Chapter 3 — Notebook Discovery

Rosie

Campus parties are like bad rom-coms: overhyped, predictable, and always ending with someone crying in the corner over a spilled drink. And yet, here I was, standing in the middle of one, clutching my *Notebook of Disasters* like it was the only thing tethering me to reality.

To be clear, I didn’t want to be here. This was entirely Gisele’s fault.

“Rosie, you’re coming. No arguments,” she had declared earlier, practically vibrating with excitement. Her earrings—oversized cherries this time—had bobbed with every emphatic word. “You’ve been in hermit mode since the semester started, and that is unacceptable. You need to live.”

“I *am* living. Just… not on your terms,” I’d countered, holding up the notebook like a shield. “Personal growth, yes. Public humiliation disguised as ‘fun,’ no.”

Cam had stepped in with her usual soft-spoken logic. “Gis, maybe we shouldn’t force her—”

“Nonsense,” Gisele interrupted, her tone all steel wrapped in glitter. “You don’t grow by hiding in your room. Rosie, this will be *fun.*”

Spoiler alert: It wasn’t.

Which is how I found myself in someone’s overheated off-campus apartment, surrounded by sweaty students who smelled like too much Axe body spray and regret. Music blared loud enough to make my teeth buzz, the sticky floor threatened to rip my sneakers off with every step, and the air was a mix of cheap beer and questionable cologne.

“You okay?” Cam asked, her warm brown eyes scanning me as we maneuvered through the crowd.

“Define ‘okay,’” I muttered, gripping the notebook tighter. It was digging into my palm, but I didn’t care. Having it with me felt like carrying a piece of armor.

Cam’s smile was sympathetic, while Gisele popped up on my other side, practically buzzing with uncontainable energy. “You’re mentally narrating your escape right now, aren’t you?” she teased, her cherry earrings swaying like miniature pendulums of judgment.

“I’m loose,” I deadpanned, holding up the notebook. “Loosely tethered to my sanity.”

Gisele threw an arm around my shoulders. “You’re impossible, but I love you for it. Now come on, mingle! Pretend to have fun!”

Reluctantly, I shoved the notebook into my jacket pocket—the biggest one I had—and let myself be dragged into the chaos. Gisele flitted from conversation to conversation, dropping compliments and exaggerated laughter like confetti, while Cam hovered nearby as a quiet buffer. Meanwhile, I trailed behind, feeling like the awkward extra in someone else’s sitcom.

“Drink?” Gisele offered, holding out a neon red cup filled with something suspiciously fluorescent.

“No thanks,” I said, eyeing the cup like it might spontaneously combust. Knowing my luck, I’d spill it on myself and spend the rest of the night reeking of artificial fruit punch and misery.

Before Gisele could press the issue, a voice I hadn’t wanted to hear for the next eternity cut through the din.

“Hey, hey, if it isn’t one of the famous Troutmans!”

My stomach flipped as Sullivan Starr stepped into view, his stupidly broad shoulders and perfect, effortless smirk making him look like he’d strolled out of a glossy sports magazine. Of course he was here. Because life wasn’t just a rom-com; it was a tragicomedy, and I was the punchline.

“Sullivan,” I said flatly, my tone cold enough to freeze the room.

“Troutman,” he replied with that stupidly easy grin, the one that made me want to chuck a drink at him.

“Why are you everywhere I go?” I demanded, crossing my arms.

“Fate,” he said, his Henley-clad shoulders shrugging casually. “Or maybe I just have great timing.”

Gisele stepped in, her tone dripping with faux-sweetness. “Well, if it isn’t Mr. Quarterback. Shouldn’t you be off signing autographs or selling protein powder or something?”

Sullivan chuckled, completely unfazed. “Nice to see you too, Gisele.”

Cam touched my arm lightly, her calming presence a balm against the rising pressure in my chest. “Rosie, maybe we should—”

“Everyone! Gather around!” someone yelled from the center of the room, cutting her off. “It’s game time!”

The crowd surged, and before I could escape, I was swept into a circle of mismatched chairs and sagging sofas. Gisele plopped onto a beanbag, patting the spot beside her. “Come on, Rosie. Don’t be a buzzkill.”

“I live to be a buzzkill,” I muttered but sat down anyway, wedged between Gisele and Cam. Unfortunately, Sullivan took the seat directly across from me, his blue-gray eyes gleaming with that infuriating mix of amusement and challenge.

The game—a chaotic hybrid of truth or dare and charades—quickly devolved into shouting and laughter. I avoided participating, content to fade into the background, but fate (or Gisele) had other plans.

“Rosie!” someone called, pointing at me. “Your turn!”

I froze. “Uh, pass?”

“No passing,” Sullivan said smoothly, leaning back in his chair with infuriating confidence. “House rules.”

My glare could’ve melted steel. “Fine. What’s the challenge?”

The game master grinned wickedly. “Compliment someone in the room.”

The group whooped like this was some groundbreaking scandal, and my face burned. My first instinct was to lob a sarcastic comment at Sullivan, but I refused to give him the satisfaction.

“Cam,” I said quickly, turning to my roommate. “You’re the sanest person here, and your kindness is unmatched.”

Cam blushed, her shy smile radiating warmth. “Thanks, Rosie.”

“Boring,” someone groaned.

“Classy,” Gisele countered, raising her cup in mock approval.

The game moved on, but Sullivan’s gaze lingered on me, heavy and pointed. I refused to meet his eyes, but the awareness prickled under my skin.

Eventually, the chaos of the game became too much. I slipped away, weaving through the crowd to the quietest place I could find—the kitchen.

I was rummaging through a sad selection of snacks (pretzels, questionable salsa, and stale tortilla chips) when a voice spoke behind me.

“Didn’t think this was your scene.”

I turned to find Sullivan leaning lazily against the counter, his cup dangling from his fingers. Of course. Because the universe clearly hated me.

“It’s not,” I replied curtly. “What do you want?”

His gaze flicked to my pocket, where the corner of my *Notebook of Disasters* was sticking out.

“You left in a hurry,” he said, his tone softer, more curious. “Everything okay?”

The hint of concern in his voice threw me off balance, and I bristled. “I’m fine. Just needed air.”

“What’s with the notebook?” he asked, nodding toward my pocket.

I shoved it deeper. “None of your business.”

“Touchy,” he said, smirking. “What, is it full of evil plans? Or maybe a list of grudges?”

“If you must know, it’s personal,” I snapped.

“Relax, Troutman,” he said, holding up his hands in mock surrender. “I’m just curious. You carry that thing everywhere.”

“So what?” I shot back. “Maybe I like having a record of all the idiotic things people do. Keeps me entertained.”

“Glad I made the cut,” he said, his grin widening.

I shoved past him, my heart pounding with a mix of irritation and something uncomfortably close to embarrassment. I needed to get out of here.

As I stormed toward the door, I didn’t notice the notebook slipping from my pocket. Not until much later, back in my room, when I reached for it and found nothing but empty air.

And somewhere, I imagined Sullivan holding that stupid notebook, his curiosity piqued, the wheels in his head already turning.

Because of course he’d find a way to make this worse.

Because that’s just what Sullivan Starr did.