Chapter 2

The first few weeks passed quietly. Matthew and Alex gradually adapted to the routine of student life on campus—and to the daily rhythm of living in close quarters with one another.

Matthew’s internal clock, set by years of pre-dawn chores, would awaken him at six a.m., even when his first class—Intro to Biochemistry—wasn’t until nine. He’d lie there, staring at the ceiling, listening to Alex’s steady breathing from the other side of the room. Eventually, he’d get up and go make coffee in one of the hall’s communal pots just to have something to do.

Alex, on the other hand, was not a morning person. His alarm would begin blaring at seven-thirty, a grating electronic chirp he’d slap silent before rolling over for ten more minutes. Finally, he’d drag himself upright in bed—hair a mess, hoodie askew over his pajamas—and fix his bright-eyed roomie with a withering look.

“You’re a freak, Hargrove. You know that? Who’s up this early without a gun to their head?”

“Farm habit,” Matthew replied with a chuckle. “Rise and shine, Kim. You’ve got class in twenty minutes.”

Alex fired his pillow across the room, and Matthew playfully swatted it aside at the last second, laughing as it thumped to the floor. In the gray morning light, with his coffee in one hand and his dark strawberry-blond hair clipped close against his head, he looked irritatingly awake and pleased with himself.

That crew cut looked really good on him, Alex thought—then immediately decided he was still too asleep to be held responsible for any opinions.

*

They quickly fell into the habit of meeting between classes for lunch every day at the Iowa Memorial Union—a sprawling student hub with a food court, coffee shop, and enough noise to drown out the stress of constant studying. They’d grab sandwiches and drinks while trading gripes about class assignments, pop quizzes—or how the unseasonably cool wind cut through their jackets walking across campus.

Their casual back-and-forth would continue throughout the noon hour, the sound swallowed by the chatter of passing students. Conversation flowed easily, like they’d known each other for years.

Evenings at the dorm were typically split between studying and takeout, interspersed with laundry runs to the basement where Matthew taught Alex the subtle art of not shrinking his shirts, late-night vending-machine raids when their snack stash ran dry, and good-natured arguments over whose turn it was to sweep the crumbs from the floor.

Sometimes, Alex would set up a hot plate in the corner—a bit of rule-bending Matthew didn’t argue with—and cook ramen that left the room smelling like a spice bazaar. They’d sit cross-legged on their beds, slurping noodles and swapping stories instead of studying.

Alex had a knack for pulling tales out of thin air—his brother’s dumb stunts in high school, or a trip to Seoul when he was ten that ended with him lost in a market. Matthew would counter with farm stories: the time Jessie fell into a mud pit chasing a calf—or how once, while goofing around, he’d wrecked the tractor in a ditch and spent a week grounded for his troubles. The hours would slip by, until one of them—usually Alex—yawned and called it a night.

Weekends were looser. They hit the Pedestrian Mall late one evening, splitting fries at Micky’s Irish Pub, watching drunk frat guys stumble by. Another Saturday, they took a road trip in Alex’s hand-me-down Hyundai—a sun-faded, beat-up SUV from his older brother—just to get out of Iowa City for a couple of hours and see the countryside.

At the end of September, Matthew’s folks brought his old red pickup truck to him when they came for the homecoming football game. His dad drove it to Iowa City—with his mom Ellen following behind in her car—and left it there for him to keep.

*

Despite how much they shared as their friendship grew, there was one thing Matthew never brought up in late-night talks or weekend road trips.

When he was at community college in Keokuk, he picked up a hobby that soon turned serious. It started with a program that came pre-installed on his MacBook—GarageBand.

He’d sit in his room—headphones on, layering chords and beats—scribbling lyrics in a notebook he hid under the mattress. He wrote songs about endless fields, wide-open skies, and the ache of something he was afraid to name. Over time, the crude loops and borrowed sounds had begun to resemble actual songs—songs he would never have admitted mattered to him. He didn’t mention it to anyone because then they’d ask to hear one of them—and that would just be too embarrassing.

Now that he was at the university, he still worked on his music when he could find a private moment. Alex would sometimes step out to the floor lounge with his laptop, leaving Matthew little pockets of solitude. He’d wait until the room was still, then pull out his beat-up headphones and fire up GarageBand.

The screen would glow with tracks stacked like a puzzle: an acoustic guitar riff he’d cobbled together from a sampler plug-in, a drum loop he’d tweaked, his vocals low and rough—recorded through the crappy built-in mic. He’d sing quietly, keeping the volume low so it wouldn’t leak past the door.

One night, he was deep into a new track when Alex came back sooner than expected. He yanked the headphones off, slamming the laptop shut as the door opened.

“Still up?” Alex said, tossing his backpack down, oblivious. “Thought you’d be sawing logs by now.”

“I was . . . just messing around,” Matthew muttered, shoving the laptop under his pillow. “Couldn’t sleep.”

Alex didn’t say anything, just nodded as he sat down on his bed, scrolling his phone.

Matthew’s heart thudded, his secret safe—for now.

*

Later, as he sat at his desk poring over class notes on his tablet, he began to sing fragments of a tune under his breath without even realizing it. Alex, sitting on his bed cross-legged, tapping away on his laptop, caught him doing it.

He squinted over at Matthew and asked, “Whatcha humming?”

“Huh? Oh, nothing . . . just a random tune,” Matthew muttered, sitting up a bit straighter in his chair and returning to his notes.

Alex thought he seemed a bit self-conscious about the whole thing, so he decided it was best to let it go. He closed his laptop, switched off the reading lamp, and slid under the covers. After a while, he drifted to sleep and began to snore softly.

Matthew remained at his desk, tablet forgotten, brow furrowed, and bottom lip pinched between thumb and forefinger. He glanced furtively at Alex out of the corner of his eye and wondered if this was what being roommates was supposed to feel like.

Friendship, sure.

But something more was lingering at the edges.

Something he couldn’t quite name.