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of the window sounded like nails on a chalkboard.

Absolutely agonizing.

I increased my headphones' volume until my skull rattled with Bon Iver's voice, then smeared my white-covered palette knife into the cerulean blue, mixing until the colors were evenly blended. I brought my coated brush to the canvas and didn't think twice before dragging it over the bare cotton.

I loved the way the bristles sounded on the fabric—a soft scratching. If you listened close enough, it sounded like static. Like a radio that never found a channel to settle on. Most of the time, I painted in silence so I could listen to the cracking. But today, I didn't have the luxury.

The art building—which I practically lived in—was beside the baseball field. Because I volunteered to clean the studio on Fridays for the use of their art supplies, I was graced with an evening baseball game. It might have annoyed me, but at least I didn't have to pay for tickets.

Brushing stray hairs from my face with the back of my hand, I dipped my brush in the paint again.

The stadium lights beamed into the studio, casting dilapidated shadows on the walls as the announcer called over the speaker, "And his foot reaches home base!"

Cheers erupted from the bleachers.

Turning my attention at the field where the boys stood, I wondered if they could see me sitting here, alone. The window towered from the floor to the ceiling. It was built to give art majors the best lighting possible in the day. But at night, it was like a magnifying glass, and whoever sat inside was put on display like an animal.

After steadily painting a nose, I stepped back to look at the painting as a whole. Painting portraits was not my forte, but this project was worth a large portion of my grade and I couldn't fail or else I wouldn't pass this studio class. Nobody graded harsher than art teachers, especially here at Trembullen University.

My music quieted when a text illuminated my phone—

My best friend asked. I set my paintbrush down to reply.

The chanting grew louder, despite having my music up the entire way.

I sent the message, then resumed painting.

I didn't have any intentions of going to the party, despite Reva practically begging on her knees earlier. While I was fine with staying back now, I knew when I returned to our apartment with only a bowl of popcorn and the movie Titanic to comfort me, I'd be a heaping mess.

My phone pinged with a picture of Reva dressed up, frowning and slouching in the mirror like a gremlin. The sight made me laugh and I set my brushes in the water cup and pulled my headphones out.

She replied with a slew of random capital letters. Her way of saying she's excited. So, I began cleaning my mess, carrying my equipment to the sink which sat to the left of the windows. I had a near-perfect view of the game in its last inning.

Reva became my best friend before we committed to the university. I was touring the campus, walking through this studio alone for the first time when I saw her clumsily cleaning paint off the floor. I hurried over to help. Fear danced in her eyes at the amount of paint left on the floor as she asked, "Do you think there are cameras in here?"

I looked around the room and replied, "No, you should be fine."

"I don't even go here and I've already wasted hundreds of dollars in supplies."

I laughed."So, you're an art major?"

She smiled, her beautiful brown cheekbones rising. "Going to be." She held her hand out. "I'm Reva Vyas, nice to meet you." She hesitated, looking at me expectantly. I got the hint and replied, "Sadie Lane. Well, Sadie Lane Garner."

We spent that afternoon learning about each other: our background, what state we were originally from, and how Trembullen was at the top of our college list. When it was time to part, we got each other's phone numbers and stayed in touch until we committed. To this day, we say it was the universe's way of coercing us chaotic girls into each other's lives.

Though chaotic was an understatement.

While I scrubbed the brushes and paint from my pale hands, my eyes drifted to the score. Six to two.

Our university may have lacked skill where football was concerned but made up for it with our division one baseball team. Even though tonight's game was a scrimmage, the number of fans in the bleachers was mind-boggling. The bulk of the rows were filled with either proud parents, eager students, or loyal fans.

I recognized some players from around campus, yet never spoke to them. They were big and brawny and lived in their own bubble. I wasn't going to be the one to pop it. It wasn't that I lacked confidence when it came to men, but approaching a baseball player was like approaching a lion—you just didn't.

And if I believed in a college hierarchy, they would be at the top. It made sense for them to be there. The baseball team was the breadwinners for the university. Without their winning games, I doubt I'd have an art studio this nice.

"Last up to bat is number twenty-one, Elijah Preston!"

My eyes darted to home plate like a magnet to metal, where the curly-haired player stood. He stretched his umber brown (very muscular) arms over the bat, rolling his neck from side to side like he was preparing to fight, then he donned his helmet.

The cool water continued running into my still hands as he gripped the handle and widen his stance.

If there was a 'face' of the Trembullen team, Elijah would be that person.

There was no doubt he would play Major League Baseball after college. He was a walk-on player his freshman year. Rumor has it, he attended their conditioning before try-outs and impressed the coach enough to get a spot on their D1 team. After that, he wasn't a random freshman any longer.

Like the rest of the team, I had never spoken to him. The closest encounter we've had was that he sat in the back of my general writing class but never said a word to anyone. I didn't think I ever saw a flicker of emotion cross his face unless he was talking to his teammates... or a girl.

