she managed.
10:37am. “Incorrect,” Orwell said. “I’m accurate.”
10:38am. A laugh punched out of her. Surprised her. Sharp and real.
10:39am. The embarrassment cracked down the middle.
10:40am. He wasn’t buying her. Wasn’t testing her.
10:41am. He was clearing a line item.
10:42am. Because Orwell Ferguson didn’t carry debt.
10:43am. Not in favors. Not in cash. Not in bike fare and risk and late nights.
10:44am. To him, that stack was nothing.
10:45am. It was a pen. Lent to a friend. Returned.
10:46am. He picked up his mug again. “Take it. Or don’t. I don’t care.”
10:47am. From the kitchen, Madam Bi’s voice: “Oga, tea don ready o.”
10:48am. Orwell didn’t turn. Just said, “Josie. Kitchen. Tea.”
10:49am. Not a request.
10:50am. Josie blinked. Then followed.
---
10:51am. Josie walked into the kitchen. Madam Bi was there already. Older. Wrapper tied high. Smiling like she’d been expecting company.
10:52am. “Ah, welcome o,” Madam Bi said. “Oga say make I bring tea.”
10:53am. Two mugs on the table. Steaming. Ginger thick in the air. A plate of bread and fried eggs sat between them.
10:54am. Josie slid into a chair. Orwell didn’t. He leaned against the counter, mug in hand. Didn’t touch the food.
10:55am. “You’re not eating?” she asked.
10:56am. “No,” Orwell said. “I eat out. Every morning.”
10:57am. “Where?”
10:58am. He jerked his chin toward the door on the far side of the kitchen. Glass. Slide-open. “There.”
10:59am. Josie stood. Walked to it. Slid it open.
11:00am. A balcony. Small. Iron railings. Beyond it, a backyard garden. Neat rows. Green. Lush. Tomatoes. Peppers. Scent leaf. Ugu.
11:01am. Her mouth opened. “You… grow vegetables?”
11:02am. Orwell took a sip. “Yes.”
11:03am. Flat. Like she’d asked if water was wet.
11:04am. “Since when do you garden, Ferguson?”
11:05am. “Since I got tired of buying poison,” he said. He chuckled lightly. Once. Barely a sound. “Come.”
11:06am. He stepped onto the balcony. Josie followed.
11:07am. Morning sun. Bright, but not harsh. The air had a chill to it, left over from last night’s rain, though the sky was clear now. No clouds. Just blue. The kind of weather that made you roll your sleeves up and breathe deeper. The garden smelled wet. Earthy. Green turned up to max.
11:08am. The compound wall was high. Private. The garden looked tended by hand. No weeds. Every line of ugu, every tomato stake, precise. Like code.
11:09am. Josie remembered. Back at school, after the rain. He’d stopped mid-sentence near the staff quarters. Inhaled. “Freshly cut scent leaf,” he’d said. She’d thought he was weird. Then there was the library. He’d walked past her seat by the window, paused, and said, “Your spot smells like freshly cut grass.” No context. Just that. Now it clicked. Of course he had a garden. So she wasn’t shocked. Just… settled.
11:10am. Orwell set his mug on the railing. Looked at her.
11:11am. “I’m not your tutor anymore,” he said.
11:12am. Josie blinked.
11:13am. “Dr. Adekunle. This morning. Effective immediately.”
11:14am. Quiet. Just birds. And the faint drip of water from the leaves.
11:15am. “Because of Mitchell,” he added. “She sent an email. With photos. You and me. Under the umbrella.”
11:16am. Josie exhaled. Slow. “That idiot.”
11:17am. Orwell watched her. “I don’t think it’s possible for you to get better grades with me as your tutor. Too much distraction.”
11:18am. Flat. Clinical. Like he was reading a lab result.
11:19am. Josie didn’t flinch. Didn’t gasp. She was used to him now. Used to words that landed like bricks.
