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He’s alive, and he’s with her, that’s the extent of what I know. My dreams provided me with plenty of possibilities, from a romantic trip to the seaside to a boozy few days in Vegas. Each scenario forces my fists to curl tighter. I can’t pick up a paintbrush without snapping it, so I don’t bother getting ready for class. Instead, I pull on jeans and a hoodie and make a beeline for the stadium. Someone has to know where Everest is, but getting them to tell me, the antisocial emo freak, will be another story.

Keeping my head low, I avoid everyone on campus by scrolling through the student forum on my phone whilst I walk. I already did this multiple times yesterday, but just in case I’ve missed an update, I do it all over again.

There’s gossip about the Radley match turning into a bloodbath, blurry photos of Everest swinging at someone in the rain, and a thread speculating whether their co-captainship x dating scheme is already dead on arrival. Beneath that, someone posts a picture of Thiago leaving the art studio with a large folder tucked beneath his arm, captioned #Meg’sPersonalAssistant. This one causes my brows to pull together. What is this guy up to?

I hear the stadium before I reach it, the clashing of sticks colliding with the air. I push through a side entrance, keeping to the maintenance tunnels as I’m used to doing. Out of sight, out of mind, and all that. With each echoing step, I expect to hear Everest’s voice, barking orders and correcting forms. However, as I step into the shadows at the edge of the bleachers, it’s not Everest I find blowing a whistle. It’s Thiago.

Standing in the center of the pitch in dark athletic gear, he’s all back slaps and constructive criticism as the team moves around him, repeating drills he asks of them. What’s even more surprising than his presence here is that the team is actually listening. This is not the uncoordinated team I’ve seen before, they’re actually working alongside and listening to each other. I stay beneath an overhang, half-hidden behind a concrete pillar, and simply watch. That’s what I’m good at.

Thiago runs the practice as if he’s been doing it for years, not a single sign of tension in his shoulders. Unlike Everest, he jokes with them, gives them space to rerun the drill without criticizing, corrects without humiliating. He has Meg’s clipboard in one hand, Everest’s schedule tucked under his arm, and the team’s attention in his palm. Again, what the hell is this guy up to?

Without even realizing it, my frustration at Everest is overshadowed by curiosity. Practice passes in a confusing mix of encouragement and ‘don’t-worry, you’ll-get-it-next-time,’ until the players are filtering out. I shrink back, remaining out of sight until I see an opening to follow Thiago out without being seen.

Collecting the art folder from the sidelines, he bypasses the locker rooms and moves through Hollowbrook with far too much ease. Wandering to the admin offices, he’s in there for seven minutes before making a beeline towards the parking lot. I’m careful to keep a certain distance between us, my hood up over my shock of white hair and hands tucked into my pockets at all times. As a car pulls up, I duck behind a building and peer around in time to see Thiago being handed two big bags of takeout. Far too much for one person. My chest stutters.

Does he know something I don’t? Is he meeting Meg, and in that circumstance, possibly Everest? Ice-cold dread filters through me, my feet becoming numb as I then continue to follow Thiago directly to the Calloway frat house. Every step closer further convinces me of that notion, that Everest and Meg are holed up somewhere right beneath my nose, being delivered food and god-knows-what-else from Thiago. I can’t help the images that flash before my eyes, a different threesome position appearing every time I blink. Is that jealousy stirring in my chest or bitter hatred? Both, definitely both.

However, when the door is opened, it’s merely a bunch of jocks and cheerleaders who appear on the porch to take the food from Thiago. He doesn’t hang around, waving as he skips down the porch steps, one singular tub of food left in his hand. Half twisted into a bush, I let Thiago pass, expecting him to take a path back to the dorm blocks. Although, ever the unpredictable bastard he is, he turns left and conveniently leads me all the way back to my own residence at Hawthorne House.

Presenting a key, Thiago lets himself into Meg’s room with me peeking around the corner, the door slamming before I slump against the wall. Aside from the trek around campus he just gave me, my lungs burn for a whole different reason. There’s too many coincidences, him covering practice, picking up Meg’s work, letting himself into her room. Thiago is covering for them. I just know it.

For a while, I mull over what to do. I start by entering my own room and dropping back on my bed, tapping my thumbs against my stomach. I don’t know this asshole. I don’t know how he thinks, how he works, or what his motive for helping Everest is. What I do know is, he’s not going to open up to me, a stranger who has no business asking questions.

But whilst the alternative is lying here, listening to the muted soundtrack of some video game filtering through the walls, I know I’m out of other options. I have to try. At least I have the decency to stew for a while, waiting for Thiago’s guard to lower and the air to settle before I can’t take my own company a second longer.