The pitcher on the opposing team reeled his hand back. Silence filled the stadium as he threw a curveball in Elijah's direction, but he didn't swing. The ball landed in the catcher's grasp, and soft murmurs echoed into the dusky sky. "Strike one!" they called.

I set the clean brushes on the counter and started scrubbing the paint-covered-palette as he readied the bat again. "Swing," I muttered under my breath as he drew the bat to his ear.

The pitcher threw, and this time Elijah hit.

He hit it hard.

Too hard.

Because now the ball was barreling toward me.

Thunderous crashing sounded through the room as I dropped to my knees. A guttural scream spilled from my lips. The world froze. A moment passed of me panting, and soon it was quiet, aside from the tiny clinking of glass shards hitting the floor.

I uncovered my body that impulsively went into some sort of fetal position and looked up. Glass was strewn across the floor in various sizes, and in the middle sat a scuffed baseball and—

"My painting," I gasped.

The easel was face down, and I knew underneath was a disarray of blues and beiges. I couldn't collect my thoughts. This was a piece I had been working on for a week, for a large grade. My heart splintered in my chest as if someone shot me with a wooden arrow.

When I fully stood and saw beyond the ledge of the sink, the shattered window came into sight, and behind it was the paused game. "Fuck," I muttered. I was lucky the sink wasn't in front of the window, or else I'd end up like my painting.

I didn't recall a mess this size and a ruined painting being included in my volunteer application.

Digging my phone from my pocket, I texted Reva.

I knelt, careful of the glass, and reached for the easel. However, there was too much shrapnel from the accident to recover my painting. So I left it face down.

Minutes later, footsteps thundered through the building. I stared aimlessly at my soon-to-be F. Was I supposed to call the building manager about the accident? Could I just leave? The latter option seemed much more appealing.

A group of men entered with frightened expressions. One, who I assumed worked at the stadium, was on the phone and behind him were a couple of teammates, the coach, and Elijah himself. They took in the surroundings: looking toward the window, to the fallen easel, to my apron, and then at me.

My gaze locked with Elijahs and I stared into brown eyes. Face paint was smeared down his cheeks, and his chest was rising and falling like he had run a mile. He looked dazed, which didn't surprise me since his adrenaline was most likely sky-high and now displaced from the incident.

The coach interrupted us and said, "I didn't know anyone was in here." He walked toward me. "Are you alright? Was anyone else hurt?"

"I volunteer here on Fridays and no, it's only me and I'm alright." I waved my hands, taken aback by the inquisition. The worker whispered something to the coach about needing a taller field cage around the stadium because this was the second time a ball was hurdled toward the art building.

"Keep hitting dingers like that and we'll win every game, Elijah." One blond-haired teammate said, patting him on the back victoriously. The boys' deep laughter reverberated in the lofty space.

"How about we watch where we hit next time?" I snapped, anger building inside from my damaged project. The boys clamped their mouths shut, surprised by my sudden comment.

One of them chuckled and threw his hands up in defense. "Elijah hits where he hits."

"Boys," the coach warned, his voice lowered.

But Elijah cast a smug smile that didn't meet his eyes. His arrogance felt like a knife to my gut. So crouching, I picked up the baseball and tossed it directly at his torso. He haphazardly caught the red and white ball, wide-eyed.

"Here, keep it. Figured you'd want your winning ball," I mimicked his fake smile.

He just continued to stare, not once apologizing. With no better response of my own, I took in the sight of his sweaty, broad exterior. He looked different compared to in class. Here, he appeared in his element, praised by his teammates. I knew it wasn't his fault for ruining my painting, but I was still upset and unsure of how to express my emotions properly. Not wanting to say anything I'd regret, I turned my back toward them and untied my apron.

Their muttering continued.

I wanted nothing more than to leave, but I had the building keys, and it was my responsibility to lock up. Realizing I'd be here for a while, I tucked myself away in the corner and texted my boss about the incident. She replied that someone had already contacted her and that she was on her way. My body sagged and I released a deep breath.

The players had retreated to the stadium, unable to be of any help. From my seat, I watched them walk to the field house completely unfazed by the damage they've done.

The bleachers were empty, and the sun had completely set and night settled in. Through the broken glass, a steady, humid breeze blew in off the ocean, tossing my hair about.

As the coach began saying something, Elijah turned around and gazed up at me. I wasn't sure if he was truly looking at me, but I shifted my eyes to my interlaced fingers. Despite my slowed heart rate, I was still in shock, unable to process tonight's events.

"Excuse me—" the older man cleared his throat.

"I'm sorry," I said.

"Your building manager, Melissa, told me you can leave the keys with us and head home."

More staff members were entering the room to inspect the mess, and I suddenly felt incredibly compact, like tuna packed into a can. "Would you let Melissa know that this is my project?" I asked and motioned toward the mess.

He looked to where my finger pointed and cast a sympathetic smile. "Will do, take care."

Standing, I thanked him and gathered my personal belongings. The moment I stepped outside, the humidity caressed my body like a wet hug. But I still stopped and took a deep breath. The parking lot was mostly vacant, and the street lamps flickered a harsh yellow. I watched as moths repeatedly flew toward the light and felt a pang in my chest.

