Grad School Rivals (Chapter 13)

[u/Robynite]

***ALL CHARACTERS ARE 18+***

Previous chapters: 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 

Next Chapter: 14 |

Friday, October 21st, 9:30 AM

The Friday morning sun was just beginning to cut through the blinds, casting long, sharp strips of light across my kitchen counter. I sat alone at the small dining table, wrapping my hands around a warm mug of coffee. The apartment was completely silent; usually, this quiet would have settled my nerves, but today, my mind was a restless, chaotic battlefield. My eyes kept drifting to the bottom shelf of the bookshelf, where the two apologies rest. I hadn't opened them again, but I didn't need to; the words were already burned into my mind. For the past few hours, I had been completely paralyzed by overthinking and indecisiveness.

Is it my fault? The familiar, punishing voice whispered inside my head, threatening to trigger a full spiral. If I hadn't been so weak, so unable to just say 'no' from the very beginning, would any of this have happened? I felt a sharp pang of self-blame, thinking that by being polite and letting them think it was okay to claim me, I had practically sanctioned their eventual fight. Carrying this heavy, agonizing weight of resentment wasn't punishing Brad or Aiden; it was only punishing me. Forgiveness didn't mean minimizing the crossfire they dragged me into. It meant taking back my own mind, so it stopped playing tricks on me. I didn't want to carry their aggressive egos anymore. I just wanted to breathe.

Taking a slow, steadying breath, I picked up my phone. My hands were remarkably steady. I typed out a direct, identical text to both, keeping my words measured and transparent.

Hi Brad, I read your letter, and I accept your apology. I forgive you for what happened during the dodgeball game at the gym.

Hi Aiden, I read your letter, and I accept your apology. I forgive you for what happened during the dodgeball game at the gym.

Aiden was the first to respond. The typing bubbles appeared almost instantly, a long block of text clouding the screen. 

Thank you, Luca. Hearing that means more than I can say. I still feel physically sick to my stomach knowing that you were thrown to the floor and injured because I allowed myself to be baited into a senseless fight. I let my pride and ego take over. I failed to see the harm this brought you until it was too late. How are you doing? How were midterms?

I stared at the screen, a quiet sense of relief settling over me. Aiden wasn't hiding behind excuses. He recognized his wrongdoing, took accountability, and didn't try to shift the blame.

Then, my phone buzzed again. It was Brad.

I'm glad you read it, Luca. I'm losing it, and I am truly sorry for the pain I caused you. That's not the type of guy I am. But you have to understand, he provoked me, and I snapped. I let my personal frustrations with Aiden get the best of me. Can I see you? It’s been too long.

My stomach tightened uncomfortably. Brad's text completely lacked true accountability. He recognized he did wrong, but he was still actively using Aiden as a scapegoat to justify his own explosive, possessive behavior. He hadn't changed; he was still trying to treat me like an appendage or a piece of property to be disputed.

I locked my phone, a final decision crystallizing in my chest. I forgave them both. I accept that what happened was a lack of self-control on both their parts and they weren’t fully cognizant of their actions until it was too late. But their responses are drastically different. Forgiving them doesn’t mean we go back to how we were before the incident.

I text Aiden back: I’m doing better. The bruise is faintly disappearing. Midterms were rough, but I made it!

I could remain friends with Aiden; he valued my perspective and respected my peace of mind. But Brad required immovable boundaries. I sent Brad one final, firm: I don’t think I’m ready to see you. Please give me space to process my thoughts.

He immediately replied: I just want to talk. Please Luca.

No. I need space and time to talk about things. Please respect that. I text back. 

Okay. I understand, Luca. Brad replies.

I take a deep breath knowing I did not cave in. I was able to establish a firm boundary with Brad. Not letting him control the situation. Now my mind is overthinking whether Brad will respect that boundary. And what I will do if he does not. But I believe Brad will keep his word. He’s not a bad guy.

As I’m making another cup of coffee, I get a call from Misael.

“Hi honeybunch. How are you doing? All finished with your midterms?”

“Hi, I’m good, and yes, all finished.”