I’m standing in one smooth motion, the room and hallway blurring as I find myself outside her door, pounding my fist on the wood. Apparently, the time lapse did nothing for my own temper. Clenching my jaw, I wait for a sign of life, my patience wearing thin.

“Tech nerd, I know you’re in there!” I yell, banging again. This time, there’s a shuffle of a chair rolling and footsteps preceding the door opening. There he is, smug as fuck and not half as surprised to see me as I hoped.

“Reid, isn’t it?” Thiago greets me, leaning against the doorframe. Behind him, I see Meg’s room for the first time, and the level of comfort briefly takes me by surprise. She doesn’t have the paper-thin mattress I’m being forced to sleep on. She practically has a nest of pillows and blankets, accents of purple in the orchid sitting on her bedside table and the markers on her desk, where a high-spec computer sits before a plush gaming chair. Noticing my eyeline, a smirk lifts the corner of Thiago’s mouth, and I decide he’s wholly more irritating up close. Especially barefoot, wrapped in a blanket, the glow of the computer highlighting his afro like a shitty blue halo.

“What are you up to?” I narrow my eyes and cross my arms.

“Up to?” Thiago echoes back, raising a brow as he glances into the room and then back at me. “Can’t a guy use his girlfriend’s room to eat soup and level up her inventory?” On cue, the faint smell of soup seeps out into the hallway. He sure has made himself comfortable here, whilst I was spiraling right next door. Then, there’s that word. Girlfriend. He says it with such ease, as if Everest isn’t on some mission to do…what, exactly? Settle this once and for all, he said, and now I’m even more confused than I was two minutes ago.

“I’ve been trailing you all day,” I snap, my jaw tightening. “First you pick up Meg’s coursework, then you lead a lacrosse practice, drop off food at the Calloway place and now you’re here. So I ask again, what the fuck are you up to?” Wholly amused, Thiago’s blue eyes sharpen as a real grin pulls at his mouth.

“Wow, you really have been keeping tabs, and I haven’t seen you once. That’s some impressive stalking, maybe we should trade tips.”

I don’t care for his attempt to distract me. I don’t care for him, period. Stepping closer, letting my height and the hard set of my shoulders do the rest of work, I attempt to be imposing. Unfortunately, I seem to have met my match in Thiago, given that he doesn’t even flinch. Instead, his smile grows, which tells me Thiago is either brave, stupid, or accustomed to men trying to intimidate him in doorways.

“Where are they?” I growl anyway, determined to get the answers I came for, one way or another. Thiago tilts his head, studying me with an infuriating level of calm. I can almost see him sizing me up, deciding whether I’m a threat, an ally, or another complication Meg forgot to warn him about. In the end, he decides to give his answer in the form of a riddle.

“I can’t tell you that, amigo, but between me and you, Meg might not need any midnight one-on-one art therapy sessions in your room when she gets back. Her demons will be a thing of the past.” His brows bounce once, while mine furrow further.

What the cryptic fuck does that mean? Her demons will be a thing of the past. The only demon of Meg’s that I know is the one I directed everyone’s attention to… No, surely not. Surely Everest isn’t that stupid. Surely Meg wouldn’t agree to what Thiago is hinting at. They’ve gone to confront Harrison.

“Oh fuck,” I mutter, my hand lifting uselessly toward my mouth before dropping again. “Oh fuck, oh fuck.”

Thiago’s expression changes then, his smirk slipping as the roles reverse. He’s the one confused whilst I’m holding all of the answers they’re seeking. That Meg is seeking, with Everest by her side. Damn his hero complex.

My control vanishes so quickly, I almost trip over it. Stumbling back from Meg’s door, my phone is already being dragged out of my pocket with trembling fingers. They’re heading towards an ex-con who has no idea of the latest crime he was supposed to have committed. Harrison knows nothing of Laura. He has nothing to do with it, not this time. It’s all me. My plan, my idiocy, my fault.

Bringing the phone to my ear, I manage to shoulder the hallway wall, barely aware that I’m even moving. Three rings in, the voicemail sounds, and I clench my jaw.

“We have a problem. Call me back immediately.” Ending the call, I slam my bedroom door hard enough to rattle the hinges. Inside, my room is too bright, too many unfinished pieces of Meg staring at me with judgment etched into her face. I call again, pacing as the voicemail hits again. This time I growl, end and call straight back. Anxiety builds in my chest, stealing the very air from my lungs. The world blurs around me, my desk coming into view just before I drop into my chair. Come on, pick up, pick up. At last, the line connects and I find myself slumping to the floor.

“Finally,” I breathe, clutching a hand in my hair. It doesn’t help me to feel grounded, not one bit. “Where the hell have you been?” There’s a splash on the other end, followed by Laura’s voice, laced with irritation.