There was a theory my stepfather James had read that moths used light to orient themselves in the sky. If they lost their way, they would look to the moon or starlight for direction. However, the light sources humans built confused them, causing the little-winged creatures to fly endlessly in circles with no sense of direction.

I felt like a moth flying in circles.

While I loved college and the freedom attached to being on my own, there was also something terrifying about being on the bridge to adulthood. Most of the time, I felt unstable despite my stable environment.

"I can't believe you almost took that girl's head off," a voice echoed in the distance. My head whirled to find the same group of players dressed in street clothes walking toward their cars. Heavy bags slung over their shoulders and their hair was wet, free from the grime of their game.

"Don't remind me," Elijah said stoically.

I watched them pop the trunk of their cars and toss the bags in. "What was she even doing in the art building that late?"

"She said she volunteered."

"She was pissed off at you, Eli."

"Anyone know who she is?"

"Nope," someone said. "Doesn't matter now because it's party time, boys."

They hollered incoherently, then got into their cars and drove off. I figured that was my cue to head home, too. By the time I arrived and hiked up to my apartment door, Reva was lying on the couch, holding her phone above her head, scrolling.

She jumped up, her black hair cascading down her back like silk. "You're alive," she said. "What the hell happened?"

While apologizing for being late, I kicked off my shoes and walked to my room. She followed suit, plopping down on my bed as I stripped off my clothes. "Elijah Preston hit a home run through the studio window. The ball hit my easel. My project fell. It's ruined."

Her mouth fell ajar. "You're kidding... How did the ball go over the cage?"

I shrugged. "Beats me, but I'm ready to get wasted."

She stood on my bed and shouted, "That's what I like to hear!"

My lips turned upward for what felt like the first time tonight. I pulled on jean shorts and a tee, then followed Reva to the kitchen for a pregame shot. "To flying balls and wet paint," she toasted, hoisting the shot into the air. Laughter poured from me as I brought the glass to my lips and tipped the cool liquid down my throat.

Sticking a lime in my mouth as my chaser, I sucked the sour juice from its buds and tossed it into the trash can. I hadn't eaten in hours, which meant the alcohol would kick in fast, just like I wanted it to. I wanted to forget today had ever happened.

"Fuck, that burns." Reva held her hand over her tanned throat. "I can eat chili peppers like candy but I can't handle my shot."

I snorted. "I can't eat chili peppers at all unless it's in your mother's food."

"I miss her food," Reva pouted. "I also miss the Paneer. I can't find any in the markets around here."

"I miss your mom's food too," I said. "Are Lucy and Iya picking us up?"

"Yep, they should be here soon."

When we lived in the dorms our freshmen year, Lucy and Iya lived across the hall. Anytime there was a noise complaint, it was our fault. Putting us together was like a bad chemistry experiment, something was bound to blow up. Luckily, nothing ever truly blew up, but there were a lot of clogged toilets and burnt food.

We've mellowed out since then because we didn't live close anymore. Reva and I signed an apartment lease, and they moved into their sorority house. Nevertheless, it only took a Friday night to bring us back together.

There was a honk outside our front window followed by Reva's ringing phone. Knowing how they act when we dilly-dally, we spent no time meeting them in the parking lot and climbed into the backseats. Every window was rolled down, including the sunroof, and they blasted Dayglow's song "Can I Call You Tonight?"

"Heard you almost got killed by the baseball team tonight, SiSi!" Iya shouted from the passenger seat.

I rolled my eyes and shouted back, "Almost, keyword."

"We'll beat them up for you."

"By beat up, don't you mean you'll be tongue punching one in the mouth?" Reva asked Lucy, who simply stuck out her tongue in reply. We laughed and started our drive toward the beach, which wasn't far.

Tipping my nose out the window, I inhaled the comforting scent of sea salt and mildew. Except, as we grew closer to the party, the smell of burning wood entered my nose. It reminded me of October nights in Pennsylvania with my family when my sister Leila and I would race to see who's marshmallow caught fire first.

I closed my eyes and took in the moment. The way the breeze felt on my skin, the way my hair tangled, and the sound of my singing friends. They threw their hands up when the chorus came, scream-singing along despite being off-key. I laughed, yet couldn't hear my own voice over the bass.

I wanted to take a picture of this moment, but a camera wouldn't do it justice. So, I simply watched with a beaming smile on my face, taking mental pictures.

When we arrived, I took my shoes off to carry, letting my toes sink into the cool sand. We walked toward the blazing bonfire. Silhouettes of students decorated the beach like a swarm of hungry animals. I barely heard the crashing of waves over their chatter. Wedged between most of their hands was a red solo cup or a beer and they danced to the booming music that thumped in my chest like thunder.

It was like every other Trembullen bonfire.

Still scanning the crowd, my eyes traveled further across the beach. However, my face fell before I realized who I was staring at—the baseball team was here.

And standing in all his home-run-glory was Elijah.

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