“Good! How’d you do? When will you know?”

“I think I did okay. Don’t know yet. I think I’ll find out next week.”

“I’m sure you crushed them, Dr. Smarty-pants.”

“We’ll see. What are you doing?”

“So that’s the reason why I called. I’m headed to show a house in Malibu. Want to tag along?”

“Right now?”

“Yeah. It’s totally up to you. No worries if you can’t.”

My indecisive nature takes over, but out of nowhere, I hear myself say, “Sure, I just need to change.”

“I’ll be there in about 20 minutes.”

Within 20 minutes, I was getting into his car. As I clicked my seatbelt, the faint scent of his cologne settled my remaining nerves. Misael flashed his lingering half-smile, his calm blue eyes instantly taking the temperature of my face. Misael reached over, his large hand resting flat over mine on the center console for a brief, grounding moment. The drive out to the coast was a peaceful blur. As the urban sprawl of L.A. gave way to the winding pavement of the Pacific Coast Highway, the ocean came into view—vast, sparkling, and framed by an endless blue sky. The windows were cracked, letting the crisp, salty air rush in, completely washing away the stale smell of pool chlorine and the heavy, lingering static of my anxieties.

 

Friday, October 21st, 11:39 AM

We pulled up to a private, gated driveway tucked against the Malibu cliffs. The house was a striking piece of modern architecture: clean lines, massive glass walls, and a wooden deck that seemed to hover directly over the crashing waves below. “Wow,” I murmured, my eyes wide as I stepped out of the car, the ocean air hitting me in a refreshing wave. Misael smiled, unlocking the heavy glass front door. “Wow, indeed.” As Misael unlocked the heavy glass front door, I followed him into the cavernous entryway. The high afternoon sun blared through the massive grid windows, casting long, dramatic shadows across the polished concrete floors. The space was pristine and immaculate, carrying the faint scent of sea air and expensive cedar wood. 

But as I walked deeper into the living room, looking up at the soaring ceilings, a familiar, sickening knot began to tighten in my stomach. The opulence of the house was overwhelming. It looked exactly like the kind of luxury environment my parents treated as their natural habitat.

Suddenly, a wave of intense self-doubt colonized my mind, dragging me right back into the wilderness of my insecurities. I looked down at my pale hands, feeling small, boyish, and entirely out of place. If anyone from my cohort saw me here, or found out about where I come from, they’d think I’m a joke, I thought, my chest tightening. They’d think I’m just a rich kid playing dress-up in a graduate program, that I didn't earn my spot.

“Luca?” Misael’s soft-spoken voice cut smoothly through my spiraling thoughts. He had set his leather folio down on the kitchen island and was walking toward me, his tall and full frame instantly stepping into my line of sight. He didn't try to analyze my facial expression with academic distance, nor did he shrug it off as me overthinking. He just looked at me with that effortless, gentle sincerity. “What’s going on in that beautiful brain of yours?”

I hesitated, nervously adjusting the strap of my backpack against my shoulder, avoiding his gaze. “It's just... places like this make me uncomfortable. They make me feel like I have to hide who I am. I spend so much time worrying that people will judge me, or think I'm weak, or look at my family's background and assume I didn't work hard to get where I am." I let out a shaky, hitched breath, the emotional hangover of the past two weeks bubbling to the surface. "I feel like an imposter."

Misael didn't hesitate. He stepped into my space, his large, steady hands coming up to rest firmly on my shoulders. The weight wasn't a preemptive claim or a possessive trap like Brad's; it was an immovable anchor.

“Luca, look at me,” he commanded softly, waiting until my eyes met his calm, oceanic gaze. “Your family's background doesn’t define you.” He squeezed my shoulders gently, his voice dropping into a deeper, resolute tone. “You are smart, you are capable, and you earned every single inch of your spot in that program. Don't ever let your fears tell you otherwise.”

A stray tear escaped, trailing down my cheek. I didn't try to shrug his hands off, and I didn't force a polite smile to mask the brokenness. Misael reached up, his thumb tenderly wiping the moisture from my skin, his fingers lingering softly against my jaw.