11:20am. Instead, she stared at his ugu leaves. Then laughed. Short. Bitter. “Mitchell. God. She’s so stupid. And so... vulnerable.”
11:21am. Orwell tilted his head. “Vulnerable?”
11:22am. “She wants to matter,” she said. “To you. To me. To anyone. So she throws stones.”
11:23am. Orwell said nothing. Picked up his mug again.
11:24am. Josie turned to him. Leaned on the railing. “Why do you do that?”
11:25am. “Do what.”
11:26am. “Box away your emotions. Like everything’s a file you can zip and store.”
11:27am. Orwell looked out at the garden. “Incorrect,” he said.
11:28am. “Then what is it?”
11:29am. He was quiet for three seconds. “It’s putting a rein on it.”
11:30am. She frowned. “A rein?”
11:31am. “Yes,” Orwell said. “Some emotions can be dangerous when not tamed.”
11:32am. The wind moved the scent leaf. Cool against her arms.
11:33am. Josie stepped closer. “Like what?”
11:34am. Her voice was lower now. Careful. Keen. She’d seen it before. The flickers. The second his jaw tightened when she was upset. The way his hand hovered near hers before he pulled back.
11:35am. She wanted it. The peek. The crack. The real thing.
11:36am. Orwell met her eyes.
11:37am. Then he did it. The deep scan stare. Eyes steady. Unblinking. Reading her. Every micro-expression. Every breath. Like she was a system error he was debugging in real time.
11:38am. It worked. Heat crawled up her neck. Her palms went damp. She felt ruffled. Uneasy. Seen too much.
11:39am. Then his hand moved.
11:40am. He reached out. Rubbed the top of her head once. Firm. Brief. Like she was a good dog that had finally sat on command.
11:41am. Josie froze.
11:42am. The gesture hit her before the logic did. His arm above her. The span of his shadow. The way she had to tilt her chin up to hold his stare. The towering difference in height between them slammed into her all at once. He was tall. She knew that. But _this_ tall?
11:43am. He dropped his hand.
11:44am. Turned. Walked back into the kitchen without a word. Mug in hand.
11:45am. Left her there on the balcony. With the sun, the chill, the green, and her pulse doing something stupid in her throat.
---
11:46am. She didn’t stay out there. The quiet was too loud. She slid the glass door open and stepped back into the kitchen.
11:47am. Orwell was at the sink. Rinsing his mug. Back to her. Madam Bi was gone. The room smelled like ginger and fried eggs and something cleaner. Like him.
11:48am. He set the mug on the rack. Turned. “Do you like shopping?”
11:49am. Josie blinked. Of all the things. Shopping? Her brain jumped to Tejuosho. Crowds. Heat. Women shouting prices over stacks of lace. Or maybe Mile 12, elbows deep in a basin, arguing over a tuber of yam. Garri by the paint bucket. That kind of shopping.
11:50am. It was such an odd question from him. From the man who wore the same three black shirts and thought emotions needed a leash.
11:51am. But his face didn’t shift. No smirk. No tell. Just that same level stare. Waiting. Patient. Like he’d asked her to solve for x.
11:52am. She nodded once. Short. “Yes.”
11:53am. He didn’t respond. Just walked past her. Toward the stairs. Two at a time. Gone.
11:54am. Josie exhaled. Looked around. The kitchen felt bigger without him in it.
11:55am. She drifted back to the glass door. Pushed it open again. The garden pulled her. Up close, the leaves were glossy. The soil dark and loose. Everything in rows, exact, like someone measured with a ruler.
11:56am. “He does it himself,” Madam Bi said behind her.
11:57am. Josie turned. The older woman was by the counter, wiping a plate.
11:58am. “The garden,” Madam Bi added. “No gardener. Na him hand.”
11:59am. Josie leaned on the frame. “His parents… were they like that too?”
