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Around me, students jump to their feet, stools scraping and bags zipping through the music bleeding into my ears. I shut it off but don’t bother removing the earbuds, leisurely packing away while the bulk of bodies exit. Finally shouldering my bag, I turn to find Meg is still cemented in her seat. She doesn’t seem to have moved at all, her blue eyes fixed upon the blank page before her without really seeing it. I recognize that look all too well. Body present, mind elsewhere.

The studio falls away, becoming replaced by the image of her sitting in group therapy. She would stare hollowly then too, her breathing shallow and hands clasped tight, but if anyone so much as looked her way, she’d glare them down. Anger is an easy shield. Indifference is a harder one to hold in place, acting as if you don’t give a shit when you’re bleeding from the inside, poison flooding your veins. All too easily, I can mirror her posture against a memory of me huddled on the bathroom floor at sixteen, waiting for the pain to subside long after the injury has dulled.

I should leave her there, lost in her thoughts, but for whatever unfathomable, possessed reason, I don’t. I step to her table and knock my palm against the edge hard enough to rattle it. Pencils skitter across the surface and clatter to the floor, while Meg jolts as if I’ve yanked her out of deep water. Her head shoots up, eyes wide and unfocused before recognition trickles back in. That glare I know all too well returns within an instant.

Stepping back to lean against the opposite worktable, I cross my arms and allow my eyes to roam over her. My beanie is off now, shoved into my satchel, my hair sticking up from where my hands subconsciously dragged through it too many times. My fingers are smudged dark, graphite smearing into my tattoos until the mess is indistinguishable from the rest of me.

“Productivity doesn’t seem to be a strong suit,” I murmur, tipping my chin toward her untouched sketchpad. She blinks, still somewhat unaware of where she is, then snaps the pad shut and shoves it into her backpack.

“Maybe if someone didn’t blare their music all night, I’d be able to get enough sleep to focus.” My mouth twitches before I can stop it. There’s a hint of satisfaction there, something Everest has explained to me many times, but I’ve only just experienced for the first time myself. Shouldering her bag, Meg circles the table to get close enough for the last traces of whatever she’s trying to smother to be visible in her expression. I straighten, looming over her and cocking my head to the side.

“Maybe you should knock next time,” I reply calmly, my gaze dragging over her face in search of damage I have no right to care about. Still, I find it with ease. Meg’s jaw drops, and I lean in close enough for the rosewater scent on my skin to reach her properly. Petty? yes. Worth it? absol-fucking-utely. “Or invest in earplugs.”

Something in her finally breaks, but not in the way I expected. Meg surges forward and grabs the front of my sweater, yanking me into her space with both fists. For half a second, I forget how to breathe. Her face is inches from mine, cheeks flushed and eyes bright. My pulse flips over itself, a lightning bolt of reckless stupidity firing through my veins.

“Or you could learn to use these more often,” she shoots back, ripping the headphone from my ear and slamming it into my chest. I catch it before it can fall, and a trace of interest flashes within before I can squish it.

Oh, this isn’t what Everest described at all. This isn’t the rise of defiant fury he actively provokes in her. It’s the result of being backed into a corner too many times, the survivor spite in her slamming against my own.

Even as Meg shoves herself a step back, I find myself searching her face, noticing something I’ve never dared to consider before. Meg has changed. She isn’t the award-winning, arrogant woman who threatened to ruin everything I’ve worked to build anymore. She’s a victim, just like me. Possibly the only person on campus who would be able to comprehend what I’ve experienced, not that I would ever share it with her.

For a beat, neither of us moves. The air between us vibrates with everything we refuse to say, a shared stubbornness leaving us in a stalemate. Then I step aside, turning to leave. Whatever just happened here, whatever has my heart slamming against my ribs, needs to be overanalyzed and pulled apart in the privacy of my room. Once I understand it, I can crush it into dust and move on. However, it seems Meg isn’t done with me yet.

“I want a name,” she states before I can reach the door. I pause, glancing back with a pierced brow arched. Standing where I left her, I visibly watch her piece back together her resolve, standing taller and chewing on her inner cheek. “I can’t keep calling you the asshole next door.” A laugh almost escapes me.