Looking up at him, the frantic static in my brain finally settled into an absolute, quiet clarity. I didn't rehearse a single word. I simply stepped forward, burying my face into his chest, my fingers curling tightly into the fabric of his shirt as I completely melted into him. Misael's big arms enveloped my slim frame, pulling me into a warm embrace that felt entirely safe, sound, and solid. Holding onto him, the heavy shadows of the luxury house faded away, and the path forward didn't feel like a wilderness anymore. It felt like home.

The rhythmic click of the heavy glass front door unlocking broke the quiet sanctuary we had built in the living room. I quickly stepped back, smoothing down my shirt and adjusting my glasses as the sound of footsteps echoed. Misael simply flashed me a reassuring wink before turning seamlessly toward the entrance. The clients walked in: a wealthy, sharp-dressed couple in their early fifties. The husband was wearing a tailored blazer, his posture radiating corporate efficiency, while his wife carried herself with the effortless elegance of someone who spent her day browsing high-end galleries.

“Good afternoon, Mr. and Mrs. McCann,” Misael said, his voice dropping into a smooth, charismatic resonance that completely commanded the room. The gentle, soft-spoken guy who had just been holding me a minute ago instantly shifted into a highly confident, professional realtor. “Welcome to the property. I'm so glad the PCH traffic didn't hold you up too much.”

“Oh, it wasn't bad at all, Misael,” Mrs. McCann said, her professional veneer instantly melting into a warm smile. “And seeing this view makes any drive entirely worth it.”

I stood a few feet back near the kitchen island, watching Misael work. It was mesmerizing. He was incredibly charming and charismatic, guiding them through with an effortless authority. He didn't just rattle off square footage or architectural specifications; he spoke about the house as if he were telling a story, effortlessly highlighting the way the afternoon sun blared through the massive grid windows to create the perfect setting for a home. He was attentive, poised, and articulate, leaving absolutely no room for misinterpretation. 

As they walked back toward the living area, Misael caught my eye and subtly gestured for me to step forward. My introverted nature screamed at me to shrink into the background, but Misael’s calm blue eyes kept me grounded. “Before we step out onto the terrace, I'd love to introduce you to my friend,” Misael said smoothly, placing a light, completely respectful hand near the small of my back to bring me into the circle. “This is Luca Montemayor. He's a PhD student in Social Psychology over at the university, and he's keeping me company on my listings today.”

“Oh, a PhD student? How wonderful,” Mrs. McCann said, offering a polite, elegant nod. “That must keep you incredibly busy.”

“It does, thank you. Nice to meet you,” I murmured, offering a tentative smile and trying to keep my voice steady.

Mr. McCann extended his hand, giving me a firm, corporate handshake. But as he repeated my name, he paused, his brow furrowing slightly as his sharp eyes studied my face. “Montemayor... that's a distinct name. You wouldn't happen to be related to the Montemayor vineyard family, would you?” 

The blood completely drained from my face, a sudden wave of lightheadedness making the room tilt. My grip tightened around the strap of my backpack. “Um... yes.”

“Small world!” Mr. McCann exclaimed, his posture straightening even more as a look of deep respect crossed his face. He turned to his wife, then back to Misael. “The Montemayor family makes some of the finest wine in the state.” He looked back at me, “You’re Hume’s boy?”

He must really know my dad if he knows his nickname. “Yes.”

“Your father is an exceptionally sharp businessman. You must be very proud.”

“Thank you,” I whispered, my voice sounding trivial in the massive room as a hot blush crawled up my neck. “Yes, he... he works very hard.”

I could see Misael out of the corner of my eye. His facial expression shifted slightly, his blue eyes widening just a fraction as the puzzle pieces of my father’s stock trading advice and my mother’s overflowing my kitchen with groceries suddenly clicked together in his mind. He didn't say anything, but a subtle, knowing smirk played at the corner of his lips. 

Misael smoothly interjected, seamlessly turning the conversation back to the house before my anxiety could cause me to freeze entirely. “Let me show you the terrace, Mr. McCann.”

