Chapter 9
Jul 18, 2025
The worst part isn’t that he kissed me like the world was ending. It’s that now he walks past me like I’m furniture with a pulse. One hallway, two glances, zero acknowledgment.
I’m tracking his avoidance like a forensic scientist. Different stairwells. Altered lunch schedules. The boy has turned dodging me into an Olympic sport.
Third period, I corner him by the vending machines. Because subtlety is dead and I killed it.
“Really? We’re doing the invisible thing now?”
Chase doesn’t even look up from feeding quarters into the machine. “Doing what thing?”
“This.” I gesture between us like there’s actual substance there. “The pretending I don’t exist thing.”
He punches B4. A Coke crashes down. “Nothing to pretend about.”
“Bullshit.”
Finally, he looks at me. His eyes are flat. Bored. “What do you want, Zoey?”
The question hits wrong. Too casual. Too distant. Like I’m some random girl asking for directions instead of someone who had his hands under my shirt three days ago.
“I want to know why you’re being a dick.”
“I’m not being anything.” He pops the Coke open. “I’m just not being whatever you needed me to be.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
He takes a sip, studying me like I’m a mildly interesting science experiment. “You got what you wanted. Miles sees you with the bad boy. Mission accomplished.”
My chest tightens. “That’s not what this was about.”
“Wasn’t it?” He leans against the machine. “You wanted to flip the table. Make some noise. Well, congratulations. You made noise.”
“You’re such an asshole.”
“Yeah.” He shrugs. “I am.”
There’s something in his voice—not anger, not indifference. Something hollower. Like he’s stating a fact instead of defending himself.
“Why are you doing this?” I ask, quieter now.
“Doing what? Being honest?” He pushes off the machine. “You want to know the truth? I don’t do the girlfriend thing. I don’t do futures or feelings or whatever fantasy you’ve got spinning in your head.”
“I never asked for—”
“You didn’t have to ask. It’s written all over your face.” His voice is getting sharper. “You want someone to save you from your boring life. But I’m not that guy.”
“I don’t want you to save me.”
“Then what do you want?”
The question hangs there, loaded and waiting. I want to tell him I want him to stop looking at me like I’m a problem he needs to solve. I want to tell him I see the way his hands shake when he lights cigarettes. I want to tell him I know he’s just as scared as I am, just better at hiding it.
Instead, I say, “I want you to stop being such a coward.”
His face goes blank. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me. You’re scared that I might actually give a shit about you, so you’re running.”
“I’m not running from anything.”
“Bullshit. You’re terrified someone might actually see you.” I step closer. “What are you so afraid of?”
He laughs, but it’s ugly. “You think you know me?”
“I think you’re working really hard to make sure nobody does.”
“Maybe there’s nothing to know.”
“Maybe you’re full of shit.”
We stare at each other across three feet of hostile air. His jaw is tight, his hands clenched around the Coke can. I can see his pulse hammering in his throat.
“I don’t have a future, Zoey.” His voice is quiet now. Dangerous. “I don’t have college applications or five-year plans or whatever neat little boxes you’ve got your life sorted into. I’ve got nothing.”
“That’s not true.”
“Isn’t it?” He steps closer. “You want to know what I see when I look in the mirror? My dad. Same eyes, same temper, same talent for fucking up everything I touch.”
My breath catches. “Chase—”
“So yeah, I’m running. Because that’s what I do. That’s what we do.” He crushes the can in his fist. “And you’re better off without me proving it.”
He turns to leave, but I grab his arm. “What if I don’t want to be better off?”
He looks down at my hand on his sleeve, then back at my face. For a second, something cracks in his expression. Something raw and desperate and real.
“Then you’re stupider than I thought,” he says.
