Chapter 8: Separate Trials

The elevator doors slid open onto the fourth floor, and Nathan—trapped in the lush, unfamiliar curves of Arabella Montclair—was shepherded down a plush-carpeted hallway by a chattering trio.

“God, Bella, we thought you’d never get here,” said the one with the high ponytail—Zoe, he’d gathered. “The fall rush events are already insane.”

“Totally,” agreed the brunette, Tori, scrolling through her phone. “You missed, like, three mixers.”

“And Leo Dempsey was asking about you,” added the third, a redhead named Sasha with a smirk. “Persistently.”

Nathan’s mind raced. He could only hum in vague acknowledgment, his focus entirely on not tripping over the delicate straps of Arabella’s sandals. The hallway seemed to stretch forever, a gauntlet of potted plants and abstract art. Finally, Zoe stopped before a door marked 412 and tapped a keycard. The lock chimed, and she pushed it open.

Arabella’s dorm room wasn’t a room; it was a studio apartment. A large window offered a view of Washington Square Park, and the space was decorated in tasteful, expensive neutrals. A king-sized bed dominated one area, opposite a sleek sitting nook and a kitchenette. Three massive closets lined one wall.

“Home sweet home, princess,” Tori said, flopping onto a cream-colored sofa. “Now, spill. What’s the first-night fit? We’re hitting up that new speakeasy under the bookstore at nine.”

Nathan stood frozen in the doorway, the enormity of the question paralyzing him. An outfit. He had to choose an outfit. From a woman’s closet. He stared at the closet doors as if they were the gates to a labyrinth.

“Bella?” Sasha prompted, her smile fading into curiosity. “You okay? You look… spacey.”

“Jet lag,” Nathan muttered, the excuse feeling thin. He walked toward the closets, his new hips swaying in a motion he still couldn’t control. He pulled open the first door.

It was a riot of color and fabric. Dresses in silks and satins, blouses with complicated draping, pants in cuts he didn’t have names for. The second closet held shoes—heels in every height and color, delicate flats, boots. The third was accessories: scarves, belts, handbags that looked like sculptures.

How does anyone decide? he thought, a cold sweat prickling under the bodysuit’s seamless neckline. The idea of putting on any of these complicated, constricting items made his skin crawl. He felt the weight of Arabella’s breasts, the strange, empty smoothness between his legs, and a wave of claustrophobic panic tightened his chest. He couldn’t do this. He needed coverage. He needed to hide.

“You want help?” Zoe offered, getting up and coming over. She sounded genuinely concerned now. “You’re just staring.”

Nathan ignored her. His eyes landed on a simple, long-sleeved gray shirt made of soft-looking cotton, hanging next to a pair of straight-leg, faded jeans. Normal. Loose. Safe. He grabbed them both, along with a pair of plain white socks from a drawer.

“Uh, where are you going with that?” Tori asked from the sofa, watching as Nathan turned and made a beeline for the single, blessedly private door that led to the ensuite bathroom.

Nathan paused, his hand on the knob. He hadn’t thought this through. Of course Arabella would change in front of her friends. They were women. It was normal.

“I, uh…” He scrambled, his voice pitched in Arabella’s soft, melodic tone. “I feel gross from the travel. Need a shower. Just gonna… freshen up and change in there.”

The three girls exchanged a long, loaded look. Sasha raised a perfectly sculpted eyebrow. Zoe’s lips pursed.

“Since when do you shower before we go out?” Tori asked, her tone light but probing. “You usually do your three-hour makeup ritual right at the vanity while we drink your champagne.”

Nathan’s mind blanked. “New semester, new habits?” he tried, forcing a weak, glittery smile that felt alien on his face. Without waiting for another question, he slipped into the bathroom and locked the door, leaning against it with a shuddering exhale.

On the other side, a beat of silence was followed by the muffled sound of whispers.

“What is up with her?”
“She didn’t even look at the Dior dress.”
“And she took the laundry-day jeans.”
“So weird.”

***

Across campus, in the gleaming, echoing cavern of the Tisch Gymnasium, Luke Copeland was having a problem of his own.

The problem was approximately four inches of shiny, spandex-covered inseam.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” he muttered under his breath, plucking at the hem of the crimson basketball shorts he’d found in Allison Reed’s gym bag. He’d changed in a stall in the women’s locker room, a surreal and nerve-wracking experience filled with the sounds of chatter and hair dryers. The shorts felt absurd. They were practically underwear. Every movement threatened to expose more of the prosthetic thighs that were now his.

“Ally! Over here!”

Luke looked up. Two women were waving from the edge of Court Two. One was tall and muscular with a severe blonde bob—Maya. The other was shorter, with dark curls and a friendly, skeptical smile—Chloe. He’d been briefed on their names and faces, but nothing else.

He jogged over, instantly disliking the unfamiliar, bouncy feel of Allison’s chest. “Hey,” he said, aiming for Allison’s supposed cheerful, sporty vibe.

“Welcome back, stranger,” Maya said, dribbling a ball between her legs with practiced ease. “How was Rockland County? All fresh air and apple picking with the fam?”

The question was a trapdoor. Luke knew nothing about Allison’s family vacation, let about Rockland County. He grinned, a reflexive mask. “Oh, you know. Quiet. Good to get away.” As he spoke, his mind briefly flashed to his own family—the cold silences of his parents’ divorce, the tense dinners with his father Marcus and uncle Kevin, the feeling of being a pawn in a long, unspoken war. A flicker of real sadness, sharp and surprising, cut through him.

But it vanished as quickly as it came, burned away by the overwhelming sensory input of the gym. Women were everywhere—running drills, stretching, laughing. And they were all, from his current eye-level down, clad in variations of the same tiny shorts and tight tops. His gaze, entirely on instinct, snagged on the curve of a passing player’s backside, the way the spandex stretched and moved.

“Ally.”
Chloe’s voice was amused but pointed. He snapped his eyes back to her. She had her arms crossed, that skeptical smile still in place.

“You checking me out?” she asked, nodding down at her own athletic shorts.

Shit. Caught. Luke’s brain shifted into high gear. He let out a low, easy laugh, the one he used to defuse his father’s temper. “What can I say, Chlo? There were, like, zero girls where I was. Just trees and my weird uncle Bud.” He shook his head, playing up the bumpkin act. “Guess I’m just happy to see my friends again. You look… fit.”

Maya snorted. “You’re such a dork, Reed. Come on, fit or not, you’re running suicides for being late. Coach’s orders.”

Luke nodded, the immediate crisis averted. As he followed Maya to the baseline, his eyes swept the court again, the visual thrill momentarily overriding both his irritation with the shorts and the ghost of his family memories. This was going to be a very distracting assignment.