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Without a second glance, I casually say, “See you tomorrow, bright and early,” as I continue walking.
“Mr. Stiles.” His calm voice drifts through the air, leaving me motionless, refusing to turn and face him.
“Tha-Thank you for not only tonight, but today also.” I know what he means when he refers to today. He’s talking about at the trailer park. I choose not to respond and continue walking, but when I reach the end of the hallway, I glance back and find Brayden staring right at me. He appears expressionless, as if he’s lost in his own world. My feet suddenly become heavy, as if they are weights. Walking away from him feels like one of the hardest things to do.
What is this boy doing to me?
Chapter fifteen
Brayden
Once more, I awaken to a pounding headache, but this time I recall everything. I remember the anger that still simmers in my veins, waiting all night for my brother to turn up. I can still remember the doors opening and closing, and each time I held onto a glimmer of hope, thinking he might appear.
One night that is all I asked of him. One fucking night.
I told Kal and Tray too; they knew how excited I was for him to come out with us. He made me look like a dickhead in front of my friends.
Then, the anger fades, and his images quickly come to mind.
Mr. Stiles.
What the hell was that last night? Was that all a figment of my imagination? The way he stared at me, the way he touched my arms and brushed his fingers along it. I hate the feeling it created in me. It was the drink it had to of been. When I see him later, it will feel as if nothing occurred, and the alcohol simply intensified the situation.
I think.
I grab my phone from my pants pocket and when it lights up; I see I have an unread message. It’s from Bexley. I grip the phone tightly; the anger returning as I read the one simple sentence.
Bexley:
I’m sorry, bro.
That text was sent at 4 a.m. He was out all last night selling for that piece of shit instead of being at the bar with me. And not only my friends but people that want to be his friend as well. I know Tray would speak to him if he had only come.
Me:
Fuck you.
I’m not saying anything else. I’m too pissed right now. I know Bexley and he won’t reply. He’s a fucking coward sometimes.
I open up Instagram and then wonder if it was my story that prompted him to text me. I remember in my drunken sulking state putting up an indirect story clearly for him to see. I glance quickly to check who watched the video, but I don’t spot Bexley’s name. I have two hours until first class, so I scroll through out of curiosity.
Because my profile is public, I receive a lot of views on my stories from people who know me from hockey. I often get asked by puck bunnies if they can turn me bi for a night. My attention is drawn to a name, causing me to frown. Who the hell is @thestilestman? My mind is focused on ‘stiles,’ which is why I noticed it. But I’m also intrigued by the use of ‘stilest.’ Is it a different spelling for ‘stylist’? Intrigued, I click on it too, which causes me to gasp.
It’s Mr. Stiles. Why was he looking at my stories? And how the hell did he come across my profile?
There isn’t a lot on here, only four pictures. There are three men: one who resembles him, possibly a brother, and another younger-looking man. All three of them are good-looking, clearly showing their familial connection. I proceed to the next one and there he is, accompanied by a stunning girl. The camera captures their bright smiles. She appears slightly younger, but not by a significant amount. Maybe it’s an old girlfriend. I notice a picture of him with a woman who appears to be roughly in her forties. I don’t know why I’m so intrigued to find out who these people are. I notice a comment on one of them by an account called @RyStiles saying “two of my favorite people.” I try to access her account, but it’s private.
I return to Mr. Stiles’ profile and check out his most recent photo. He captured a photo of the beach with an incoming storm indicated by the dark black clouds on the horizon. The caption of the picture reads, ‘We hate storms, don’t we, Jace?’
Who’s Jace?
When I examine Mr. Stiles’ pictures, I can’t help but notice his lack of happiness in real life compared to these photos. I understand pictures don’t reveal everything about a person, but something feels off. As I lock eyes with Mr. Stiles and smile, I can’t help but wonder what caused him to lose his shine.
I arrive early to class and wait in my usual seat, but it appears Mr. Stiles is running late or not coming at all. I become restless in my seat, questioning if he changed his mind about revealing everything to the dean regarding yesterday’s shit show.
“What’s up?” I glance up at Kal, who is seated beside me, his brows furrowed as he gazes at me. His eyes scanning my face, likely attempting to figure out what is wrong.
“You know what I told you last night about Mr. Stiles coming to mine and the thing with Karl.” Kal nods.
