Chapter 26
Jul 18, 2025
Chase pulled me outside through the back doors of the cafeteria, fingers brushing my wrist like a tether that might snap. We ended up near the loading dock behind the auditorium, gravel crunching under our shoes, the sky a dull gray like it couldn’t decide whether to cry or combust.
“Talk to me,” he said. Just that. Nothing else. No fire. No begging. Just three words that landed heavier than any punch he’d thrown.
I stood there, arms folded, not looking at him. My shirt was still damp from Miles’s drink. The soda had dried sticky, like a second skin I hadn’t asked for. But Chase didn’t care about that. His eyes stayed on mine, steady and searching, like he wouldn’t move until I cracked.
“You’re really going to pretend like that didn’t happen?” I asked.
He exhaled, slow. “I’m not pretending anything. I just need you to say something that isn’t a scream.”
My lips curled. “I wasn’t screaming. Yet.”
“I know.” His voice was low. “But I also know what it looks like when you’re ready to burn the world down.”
Silence stretched between us. Not the awkward kind. The kind that hurt. That said we knew too much and not enough.
Finally, he spoke again. “Come with me.” I didn’t ask where. I didn’t roll my eyes or argue. I just followed him.
Past the dumpsters, past the quad, past the windows filled with eyes pretending not to stare. We ducked into the gym through the side entrance, the kind only athletes used during practice. The bleachers loomed like old ghosts. Empty. Familiar. Dangerous.
He didn’t say a word until we were halfway up the wooden rows, knees brushing. The same place we’d sat during the fake-dating act that never stayed fake for long. The same place he first saw me fall apart.
“I shouldn’t have lied to you,” he said. I didn’t respond. “I told myself it was to protect you. That the truth wouldn’t help. That dragging Eli into this would just make things worse.”
I stared at the polished floor below us. “And what did pretending do?”
He sighed. “Hurt you.”
“Congratulations. You succeeded.”
His hands twisted in his lap. “You were right, you know. About Miles. About Amber. About me.”
“You don’t get points for honesty after the explosion.”
He looked over at me, expression unreadable. “Why didn’t you tell me how much it hurt?”
I laughed under my breath. “You think I didn’t?”
“Not really. You pulled away. You acted like it didn’t touch you.”
“That’s funny. Coming from you.”
He tilted his head. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You’ve been hiding behind guilt so long you don’t even know what vulnerability looks like anymore. You think feeling something is weakness, so you shut down the second anyone gets close.”
He didn’t argue. Just stared straight ahead like my words echoed.
“You kissed me,” I said. “You promised me something real. And the second it got hard, you left me on read like I was a glitch.”
“I was scared.”
“So was I.”
The air shifted again. Softer. Sadder. “I kept thinking,” he said, “if you knew everything about Eli… you’d never look at me the same way.”
“You were right.”
His jaw clenched.
“But not for the reasons you think,” I continued. “It’s not what happened that changed how I see you. It’s how you handled it. You never let me in. You made decisions for both of us like I was just a bystander in your story.”
He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “I’ve never done this before.”
“What? Feel guilty?”
“No. Let someone stay.”
My chest ached. I hated how badly I wanted to reach for his hand. How badly I wanted to believe this time would be different. That this time, he’d stay and so would I.
“I didn’t know how to let someone carry my worst parts,” he said. “And when you started seeing them… I panicked.”
I nodded slowly. “You wanted the version of me that didn’t question anything.”
“I wanted the version of you that let me feel like I wasn’t broken beyond repair.”
I swallowed. “Too bad she doesn’t exist anymore.”
He turned his head, eyes meeting mine. “I don’t want her. I want the girl who stood up in the cafeteria and told Miles to fuck off.”
“She didn’t do it for you.”
“I know.”
We sat in the quiet for a long time. Breathing. Not touching. Just two people sitting in the wreckage of everything they’d pretended wasn’t real.
“I’m not ready to forgive you,” I whispered.
“Don’t,” he said. “Just say you’re not done.”
