Worth It

Aaliyah smoothed down her sleek blouse, scanning the extravagant penthouse suite her friends had rented for the week. Floor-to-ceiling windows framed the glittering city skyline, and the dining room gleamed with polished silverware and luxurious décor. It felt over-the-top, but that was typical when Malika, Nala, and Nashwa decided to host a “simple” dinner.

She rubbed her temples. They call this simple?

When she’d arrived, the three women were already fussing over the seating arrangement and meticulously setting out curated table decor. Nashwa insisted that the lighting be “warm and inviting,” Malika demanded a perfect arrangement of flowers, and Nala hovered near the chef’s private station, tasting final dish preparations. Aaliyah found the whole production exhausting.

She settled in a plush chair at the far end of the dining table, letting out a breath. I should be used to this by now. She’d grown up surrounded by wealth, but she’d distanced herself from the extravagance once she’d pursued her own academic path.

Tonight, however, they’d cornered her with an invitation she couldn’t refuse, something about “catching up properly.” She had an uneasy hunch that they wanted to grill her about Cruz—her so-called “track crush.” The memory of Cruz’s cold shoulder at the track meet still stung. But my friends are relentless once they latch onto gossip.

--

From the open kitchen doorway, Nala called, “We’re ready to serve. Everyone sit.”

Aaliyah rose, smoothing her blouse again and moving to her assigned seat. Malika and Nashwa entered with the chef trailing behind, carrying a tray of appetizers. He set them on the table—miniature amuse-bouches that looked too pretty to eat.

Malika dropped into the seat next to Aaliyah, crossing her long legs. “So,” she purred, flipping her hair, “we want updates.”

Aaliyah feigned ignorance, lifting a bite of delicate pastry to her lips. “Updates on what?”

Nashwa rolled her eyes dramatically, sliding into the seat opposite. “On your track crush, obviously.”

Aaliyah’s stomach knotted. They’re jumping straight to it. She kept her face neutral. “I don’t have a track crush.”

Nala burst out laughing, taking a sip of chilled white wine. “You told us about her ages ago, remember? The student you found very distracting. We haven’t forgotten.”

Aaliyah swallowed, trying to keep her composure. Her mind flicked to Cruz—the heartbreak, the silence, the final meet fiasco. She forced a scoff. “That was a passing mention. Not a crush. Besides, you three read too much into it.”

“Sure, sure,” Malika teased, leaning forward. “Then why’d you get so flustered when you talked about her? You called her your ‘Track Star Girl,’ if I recall correctly.”

Heat crept up Aaliyah’s cheeks. They’re not letting this go. She carefully cut into her appetizer. “I was just remarking on a promising student. It’s not a big deal.”

--

Nashwa arched a perfectly shaped brow. “We hear rumors, you know. Word on the street—” she paused for dramatic effect, “—is that you have quite the dynamic. Our little well-bred, sophisticated lady having eyes for some scrappy jock.”

Aaliyah bristled. “She’s not ‘scrappy.’ She’s intelligent and passionate about her work.”

Malika exchanged a sly grin with Nala. “Ooh, defensive already,” Malika sing-songed. “She’s more than just a jock. So is that your type?”

Nala jumped in, smirking mischievously. “We’ve taken to calling you two ‘Lady and the Lady Tramp.’ You know, like the Disney reference, except both ladies.”

Aaliyah nearly choked on her wine, eyes widening. “Excuse me?”

“Lady and the Lady Tramp,” Nashwa repeated, her tone playful. “Since you’re so posh and refined, and she’s from a completely different world.”

Aaliyah’s jaw clenched, a protective surge rising. They have no idea about Cruz’s background or her struggles. “That’s rude,” she said, voice taut. “She’s not a tramp. And I’m not as posh as you make me out to be.”

Malika’s eyes sparkled with amusement. “Calm down, we’re only joking. Lighten up, will you?”

Aaliyah inhaled, forcing herself to remain composed. “Maybe find a more respectful nickname. She’s… she’s a good person.”