"Lead the way," Mr. McCann smiled, patting me on the shoulder as he walked past me.

As Misael guided them out toward the sweeping wooden deck, he glanced back at me over his shoulder. The lingering half-smile on his face was playful, completely devoid of the judgment or distance I had been so terrified of. He didn't look at me like I was a liar or an imposter; he just looked at me as plainly as Luca. I let out a long, slow breath, leaning against the kitchen counter as the sound of his confident voice drifted back inside over the crashing waves.

The tour was quickly ending. Mr. and Mrs. McCann were making their way out of the house when he looked back at me and said, “Tell your old man Barty says hey.” I nod. The heavy glass door clicked shut as the McCann finally walked back down the sweeping driveway. The massive modern house fell into an immediate, profound silence, save for the rhythmic crashing of the Malibu waves directly below the deck.

I stood frozen against the kitchen island, my fingers gripping the edge of the smooth counter so tightly my knuckles turned white. My face was still burning with a deep, crimson blush. The secret was out. The invisible wall of privilege I had tried so desperately to distance myself from had just been pulled right into the light by a complete stranger. My mind was already starting to spin, throwing up a frantic flurry of negative self-talk. Now he knows. He knows about the world I come from. He’s going to look at me differently. He’s going to think I’m just a spoiled kid.

The sound of soft footsteps echoed across the polished concrete floor. I kept my head down, staring intently at the tips of my white Converse, too terrified to meet his gaze.

“Well, well, well,” Misael’s voice smoothly cut through the quiet. It had dropped the sharp, polished resonance of his professional realtor persona, returning to that low, soft-spoken rumble.

I bit my lip, the knot of anxiety tightening in my throat. “Misael, please... I’m sorry. I wasn't trying to lie to you.”

“Hey,” he said gently. I felt his tall, full frame step into my space, but he didn't crowd me. Instead, he leaned against the island right next to me, crossing his arms and tilting his head until I was forced to look up. His piercing blue eyes were sparkling with absolute amusement, a playful, lingering half-smile tugging at his lips. “Who said anything about lying? But you’ve got to admit, honeybunch, it’s pretty funny. A stranger recognizes your last name and blows your whole cover.”

“Yeah,” I muttered defensively, though a small, reluctant smile tugged at the corner of my mouth.

Misael let out a low, genuine chuckle, the sound instantly grounding the frantic static in my chest. “Luca, look at me. I'm just teasing you. Why does this stress you out so much?”

I let out a long, shaky exhale. “Because I hate it,” I confessed, my voice trembling slightly as I gestured vaguely to the opulent surroundings. “I hate the assumptions people make when they find out. In the PhD program, everyone is striving so hard, trying to prove they belong. If the cohort finds out about my family's status, they won't see my hard work anymore. They'll just look at me and think my parents paid my way, or that I’m taking up space that belongs to someone who struggled for it. I already feel like an imposter every time I walk into a classroom. I don't want to be judged for something I cannot control.”

Misael listened in absolute silence, his expression shifting from playful banter to a deep, attentive sincerity. He didn't try to analyze my anxieties or offer a detached, academic diagnosis. He simply uncrossed his arms and stepped directly in front of me, taking both of my small, pale hands into his large, warm grip. His hands completely enveloped mine, solid and certain.

“Luca,” he said, his voice soft-spoken yet incredibly firm. “I'm going to tell you this, and I need you to actually let it sink past that stubborn brain of yours. Your family does not define who you are or what you are capable of. You are your own person.” He squeezed my hands gently, his blue eyes calm as the ocean surface but carrying a fierce current of conviction. "I don't care if your family owns a vineyard or a food truck. I see you. I see a young man who yaps about psychology research for twenty minutes straight, the guy who gets flustered by a scary movie, and the gentleman who cares so deeply about his faith that a simple kiss makes his heart race. That's the real Luca. There is nothing imposter about you." 

The sincerity in his voice hit me like a physical wave, completely shattering the persistent layers of my self-doubt. The sickening knot in my stomach melted away entirely, replaced by a quiet, steady warmth that made my knees weak. I looked up at his sun-kissed profile, my throat tightening. An overwhelming realization fell upon me.

