Chapter 119: Missed Calls

NORA’S POV

The alarm on my nightstand went off at six-thirty with the subtlety of a car crash.

I slapped my hand blindly across the wood, knocking over an empty coffee mug before finally silencing the shrill buzzer. My eyelids felt like sandpaper, and my neck was stiff from sleeping at an awkward angle against my thin pillow.

Across the room, Priya groaned, pulling her duvet over her head. "If that noise happens again, Bennett, I am filing an injunction against morning itself."

"Going, going," I whispered raspy.

I slipped out of bed, shivering as my bare feet hit the cold floor. The air outside the window was frosty gray, a dusting of white frost coating the quad below.

A scalding shower and a frantic morning routine barely took the edge off the chill, but it was enough to shock my system awake.

By the time I pulled on dark jeans, a thick cream knit sweater, and scraped my curls into a messy clip, my travel thermos was filled with steaming black drip coffee.

I pushed my glasses up my nose and hauled my overstuffed backpack onto one shoulder.

My day had officially begun, and it wasn’t going to let me breathe until midnight.

By seven-forty-five, I was sitting in the third row of Hallstead Hall for Professor Hastings’ Honors Economics Senior Seminar.

The lecture hall was quiet except for the tapping keys and rustling papers. Professor Hastings stood at the podium, his sharp gaze sweeping over the fourteen selected honors students like a military inspector.

"The departmental review committee convenes in ten days," Hastings announced, tapping against the board. "Your methodology drafts and empirical data models must demonstrate rigorous econometric proof. If your regression tables lack explanatory power, your senior research stipend will be reallocated. No extensions. No excuses."

My stomach performed an uncomfortable flip.

The senior honors stipend was the only thing standing between me and having to take out an emergency loan for my spring semester tuition.

For the next two hours, my world shrank to multivariate regressions, supply chain elasticity equations, and market data tables. My notebook filled with marginal cost curves and statistical distribution figures until my handwriting began to slant from fatigue.

At eleven-thirty, the seminar ended. I packed my folders in a blur and practically jogged across the quad to the Student Academic Center.

"Table four, Nora," Mrs. Gable, the work-study coordinator, said as I walked through the glass doors. "You’ve got back-to-back quantitative methods appointments until three."

I forced a polite, encouraging smile onto my face and sat down at table four.

For the next three and a half hours, I walked two sophomore athletes through basic microeconomic pricing strategies and consumer surplus calculations.

By the time the second student finally grasped how to calculate price elasticity and packed up his binder, my throat was completely parched and my thermos was bone-dry.

I checked my watch as I walked out into the chilly afternoon air. 4:10 PM.

I needed to sprint to the library to print three updated government census data sets before heading to the diner.

I was half-jogging past the campus bookstore when my phone chimed loudly from my coat pocket.

I fished it out, expecting another automated reminder from the registrar.

The screen lit up with an incoming call: Mom.

I slowed my pace, catching my breath before swiping the green button. "Hi, Mom!"

"There’s my girl," my mother’s warm and familiar voice came through the receiver. In the background, I could hear the steady hum of the bakery’s commercial Hobart mixer and the faint metallic clatter of cooling racks. "You sound out of breath, sweetie. Are you running?"

"Just walking between buildings," I said, leaning against the brick exterior of the library to block the wind. "How are you? How’s the bakery?"

"We’re doing just fine," she answered with an easy laugh. "The early Thanksgiving orders are already rolling in. I had to order two extra fifty-pound sacks of bread flour this morning, and the new cinnamon apple tart recipe has been flying out the display case by noon."

"Did the quarterly dairy supplier invoice clear okay?" I asked, my fingers tightening around the phone. "I can transfer a little from my savings..."

"Nora Bennett, stop," my mother scolded gently. "The invoice is paid in full. The shop is holding its own. I didn’t call to talk about flour bills. I called because I haven’t heard your voice in nearly a week and I wanted to know how my daughter is doing."

A sudden, sharp tightness gripped my throat.

Hearing her voice made my heart ache with love. She spent fourteen hours a day on her feet covered in flour so I could have a shot at a better life. The least I could do was handle my own life without falling apart.

"I’m good, Mom," I said, swallowing the lump in my throat and keeping my voice bright. "Classes are intense right now. The honors thesis deadline is coming up fast, but I’m on top of it."

"Make sure you’re eating real food, Nora. Not just diner fries and black coffee," she warned lovingly. "And get some sleep. You can’t pour from an empty cup."