Nala’s lips curved in a knowing smile. “Uh-huh. So you do care about her, yes?”

Aaliyah swallowed, momentarily thrown. I can’t reveal how I really feel. She shook her head, feigning indifference. “I just don’t want you insulting someone who’s done nothing to you.”

Malika and Nashwa exchanged glances, then shrugged. They seemed entertained by Aaliyah’s reaction, despite her attempts to stay cool.

--

Dinner officially began as the chef served an array of exquisite dishes: truffle risotto, seared scallops, a sprinkling of microgreens drizzled with some expensive reduction. Aaliyah picked at her food, appetite dulled by her friends’ relentless teasing.

Malika leaned in, voice carrying that typical socialite lilt. “So, if you’re not actually crushing, care to explain why you’ve been dropping references to a certain track meet?”

Aaliyah stiffened. “I haven’t been dropping references. I just mentioned I attended a final track meet for some of my students.”

Nala gave a sly smile. “You never used to watch random meets for your undergrads. Something changed.”

Aaliyah forced a casual shrug, swirling wine in her glass. “I’m a TA now, so supporting them is part of the job, that’s all.”

Nashwa snorted delicately. “We know you well enough to smell the BS. You’re deflecting.”

A flicker of anger sparked in Aaliyah’s chest. What do they want from me? She snapped, “Fine, I admire her skill. She’s dedicated, overcame a lot. That’s reason enough to watch.”

The trio exchanged smug glances, each one looking triumphant. Malika whispered, “Aw, she’s protective of her ‘track star.’ So sweet.”

Aaliyah’s fork trembled in her hand. She disliked how easily they cornered her, but she refused to spill the complicated truth. I won’t admit I have feelings that are overshadowed by heartbreak.

Finally, she set down her fork. “Enough. Let’s talk about something else.”

--

The conversation shifted, at least momentarily, to Nala’s recent travels. She boasted about partying in Ibiza and yacht-hopping in the Mediterranean. Malika chimed in about new fashion lines. Nashwa described their upcoming plans to summer in some exotic locale. Aaliyah tried to show polite interest, though her mind kept drifting to Cruz. They’d freak out if they knew I almost kissed her.

Eventually, Malika circled back. “So, dear Aaliyah, any upcoming social events on campus? We’re bored with these fancy places. We want something… real.”

Aaliyah paused, sipping her water. She recalled overhearing about the track team’s big blowout. Should I mention it? She hesitated, but Nala’s piercing stare demanded honesty. “There’s apparently a track team party this weekend… just a typical campus gathering, from what I hear.”

Her heart fluttered at the admission. She’d no intention of going. The memory of Cruz’s coldness and heartbreak was enough to keep her away. But now I’ve told them.

Nashwa’s eyes lit up. “A real college party? Are we invited?”

Aaliyah forced a laugh. “It’s open invite, I think. But it’s not your scene. It’ll be loud, messy, and full of undergrads.”

Malika’s entire face glowed with mischief. “Exactly. We never got the true American college experience. Partying in Ibiza or Mykonos doesn’t count as a campus rager.”

Nala clapped her hands, squealing. “Yes! Let’s go! We can dress down, blend in.”

Aaliyah’s gaze darted around the table. “You three have never wanted to ‘blend in’ anywhere,” she pointed out dryly.

Nashwa waved a dismissive hand. “We want the fun vibe. It’s on campus, right? That’s new for us.”

Malika fixed Aaliyah with a determined stare. “Take us. We want the full experience. Cheap drinks, loud music, questionable dance floors.”

Aaliyah’s stomach knotted. I do not want to face Cruz in a party setting. “I’m busy. Finals, dissertation… no time for parties.”

Nala made a dramatic pout. “But you said it’s this weekend, right? Right before finals? Perfect time to let loose.”

Nashwa nodded, beaming. “And you owe us after all the dinners we invited you to and you left early.”

--

Aaliyah tried to argue. “I’m not sure it’s appropriate for me to show up at a student party. I’m a TA.”