12:00pm. Madam Bi paused. Cloth still in hand. “His father?” She smiled, small. “Ah. Oga Joseph. He was big man. Oil and gas. Port Harcourt, Lagos, London. Very strict. But kind. And big pastor too. People know am for pulpit.”
12:01pm. “And his mother?”
12:02pm. “Mrs. Agnes. Lawyer. Sharp mouth. Fine woman.” Madam Bi’s eyes softened. “They died. Ten years now.”
12:03pm. Josie straightened. “How?”
12:04pm. Madam Bi shook her head. Pressed her lips. “That one no be my story to tell.”
12:05pm. Silence. Then Madam Bi sighed. “But I go tell you this. Oga Orwell… he no be this person before.”
12:06pm. Josie frowned. “What do you mean?”
12:07pm. “He no know God before,” Madam Bi said simply. “He sabi book. Sabi argue. Sabi vex. But God? No.” She pointed up. “Na after papa and mama go, he come begin find am.”
12:08pm. Josie opened her mouth.
12:09pm. “You done, Madam Bi?”
12:10pm. Both of them jumped.
12:11am. Orwell. At the kitchen door. Leaning on the frame. Arms crossed. How long had he been there?
12:12pm. Josie’s cheeks went hot. Caught. Again.
12:13pm. Madam Bi dropped the plate. “Ah. Oga. I dey go check the chicken.” She vanished down the hall. Fast for her age.
12:14pm. It was just them now.
12:15pm. Josie looked at him. Really looked.
12:16pm. He wasn’t in his usual worn jeans and faded shirt. No. Dark trousers. Crisp white button-down, sleeves rolled to the elbow. Leather strap watch. Clean boots. He looked… expensive. Put together. Like money. Like the son of Oga Joseph she’d just heard about.
12:17pm. Her gaze snagged on his collar. On the way the shirt sat on his shoulders.
12:18pm. His eyebrow lifted. “See something you like?”
12:19pm. Heat shot up her neck. She’d been staring. And he knew.
12:20pm. “I—” She swallowed. “You changed.”
12:21pm. “I do that,” he said. Flat. Then, after a beat, “Car’s outside. If you’re done admiring the ugu.”
12:22pm. Josie’s mouth fell open. Stupid. Deliberate. Designed to knock her off balance.
12:23pm. It worked. She was flustered. Again.
12:24pm. He turned. Walked toward the front door. Didn’t look back.
12:25pm. Josie stood there. Heart thudding. Then she followed.
---
12:26pm. The car was cold. Quiet. Except for the AC and the low hum of the engine.
12:27pm. Orwell drove. Two hands on the wheel. Eyes on the road. Keen. Like the white lines personally offended him.
12:28pm. Josie sat shotgun. Bag in her lap. The silence pressed in. So she thought.
12:29pm. Madam Bi’s words looped. _He no know God before. Na after papa and mama go, he come begin find am._
12:30pm. Ten years. That’s how long they’d been gone.
12:31pm. But he’d been having nightmares since he was sixteen. She’d counted. He was twenty-one now. She remembered it from his profile at the student affairs office when she searched it out.
12:32pm. Ten years.
12:33pm. The math didn’t sit right in her chest.
12:34pm. She looked out the window. Frowned. This wasn’t the way to Tejuosho. No honking danfos. No stalls spilling into the road. Just clean streets. Quiet. Too quiet.
12:35pm. “This isn’t—” she started. “We’re not going to Tejuosho?”
12:36pm. No answer. His jaw didn’t even twitch.
12:37pm. Typical.
12:38pm. The car slowed. Turned. Pulled into a small lot.
12:39pm. Josie read the sign above the glass front. _Covenant Pages_. A bookstore. All wood and warm light inside.
12:40pm. Of course. Shopping. Books. Not yams. Orwell.
12:41pm. But then… why the fitted shirt? The watch? The boots that probably cost more than her semester fees?
12:42pm. He killed the engine. Unbuckled. “Come.”