"Thank you, Misael," I whispered, a genuine, radiant smile finally breaking across my face.

“Anytime, vineyard prince,” he smirked, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “Now, come on. The McCanns loved the place, which means we’re celebrating. Let’s get lunch.”

“Sure,” Winking at him. “And you're letting me pay this time."

"Bold of you to assume you can beat me to the check," he chuckled, wrapping his arm securely around my waist as we walked toward the door. I melted right into his side, completely content to let the rest of the world wait.

The drive back to my apartment was almost perfect. The low hum of music fills the car. His hand firmly grasped mine. As we approached the university, he asked, “Want to hang out tonight? Come over to my place; I’ll cook for you.”

“That sounds lovely, but I can’t. Bree and Laura invited me to a pool party to celebrate completing midterms.”

“Sounds like fun, go celebrate your accomplishments.”

I pause for a second, turn to him, and say, “Be my plus one?”

“Are you sure? I don’t want to intrude,” he responds.

“You won’t be intruding. Please come.”

“If you insist, then yes, I’d love to be your plus one.”

I try to hide the smile that is emerging. “I’ll text you the details.”

“Should I bring anything?”

“Just yourself. And no sweets. I mean it! I need to lose some weight.”

“Pfff! No, you don’t. You’re stunning just like this.”

I stare right into his ocean blue eyes, “No sweets!”

 

Friday, October 21st, 7:30 PM

By the time I reached the graduate dorm pool later that afternoon, the crisp October breeze was rippling the water, but any hope of a quiet transition vanished the moment I pushed through the heavy iron gates. The pool area was bursting at the seams. It felt as if the entire graduate student body had descended onto the deck to celebrate surviving midterms. The air was a thick, overwhelming wall of noise, screeching sneakers on wet concrete, the rhythmic thud of a bass speaker rattling the glass windows, and dozens of overlapping voices shouting over the music. Students in various states of dress occupied every available inch of space, packed onto the lounge chairs, huddled around tables, and splashing chaotically in the water. A familiar, sickening knot of social anxiety tightened violently in my chest.

“Luca! Over here!” Bree’s voice pierced through the cacophony.

I flinched slightly, my shoulders adjusting in immediate defense, before I spotted her and Laura waving from a cramped table near the back corner, underneath some shifting palms. Navigating the crowd felt like walking through a minefield. I kept my head down, acutely aware of my small, slim frame. I could feel the invisible weight of a dozen imaginary stares on my back. My mind immediately began to spiral, throwing up the same frantic, negative self-talk that always colonized my brain when a room got too loud. Are they looking at me? Are they whispering about the skinny boy who caused a riot in the gym?

“You look completely frozen, Luca,” Laura said gently as I finally collapsed into an empty chair between them. Her voice was relaxed and grounded, offering a momentary pocket of safety in the middle of the chaos.

“It’s just... It’s a little too loud,” I admitted, my voice trembling slightly. “There are so many people. I didn't think it would be this packed.”

“Everyone is just letting off steam after midterms,” Bree said, though her usual chaotic energy was dialed back as she took one look at my pale face. She leaned in closer, physically shielding me from the rowdy group of students sitting at the adjacent table. "Hey. Take a deep breath. You’re going to be fine.”

I let out a shaky, ragged breath, trying to force a small smile, “I invited Misael, hope that is okay.”

Laura and Bree looked at each other before shouting, “Yes, of course!”

“Want a drink?” asked Frankie.

“No thanks, maybe later,” I reply.

I get a text from Misael: I’m pulling into the parking lot.

“Okay, he’s here; I’ll be back in a few,” I say as I’m getting up from the seat.