Malika smirked. “A young TA. It’s not like you’re an old professor. And it’s an open invite, you said so yourself.”

Nala played the guilt card, hand over her heart. “We stuck by you through Ehsan drama, that track fiasco, all your complaining about academic stress. Now we want a taste of normal college life.”

Aaliyah frowned. “It’s hardly normal. Probably more chaotic than normal.”

“That’s the point,” Malika drawled. “We can handle a little chaos. Unless you’re too scared to see your Lady Tramp.”

A flash of anger rose in Aaliyah. “Don’t call her that.”

Malika’s eyes sparkled triumphantly. “You’re protective,” she teased. “But fine, we’ll drop the nickname. Just bring us to the party. We want to see what the fuss is about.”

Nashwa nodded, leaning closer. “Please, Aaliyah? We promise not to do anything too outrageous.”

Aaliyah sighed, trapped. She knew her friends wouldn’t relent. If she refused, they’d keep badgering her or attempt to crash the party on their own, which might be even worse. At least if I go with them, I can keep them from causing a scene.

Rubbing her temple, she finally mumbled, “Fine, I’ll go. Just—don’t expect anything glamorous. It’s a bunch of undergrads, loud music, cheap booze.”

Malika and Nala clapped, while Nashwa exclaimed, “Yes! We’ll pick outfits!”

Aaliyah’s mind reeled. I can’t believe I agreed. She pictured stumbling across Cruz at the party. The tension, the heartbreak… This might be a disaster. But it was too late to back out. Her friends cheered, awarding themselves a victory.

--

Once the main course was served—lavish fillets paired with rare garnishes—the conversation drifted to lighter topics. Aaliyah barely tasted her food, mind spinning with the knowledge that she’d attend the track party. She wanted to revoke her agreement, but her friends were too jubilant, making toasts and discussing potential wardrobe choices.

Malika raised a glass of expensive champagne. “To us finally living the real college dream!”

Nala and Nashwa clinked glasses with laughter, while Aaliyah gave a half-hearted tap of her flute. The bubbles fizzed, matching the churn in her stomach. College dream? More like college nightmare if I run into Cruz.

After the final course—an indulgent dessert trio—the group shifted to the living room, where they lounged on plush sofas. Aaliyah tried steering the conversation away from Cruz, focusing on travel stories or new designer lines. Yet, every so often, they’d sneak in a jibe: “Oh, what if your track star sees us?” or “We’ll help you hide if you get embarrassed.”

Aaliyah forced polite smiles. She felt exposed, as though her friends saw right through her feigned indifference. I don’t want them humiliating Cruz or fueling more rumors.

--

Eventually, nearing midnight, Malika and Nala drifted off to check on some social media fiasco, leaving Aaliyah alone with Nashwa in the lounge. The city lights glowed through the floor-to-ceiling windows, a breathtaking panorama that only heightened Aaliyah’s sense of vulnerability.

Nashwa placed a gentle hand on Aaliyah’s arm. “Hey, are you okay? You’ve been tense all night.”

Aaliyah managed a wan smile. “I’m fine. Just… academic stress. You know.”

Nashwa studied her. “I think it’s more than that. Listen, we tease, but we do care. If this track girl is causing you heartache, maybe it’s time to lay everything on the table. Even if it’s just to yourself.”

Aaliyah’s throat constricted. To myself, yes, but I’m not telling you. Out loud, she said, “It’s complicated. And it’s over, anyway. We can’t… We’re not…” She trailed off, flustered.

Nashwa squeezed her arm softly. “Okay. Just remember, you’re allowed to feel. Even if it doesn’t fit the perfect image everyone expects.”

Tears threatened behind Aaliyah’s eyes. She gave a curt nod, swallowing the ache. Why can’t life be simpler?

--

Soon after, Malika and Nala returned, giggling about some online drama. They insisted on a final toast to the “upcoming college party.” Aaliyah forced a small laugh, raising her nearly empty champagne flute. They’re so excited.