12:43pm. She followed him in. Bell chimed. The air smelled like paper and coffee.
12:44pm. A guy at the counter looked up. Straightened. “Boss. Good afternoon, sir.”
12:45pm. Josie froze. Boss?
12:46pm. Another staff, a woman arranging a shelf, turned. “Welcome, Oga Orwell.”
12:47pm. He owned it. He owned a bookstore.
12:48pm. Josie’s head spun. Her palms went damp. This felt like something from one of Cassie’s K-dramas. Where the cold male lead is secretly a CEO.
12:49pm. She was not breathing right.
12:50pm. Orwell walked to the Engineering section. Didn’t browse. He pulled titles. _Thermodynamics for Beginners. Vector Mechanics. Advanced Calculus Simplified._ Stacked them in her arms.
12:51pm. “If I’m not tutoring you anymore,” he said, voice low, even. “Least I can do is make sure your grades don’t insult me.”
12:52pm. Not mechanical. Not quite. There was something under it. A thread of… something.
12:53pm. For a second, she saw it. The thing he kept buried. Care. Worry. Maybe. Then it was gone. Face blank again.
12:54pm. Josie hugged the books. Heavy. “I… I don’t know how to thank you.”
12:55pm. He didn’t look at her. Just kept pulling books. Adding to her stack.
12:56pm. Who was he? Rich boy. Bookstore owner. Pastor’s son. Man with nightmares older than his grief.
12:57pm. They reached the counter. She set the tower down. The cashier smiled at her. Then at him. “Same account, sir?”
12:58pm. He nodded once.
12:59pm. Josie’s mouth was dry. Flustered didn’t cover it. Bewildered. Off-kilter.
1:00pm. Then, casual. Like he was commenting on the weather. “You hungry? Let’s get lunch.”
1:01pm. The floor tilted.
1:02pm. Lunch? With him? After _this_?
1:03pm. Josie gripped the counter. Pretty sure her soul left her body.
---
1:04pm. Lunch.
1:05pm. The word rang in her ears. Did he dress up for this? The fitted shirt. The watch. Was all of it… for her?
1:06pm. Her stomach did something embarrassing.
1:07pm. “Where to?” she asked, quiet.
1:08pm. He was already walking out. “Home.”
1:09pm. Home.
1:10pm. Josie stopped by the counter. The stack of books felt heavier.
1:11pm. Not a restaurant. Not a date. His place. Again.
1:12pm. Frustration pricked at her. Hot and sharp. Why did he do this? Build it up, then pull it sideways.
1:13pm. She followed him to the car anyway.
1:14pm. The drive back was worse than the drive there.
1:15pm. No music. No words. Just him, focused on the road. And her, focused on not looking at him.
1:16pm. The fitted shirt still sat wrong in her head. Too intentional. Too clean.
1:17pm. She studied the side of his face. Jaw set. Calm. Like he hadn’t just bought her a small library and asked her to lunch like it was nothing.
1:18pm. Josie pressed her lips together. Whatever this was, she couldn’t read it.
1:19pm. The gate beeped. Rolled open.
1:20pm. Home. Again.
1:21pm. Back in his kitchen.
1:22pm. And he was cooking. Casually. Sleeves still rolled. Onion on the board. Knife moving, precise. Like he hadn’t just upended her whole afternoon.
1:23pm. Josie stood by the island. Arms crossed. What was different from the other times? She’d been here before. He’d made tea. They’d argued. He’d rubbed her head.
1:24pm. This felt… heavier.
1:25pm. “You’ve been off your meds,” he said. Didn’t look up from the chopping.
1:26pm. Josie stilled.
1:27pm. “Three weeks,” he added. “And you haven’t crashed.”
1:28pm. Her throat closed. He knew. Of course he knew.
1:29pm. “How—” Her voice cracked. “How do you know that?”