“Someone wasn’t paying attention at the clinic,” I almost sing-song, and her eyes narrow again. We both know I’m right. Meg has been barely present for the past few months. She didn’t care about the gray sweats, the therapy circles, or the boy in the beanie watching her from two chairs down. Meg was too busy drowning in her own damage to recognize anyone else even existed, which puts me at an advantage. I know the shape of her anger all too well, but now I have the strangest inclination to know what else is buried inside of her. That is a very dangerous notion indeed. Cracking my knuckles, I turn back to face her.

“Reid Wilder,” I state across the space between us. Then, the corner of my mouth twitches. “Although the asshole next door has a nice ring to it.”

Meg’s expression shifts slightly, satisfaction breaking through the irritation as if she’s won something. Maybe she has, because yesterday, I would have rather burned alive than give her a tiny piece of me, facade or not. I remain in the doorway for a stilted moment longer than necessary, unable to leave while she has the upper hand.

As my gaze glides over her, my tongue flicks out to wet my lips, and her attention catches on the movement. I don’t even have to fake the resulting grin. For the first time since I can remember, my smile stretches wide without being forced, muscle memory allowing an adequate stretch of my dimples. It isn’t a pleasant smile. It’s the grin of a predator catching prey in his trap.

“Good luck with expressing your emotions, Meg O’Connor,” I drag my eyes down the length of her and back up again. “Looks like you’ve got plenty bottled up.”

I leave before she can answer, before she can throw another insult that might make me want to stay, before she can look too closely and realize the trap works both ways.

The hallway swallows me in a wash of cold light and distant noise, but I still feel her behind me, burning holes through my back with those furious blue eyes. My fingers flex at my sides, Nicholas’ hands waiting unfinished in my sketchpad and Meg’s face already threatening to bleed onto the next page. If I thought I was close to working her out of my system, it would appear I was wrong. Meg O’Connor isn’t leaving my head anytime soon. In fact, it appears she’s only started haunting me.

Chapter Nine

‘You can’t have it all, Everest. Let me know when you’ve made your choice.’

Those words have haunted me all night. So has the image of Cody walking out of my study, tugging his hood up and disappearing into the shadows of my mind. I’ve replayed it over and over, wishing I’d held on tighter. Wishing I’d been able to tell him what he needs to hear. Everything would be so much easier if I could just say, it’s you, Cody. Only you. But I’ve concealed the truth from him too many times. He doesn’t deserve being lied to, no matter how much it pains us both.

Squinting against the sun pouring over the pitch, I turn my back and pace down the sideline, sparing another glance at the clock mounted above the bleachers. It doesn’t matter how many times I check, she’s still late.

Around me, players warm up with various degrees of skill, sticks shifting between hands, cleats scuffing across the turf, and laughter spilling too easily. They shouldn’t be laughing, they should be committing each other’s abilities to memory, but I don’t pick them up on it just yet. If my own co-captain can’t be bothered to show up on time for our first joint practice, then I have more to worry about than shitting on their parade.

Instead, I’m left stewing in my thoughts. Every minute she doesn’t appear in the archway entrance is another that I’m plagued by Cody’s ultimatum. Him or her. The shadows of secrecy or the blazing light that always draws me close enough to get burned.

There shouldn’t be any contest considering Meg O’Connor hates my fucking guts, because I spent years making sure she does. I made her keep a barrier between us, up until Harrison stole her away. Now, I can’t bear the barrier. I can’t handle her hatred, and the only reason I’m managing to cling to my nerve is knowing that anger is what will bring her back. Meg will walk through fire just to spite me, and I’ll keep goading her until she does so.

And that’s where I circle back. Yearning for her whilst depending on Cody’s love. Relying on his vow to always be there for me, no matter what. I know there’s only so long before he breaks, before I lose him for good. Before his charcoal-stained fingers and stormy gray eyes are no longer a part of my life. I just need him to hold on a little longer until…until I don’t know what. One of them makes the decision for me, I suppose.

A change in atmosphere shifts through the players behind me, and then I see her. Meg steps onto the field with the kind of expression that one would take onto a battlefield. Her shoulders are tight, jaw set, and every line of her body vibrating with tension. I swallow hard, experiencing the slow shutdown of my brain as she strides towards my side. She’s glorious, rolling her shoulders and cracking her neck as if she’s donning armor with each step.

“You’re late,” I drawl, forcing an uncaring tone through my teeth. Meg rolls her blue eyes in my peripheral vision, stopping beside me to bend in half and tighten her cleats. Crossing my arms so she can’t see my fists clench, I keep my stare stubbornly forward.