Nashwa winked. “We’ll look up typical ‘college party’ outfits. Maybe crop tops and jeans, or is that too subtle?”

Aaliyah pictured the track team party’s likely vibe: red solo cups, loud music, sweaty dancers in a cramped off-campus house or a gym-turned-club. Her friends, used to VIP service, might be in for a culture shock. But maybe they’d thrive on the novelty. I just hope they don’t make a scene with Cruz.

Their dinner ended with goodbyes, air kisses, and gentle prods for Aaliyah to “confirm the party details soon.” As she slipped into her coat, Malika patted her shoulder. “Cheer up, darling. If Ms. Track Star sees you having fun, she might change her tune.”

Aaliyah froze, a swirl of emotion knotting in her chest. “I’m not going there for her. I’m just… indulging you guys.”

Malika’s grin was knowing. “Whatever you say.”

--

Aaliyah stepped out into the chilly night, her breath fogging in the air. A private driver awaited her, courtesy of her friends, but she waved them off. “I’ll call a cab, or walk a bit. Clear my head.” She needed the cold air, the solitude.

Her friends shrugged, farewelled her, and climbed into their own limo. As it pulled away, Aaliyah shoved her hands in her pockets, heading down the quiet street. City lights illuminated wet pavement, the faint sound of distant traffic lulling her. I agreed to that party. Great.

She pictured the upcoming weekend: final exams prep, the track blowout in full swing. The odds of seeing Cruz there were high. Am I ready for that? We’re barely on speaking terms. Her heart twisted. But maybe I can keep my distance. Let my friends enjoy the spectacle while I slip out.

She paused under a streetlamp, swallowing the knot in her throat. Yet a small part of me wants to see Cruz. The thought both thrilled and terrified her. If they locked eyes across that crowded room, would Cruz remain cold, or might something shift? Don’t be naive, she chided herself. She made it clear she wants me gone.

All the same, she found herself walking home with an odd swirl of dread and anticipation. This could be a final confrontation or a final chance for closure. The city’s rumble offered no answers.

--

Back at her apartment, Aaliyah peeled off her heels, sank onto the couch, and stared at the dark window. The day’s events—the dinner, the banter, her friends’ new obsession with a “college party”—loomed in her mind.

She tried reading dissertation notes but gave up after re-reading the same paragraph five times. I can’t focus. Leaning back, she let her thoughts drift to Cruz. She imagined explaining to her friends why she couldn’t be with a student, the near-kiss that complicated everything, the heartbreak that followed. They wouldn’t understand. They think life is a fairytale.

A flicker of guilt for calling Cruz a “scrappy jock” in her mind. I never said it out loud, but my friends basically did. She recalled how fiercely Cruz pursued her research, how earnest she was about humanitarian issues. A twinge of pride welled up. She’s so much more than some jock.

But reality remained. She hates me now. If her friends teased Cruz in front of everyone, Aaliyah feared it could escalate. I have to keep them in check.

Eventually, exhaustion won out. She let her eyes close, drifting into uneasy sleep filled with half-formed images of neon-lit parties and Cruz’s unreadable face in the crowd.

--

Sunlight pried Aaliyah from a dream where she was dancing in a cramped room, searching for Cruz among faceless dancers. She woke disoriented, the memory of her friends’ dinner crashing back. Right. We’re going to the track party.

She rubbed her forehead. Final exam days approached—she had to handle last-minute grading, answer student emails, and finalize her dissertation chapter revisions. But her mind kept returning to the upcoming weekend, the potential fiasco it might bring. Focus, she snapped at herself, heading to her desk.

She forced a routine: tea, scanning emails, sorting lecture notes. I can’t let personal drama derail me. She typed out a quick message to her friends, asking them not to blow the party out of proportion, but ended up deleting it. They’d ignore me anyway.

--

That afternoon, Aaliyah received a barrage of messages in their group chat:

[Malika]: Good morning, sunshine! Can’t wait for the party.

[Nala]: We found the address from some rando on campus. We’re set!