1:30pm. But she did know. Heat crawled up her face. He saw. Those nights. When she couldn’t sleep. When the anxiety clawed. He’d been there. In the room. Watching. Noting.
1:31pm. “Drink,” he said, nodding to the glass on the counter. Water. Clear. Beads of cold on the outside.
1:32pm. She picked it up. Hands unsteady. Took a sip. Then another.
1:33pm. And it hit her.
1:34pm. She set the glass down. Hard. “Did you… did you put something in my water?”
1:35pm. He actually laughed. Short. Quiet. Orwell-ish. More breath than sound.
1:36pm. “It is the water,” he said. Finally looked at her. Eyes steady. “But not the bottled kind I give you.”
1:37pm. Josie frowned. “What?”
1:38pm. “Living water.” He went back to the onions. “Your soul’s refreshed when you’re with me. So your body follows.”
1:39pm. The words landed. Low. Direct.
1:40pm. Heat slammed into her cheeks. Her ears. Her whole face.
1:41pm. He thought— he believed—
1:42pm. “Don’t,” he cut in. Voice flat. “It’s not me.”
1:43pm. Josie blinked.
1:44pm. He scraped the onions into the pan. They sizzled. “It’s God.”
1:45pm. The kitchen was suddenly too quiet.
1:46pm. Josie stared at him. At the line of his shoulders. At the way he didn’t look embarrassed saying it. Like it was fact. Like gravity.
1:47pm. Her blush didn’t fade. It deepened.
1:48pm. And for once, she had no idea what to say.
---
1:49pm. The quiet rang in her ears.
1:50pm. _It’s God._
1:51pm. Josie’s thoughts tangled. Was he saying… if she wanted to feel better, she had to stay with him? Was that what this was?
1:52pm. “No,” he said.
1:53pm. Josie jerked. He hadn’t looked up from the pan.
1:54pm. “I didn’t ask,” she whispered.
1:55pm. “You were thinking loud.” He stirred the onions. “And the answer’s no. You don’t stay with me to get well. You stay with God.”
1:56pm. Her heart kicked. Spooked. How did he—
1:57pm. Her mind was a mess. Living water. That meant he was only close to her to pull her to God. No ulterior motives. Clean. Holy.
1:58pm. But the shirt. The watch. The boots. The way he looked at her when he thought she wasn’t looking. That said something else. Something more.
1:59pm. She couldn’t hold both ideas at once.
2:00pm. A plate slid in front of her. Rice. Stew. Fried plantain. Two pieces of chicken.
2:01pm. Orwell set a fork down. Then leaned back against the counter. Arms crossed. Watching.
2:02pm. Again.
2:03pm. Typical.
2:04pm. Josie didn’t move. The food smelled good. But her throat was tight.
2:05pm. “You need to put a rein on your emotional outbursts,” he said. Casual. Like he was talking about the weather. “There’s always red spilling here and there. Like you’re a tomato.”
2:06pm. Josie’s head snapped up.
2:07pm. His face was blank. But his eyes… there was a flicker. Amusement. Orwell-ish. Dry and deliberate.
2:08pm. She was not about to give him the satisfaction.
2:09pm. She picked up the fork. Stabbed a piece of plantain. Shoved it in her mouth. Chewed.
2:10pm. Pretended the food was the most interesting thing in the world.
2:11pm. He didn’t say anything else. Just watched.
2:18pm. Plate empty. She set the fork down. Didn’t meet his eyes.
2:19pm. Outside, the sky cracked open. Rain. Sudden. Heavy. Drumming the windows.
2:20pm. Dramatic. Of course.
2:31pm. They were in the car.
2:42pm. He pulled up at her dorm. Rain still pouring.
2:43pm. He reached behind his seat. Pulled out an umbrella. Black. Big. New.
2:44pm. Again.
2:45pm. She took it. Fingers brushing his. She didn’t flinch this time.
2:46pm. “Hydrate,” he said. “I’m off to work.”