"I will, Mom. I promise. I love you."

"Love you too, sweetie. Go conquer the world."

The call clicked off.

I stood in the cold air for a moment, letting out a long, shaky breath.

Then I looked down at my phone screen.

A notification banner was sitting right beneath my call log:

Missed Call: Knox (4:18 PM)

Right under it was an unread text:

Knox: Hey Bookworm. Doc Campbell gave me the green light this morning. 100% cleared for contact.

Come over to the SinBin tonight. I’ll make Bear grill those garlic steaks you liked.

My heart fluttered at the news. Knox was cleared. He was healthy, back on the ice, and whole again. After the terrifying hit, the hospital room, and the boardroom showdown, he was finally where he belonged.

I wanted nothing more than to drop my backpack on the grass, run straight to the SinBin, throw my arms around his neck, and celebrate.

Then my alarm buzzed on my wrist. 4:45 PM.

My shift at Rusty’s Diner started at five-fifteen. One of the afternoon waitresses had called in with the flu, and I had promised Rusty I would cover the evening rush for the extra cash tips.

A knot of guilt pulled tight in my stomach.

With cold, trembling fingers, I quickly typed back:

Nora: I’m so, so sorry Knox! I was trapped in Hastings’ econometric capstone seminar until five, and now I’m literally sprinting across campus for a cover shift at Rusty’s. I am so happy you’re cleared. Truly. Nobody deserves to be on that ice more than you.

I hesitated, then added:

I get off around eight-thirty. I’ll walk back to the dorm and call you at 9 xx

I pressed send, locked the screen, and broke into a fast jog toward my dorm to drop off my textbooks and change.

By five-twenty, I was tying the stained black apron around my waist behind the diner counter.

For the next four hours, the world was pure chaos.

The dinner rush hit like a tidal wave. Plates of greasy burgers, sizzling fries, and club sandwiches piled up under the heat lamps. Rusty barked orders from behind the grill while the bell above the entrance door chimed nonstop.

My arms ached from balancing three thick ceramic platters at a time, refilling bottomless mugs of decaf, and wiping down sticky Formica tables.

At eight-fifteen, as I was finally preparing to wipe down Booth 6 and count my tip jar, the front door swung open. A bus carrying a visiting girls’ high school basketball team emptied twenty-two hungry teenagers into the diner.

Rusty poked his sweaty face out of the kitchen window, looking panicked. "Bennett! I need you for another hour! Double overtime pay on the floor!"

I looked at the clock above the register: 8:25 PM.

’Every single dollar counted,’ I said to myself as I thought about my fast approaching bills.

"I’ve got it, Rusty," I heard myself say.

By the time the last table was cleared, the floor was mopped, and I counted out seventy-two dollars in cash tips, it was nearly ten-fifteen.

The walk back to the dorm was a blur of freezing wind and exhausted silence.

My legs felt like lead as I climbed the three flights of stairs to room 314. I pushed open the door and leaned my back against the wood, letting out a sound that was half-sigh, half-groan.

Priya was sitting at her desk, wearing thick flannel pajamas and reviewing legal briefs with a highlighter. She turned around, took one look at my pale face and grease-stained sneakers, and winced.

"You look like you just survived a three-car pileup," Priya said gently.

"Feels like it," I muttered, kicking off my shoes. "I just need... ten minutes. Then I have to check my supply chain regression data and call Knox."

"Sit down before you fall down," Priya instructed, turning back to her notes.

I dropped my bag by the wardrobe and walked over to my desk.

I pulled out my thesis binder, opening the thick folder. I pulled my phone out of my coat pocket, setting it next to the keyboard.

’Just rest your eyes for five seconds,’ I told myself, resting my forehead against my crossed arms on the desk. ’Just five seconds, then I’ll call him.’

I closed my eyes.

The world went instantly, completely black.

When I jolted upright, a jolt of panic seized my chest.

My neck screamed with pain. My glasses were pressed sideways into the skin of my cheek, leaving deep red indentations.

The dorm room was pitch black, the only light coming from the faint glow of my laptop screen saver. Priya was dead asleep across the room, her soft, steady breathing filling the silence.

I blinked blearily at the bottom corner of my laptop screen.

2:14 AM.

"No," I breathed, my heart dropping straight through the floor. 𝑓𝑟ℯℴ𝓂

I grabbed my phone from beside the keyboard with shaking fingers. The screen illuminated the dark room with a glaring white notification:

Missed Call: Knox (10:14 PM)

I sighed.