Chapter 17: Confidence
Professor Kramer's voice filled the workshop room, dissecting someone's short story about family dinners.
I half-listened, attention split between the critique and Beck's posture three rows ahead. She'd been different since the dinner—quieter, distracted, the weight of relationship drama visible in the slump of her shoulders.
When my turn came to read, I shared something new. Not the original Fin's work this time—something I'd written myself over the past week. A piece about watching patterns from outside, about the distance between observation and participation.
The room was quiet when I finished.
"Interesting," Professor Kramer said, stroking his beard. "The observational precision is remarkable. I get the sense of a narrator who sees everything but belongs nowhere."
The assessment landed closer to truth than I'd intended.
"The emotional distance works thematically," he continued. "But be careful. Readers need a way in. Even observers have to feel something eventually."
I nodded, accepting the feedback, filing it away.
Beck caught my eye as I returned to my seat. A small smile, an appreciative nod. She'd liked it.
After class, Beck approached before I could slip into the general crowd.
"Hey. That piece was really good."
"Thanks. Still rough around the edges."
"The edges are what make it interesting." She fell into step beside me as we walked toward the building exit. "You have this way of making loneliness feel... precise. Like you're studying it under a microscope."
"Write what you know, I guess."
She laughed softly. "God, I feel that."
The night air was cool as we stepped outside. Other workshop members were heading toward The Printer's Devil, but Beck hesitated.
"You walking to the bar?"
"That was the plan."
"Mind if we take the long way? I could use the air."
"Sure."
We walked. Beck set the pace—slow, meandering, the rhythm of someone organizing thoughts.
"Can I ask you something?" she said eventually.
"Go ahead."
"You seem... grounded. Like you've figured out how to exist without needing everyone to validate it." She glanced at me. "How do you do that?"
The question surprised me. I'd been trying so hard to seem unremarkable that I hadn't considered how that might read to someone drowning in complicated relationships.
"I don't know if I've figured anything out," I said carefully. "I just got tired of caring what people thought."
"That sounds nice. The not-caring part."
"It's not as peaceful as it sounds. Mostly it's just... exhaustion. Deciding which battles matter."
Beck nodded like I'd confirmed something she'd suspected.
"Joe met my friends last week," she said. The words came out in a rush, like she'd been holding them. "My best friend Peach. It was... tense."
"Tense how?"
"She was interrogating him. Subtle, but I could feel it. Every question had a point. And Joe was so patient, so charming, but there was this... undercurrent." She shook her head. "I don't know how to explain it."
"Sounds like she doesn't trust him."
"She doesn't trust anyone I date. It's like she thinks no one is good enough for me." Beck's voice carried equal parts affection and frustration. "She's been my best friend since college. I love her. But sometimes she's so... possessive."
There it is.
"Have you talked to her about it?"
"I've tried. She just says she's looking out for me. That she has 'concerns.' But she never tells me what the concerns actually are."
I chose my next words carefully. Not pushing, not planting—just opening a door.
"What do you think she wants for you?"
Beck considered this. "She wants me close. Available. The friend she can depend on."
"And what does Joe want?"
The question stopped her walking. We stood on a corner, traffic humming past, while Beck processed something she probably hadn't examined directly.
"Joe wants... me to be happy. To write. To succeed." Her voice was uncertain, testing the words. "He's supportive. Encouraging."
"That's what he shows," I said. "But what does he actually want?"
Beck's eyes met mine. Something shifted in her expression—not suspicion exactly, but the beginning of questioning.
"I don't know," she admitted. "I've only known him a few weeks."
"That's fair. It takes time to really see people."
We started walking again. The silence between us was different now—heavier, more thoughtful.
"Can I ask the same question about Peach?" Beck said eventually. "What does she actually want?"
"Only you can answer that. But maybe it's worth thinking about."
She didn't respond immediately. We walked another block before she spoke again.
"You're easy to talk to, Fin. It's weird—I barely know you, but it feels like you actually listen."
Because I'm manipulating the conversation. Because I practice seeming harmless. Because every question I ask has an agenda.
"I'm just good at sitting still," I said. "It's not a superpower."
Beck laughed, and the tension broke.
At The Printer's Devil, the workshop group had already claimed the usual booth. Lisa waved us over, making room.
Beck slid in next to Lynn. I took the opposite side, next to Derek, maintaining the distance that kept me safely in the background.
The conversation was light—workshop gossip, complaints about student papers, the eternal debate about whether MFA programs helped or hurt creative writing. I contributed enough to stay visible, not so much that I'd be remembered as dominant.
Beck ordered a second round and slid a glass toward me.
"My treat," she said. "For the therapy session."
"It wasn't therapy."
"Close enough." She raised her glass. "To complicated people."
I clinked mine against hers. "To complicated people."
Her smile was genuine. The kind of smile you gave someone you trusted.
The guilt landed harder than expected.
The next day, my phone buzzed.
Thanks for listening last night. You're easy to talk to.
I stared at the message for too long. Easy to talk to because I was performing ease. Easy to trust because I'd engineered trustworthiness.
The lines between genuine and strategic were blurring. Beck deserved a real friend. What she was getting was a hunter pretending to be harmless.
Anytime, I texted back.
I meant it. That was the problem.
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