[Nashwa]: What do we wear? Low-key or high-key? Are we trying to stand out or blend in?

Aaliyah’s stomach twisted. They’re too enthusiastic. She typed back tersely:

[Aaliyah]: Keep it simple, please. It’s not a fashion runway. Just typical college casual.

[Malika]: Don’t worry, we’ll handle the style. We want the authentic vibe, but cuter.

[Nala]: Also, we might bring a friend. That’s okay, right?

Aaliyah muttered a curse under her breath. They’re going to show up with an entourage, aren’t they? She responded:

[Aaliyah]: It’s an open invite, but I can’t guarantee space. It might be crowded.

Nashwa sent a flurry of excited emojis, concluding with:

[Nashwa]: So pumped! We have to see your track crush IRL. #LadyAndTheLadyTramp

Aaliyah’s teeth ground. She shot back:

[Aaliyah]: That name is offensive. Stop.

The group chat devolved into playful laughter and heart emojis. They’re unstoppable, Aaliyah thought, tossing her phone aside. I should never have mentioned the party.

--

By day’s end, Aaliyah had responded to half a dozen student emails, updated the class forum with final exam reminders, and forced down a salad for dinner. Her mind remained entangled in dread about the upcoming weekend. She pictured the party’s swirl of bodies, her friends’ extroverted personalities, and the potential for them to corner Cruz. The last thing Cruz needs is mocking from my snobby socialite friends.

She considered messaging Cruz, warning her that she might show up with friends, but the notion felt laughable. She wouldn’t appreciate a heads-up from me. Plus, it’d look like an excuse to contact her, something Cruz clearly didn’t want.

So Aaliyah remained silent, letting the tension fester. She’d keep her friends in line, do her best to avoid crossing Cruz’s path, and maybe slip out early. Yes, that’s the plan.

--

As the evening fell quiet, Aaliyah reflected on the dinner fiasco. She was sure her friends would keep poking at the “Lady and the Lady Tramp” joke. She hated it, yet found herself silently longing for a chance to defend Cruz’s character—to show them how passionate and capable Cruz really was. But that would mean admitting my feelings, which I can’t.

She moved to her balcony, the city lights sprawling beneath. A soft breeze ruffled her hair. I said yes to the party. Now I have to face the consequences. If fate wanted them to meet again under chaotic strobe lights and cheap drinks, so be it.

Leaning on the railing, she whispered into the night, “Cruz, I hope you’re okay.” The confession evaporated into the city’s hum, unheard by its intended recipient. She wrapped her arms around herself, the sense of impending confrontation weighing heavy on her chest.

Inside, her phone pinged with more group chat notifications from Malika, Nala, and Nashwa—links to “college party outfit ideas” and squealing about which denim brand was best. Aaliyah let it go unanswered. They’re about to learn real college parties aren’t nearly as glamorous as they expect.

--

The day after the dinner, Aaliyah carried on with her routine: advising sessions, dissertation writing, and final exam preparations. But the gnawing knowledge of the upcoming track party loomed. She wished her friends had chosen some exclusive club instead of forcing her into a place teeming with undergrads—and quite possibly, Cruz.

Yet she reminded herself: I gave my word. She wouldn’t back out now without a storm of drama from Malika, Nala, and Nashwa. Better to see it through. One night, she told herself, ignoring the pang in her stomach. If she spotted Cruz, she’d keep it brief—maybe a polite hello, or maybe no interaction at all.

But as she returned to her apartment that evening, the memory of the dinner stuck in her mind—her friends coining that cruel moniker, calling Cruz “Lady Tramp.” She recalled how she’d bristled, borderline snapping at them. I barely know how to handle my own heartache, let alone defend Cruz.

She sank onto her couch, exhausted. I’m sorry, Cruz, she thought, though no one could hear. I wish I could fix everything. She closed her eyes, letting the city’s night hush her turbulent thoughts—knowing that soon, at a party she never wanted to attend, she might face the heartbreak she’d avoided for too long.