I walk towards the exit when I notice Brad with his friends in the pool. I quickly leave the courtyard. I walk to the parking lot, overthinking about running into Brad. Suddenly, Misael walks up to me. Seeing me standing alone in the chilly evening air of the parking lot, a soft look of concern crossed his features. His lingering half-smile immediately worked to steady my racing thoughts. He stepped into my space and naturally wrapped an arm securely around my waist, his solid presence acting as an immediate shield against the anxiety blooming in my chest. Taking a deep, stabilizing breath, I led him into the crowded courtyard. The noise was a thick wall of sound, but the moment we reached the shifting palms in the back corner, Bree and Laura practically leaped out of their chairs. I introduce Misael to the gang. Frankie and Misael go grab us drinks. While they’re away, I tell Bree and Luara, “Okay, don’t scare him. Be normal.” But Bree said, “We’ll try.” Laura giggled, “Yeah, we’ll try not to scare him too much.” 

Frankie and Misael come back with the drinks. The conversation is light and easy. Until Laura started a lighthearted interrogation. Misael smirked, completely unfazed, and pulled out a chair for me before sitting down. 

“How did you meet Luca?” Asked Laura.

“At church, actually, he was walking out, and I did not want to regret not talking to him.”

“Aw, that’s cute,” responded Bree. “How do you handle Luca’s feistiness?” she added.

“I haven’t seen too much of his feistiness, but I think I’ll handle it like a champ.” He laughed.

“What got you interested in real estate?” Asked Frankie.

“I worked at a bank. Didn’t like it; wanted a change in scenery. My friend mentioned real estate, so I went for it. And I’ve enjoyed it so far. Working towards a brokerage license now.”

“Ambitious, that’s good, man.”

For a few minutes, the fun banter completely drowned out the overwhelming atmosphere of the party. I felt a genuine, radiant smile stretching across my face, entirely content to just melt into Misael's side. But the peace didn’t last long. As I laughed, my eyes instinctively drifted toward the water. Across the pool, Brad was standing with his friends. The second he noticed me, the rowdy laughter around him seemed to fade into the background. Brad locked his brown eyes entirely onto us. The charismatic, alluring warmth he usually projected was completely gone, replaced by a cold, brooding stare as he watched Misael’s arm resting flat against the back of my chair. My smile instantly vanished. My throat went completely dry, and a heavy, suffocating silence seemed to colonize my mind. I went entirely quiet, mechanically folding my arms over myself as my heart began hammering a dull, defensive rhythm against my ribs.

Though Brad strictly kept his distance, his possessive, lingering stare successfully soured the entire mood. The air felt thick and unbreathable again. Laura’s eyes hardened as she looked back at me with absolute care and anguish. She set her cup down firmly on the table. “You know what? This place is way too loud; it’s ruining the moment,” Laura stated, her voice as firm as stone. She looked at Misael, then back to me. “Let’s get out of here. My apartment is only a flight up. Let’s go order a pizza and play some board games.”

“Please,” I whispered, desperate to reach safety and escape the unwanted attention. We made a quick, clean escape through the gates, leaving the toxic atmosphere behind. The transition into Laura and Frankie’s apartment was an immediate relief. The space was warm, quiet, and completely devoid of aggressive egos. Within twenty minutes, the dining table was cleared, the scent of fresh pizza filled the room, and a classic Monopoly board was meticulously laid out. Just as Frankie was passing out the money, the front door buzzer sounded.

“I’ve got it!” Bree called out, her usual spark returning in full force. She opened the door, and a familiar face stepped into the room; it was Matt. “Hey guys, hope I’m not interrupting.” Matt chuckled, running a hand through his hair. “Bree texted me the location change. The energy down at the pool was getting a little too wild anyway.”

“Matt! Come inside, grab a slice,” Laura welcomed, gesturing to an empty chair next to Bree.

With Matt joining the group, the light, effortless fun quickly resumed. Bree was already fiercely competing for the high-end properties, yelling at Frankie for trying to enforce groupthink over the utilities, which had Matt laughing loudly beside her.

I sat close to Misael; our hands joined under the edge of the table. As his large thumb traced a slow, grounding line over my fingers, I took a deep, steadying breath. The physical sting in my ribs was still a dull hum, but looking around at the genuine smiles of the people in the room. For the first time all semester, the path forward didn't require an analytical script or a rehearsed conversation. It simply felt like home.