2:47pm. “Work?”
2:48pm. “The bookstore.” He didn’t elaborate.
2:49pm. Josie opened the door. Rain hit the umbrella with a roar.
2:50pm. She paused. Looked back. “Orwell.”
2:51pm. He waited.
2:52pm. She didn’t know what to say. So she nodded once. And ran into the building.
3:10pm. Dorm.
3:11pm. She was soaked from the knees down.
3:12pm. She opened her closet.
3:13pm. Three umbrellas. All black. All his.
3:14pm. She slid the new one in with the rest. Lined them up. Neat.
3:15pm. Her doubts were gone. Bookstore. God. Fancy clothes. Living water.
3:16pm. It wasn’t either-or.
3:17pm. It was both.
3:18pm. And she smiled at them. At the umbrellas. At the mess in her chest.
3:19pm. At him.
Cassie was leaning on her doorframe. Arms crossed. Eyebrow up.
3:47pm. “Another one?” She nodded at the umbrella in Josie’s hand. Then at the stack of books crushing her chest. “Let me guess. _Oga Orwell_?”
3:48pm. Josie flushed. Shifted the books. “Shut up.”
3:49pm. Cassie grinned. Pushed off the frame. Fell into step beside her. “He buys you books, feeds you, sends you off with an umbrella like you’re his pet. Or little sister.”
3:50pm. The words landed. Hard. Like a slap she didn’t see coming.
3:51pm. Pet. Little sister.
3:52pm. Josie’s stomach dropped.
3:53pm. Cassie kept talking, but Josie didn’t hear. Was that it? Was that all she was to him? A project. A charity case. A kid sister to babysit?
3:54pm. She fumbled with her key. Got the door open.
3:55pm. “You okay?” Cassie’s teasing softened. “I was joking, Jo.”
3:56pm. “I’m fine.” Josie dumped the books on her desk. The umbrella went into the closet. Click.
3:57pm. Cassie lingered. “You like him.”
3:58pm. “I don’t.” Too fast. Too sharp.
3:59pm. Cassie’s smile was knowing. “Okay.” She left.
4:00pm. Josie sat on her bed. Stared at the books. _Thermodynamics for Beginners._ His fingerprints were probably on it.
4:01pm. She pushed the thought out. She didn’t need to care this much. She didn’t.
4:02pm. But then she did.
4:03pm. Then she didn’t.
4:04pm. Back and forth. Who he was. What they weren’t. What Cassie said. What he said. _It’s God._
4:05pm. It was exhausting.
---
Friday. 9:17pm.
9:18pm. Phone rang. Dad.
9:19pm. “Josie. How’s Wellington?” His voice. Steady. Expectant.
9:20pm. “Good. Fine.”
9:21pm. “Your grades better be good. We didn’t send you there to play. You remember why you’re there, eh?”
9:22pm. The mission. Engineering. First class. Prove herself. Make them proud. Get out. Get a life.
9:23pm. “I remember, Dad.”
9:24pm. “Good. Focus.” Click.
9:25pm. Josie set the phone down. Hands cold.
9:26pm. Right. Focus.
9:27pm. She grabbed _Vector Mechanics._ Flipped it open.
9:28pm. Study. Books. Equations. That’s what mattered.
9:29pm. Not noodles. Not the auditorium. Not the way he said _Living water_.
9:30pm. Not him.
9:31pm. She underlined a formula. Hard.
9:32pm. But the page smelled like paper and coffee. Like _Covenant Pages_.
9:33pm. Like him.
9:34pm. His essence was pressed into the textbooks. Into the margins. Into her head.
9:35pm. She slammed the book shut.
9:36pm. Better grades? Ensured. He made sure of that.
9:37pm. Sanity?
9:38pm. Josie buried her face in her pillow and laughed. Unhinged. Tired.
9:39pm. Not sure at all.
▪︎▪︎▪︎
