Pretty long update because how has it been two months since the last chapter??? Plot points in this chapter. 

Nothing ever ends poetically. It ends and we turn it into poetry. All that blood was never once beautiful. It was just red. 
— Kait Rokowski 

Sphallolalia 
(n.) flirtatious talk that leads nowhere 

August 15, 2023 

Things have started to improve in the past couple of weeks. 

Like the shroud that had enveloped this house has lifted a little bit; like the shroud that had eclipsed the sun has pulled back; like the shroud that covered Mom's body has melded with her skin and given her an ethereal glow that's made the memory of her wistfully evocative. 

It's the nineteenth night in a row that I haven't woken up crying. 

It's the third year in a row I'm spending a birthday without Chance. 

It's the first birthday without Mom. 

I suck in my cheeks, biting down on the flesh. 

It's six in the morning, it's a Tuesday, it's the summer, and it's my birthday. 

I head to my en suite to brush my teeth. 

Under different circumstances, turning eighteen would be a monumental moment in my life. Except the circumstances aren't different, so the affliction dampens the whole celebratory spirit. 

But when I exit my room for a glass of water, I find the hallway littered with purple, red, green, orange, pink, blue, and yellow balloons. 

What— 

I walk into the living room, and the usually bare East wall has been stripped of the surrealistic and miniature canvas painting. In its place is a backdrop of golden streamers and a two-tier cake before it. 

Two candles with the numbers 1 and 8. 

A pressure builds up behind my eyes. An intensifying pressure that stings my eyes with moisture. 

I sniffle, and the sound attracts Carlos' attention, who looks like a fucking fool standing in a pair of black sweatpants and a plain black t-shirt amidst a plethora of blinding colors. 

He's holding a half-inflated golden balloon that's shaped like the number 8, and on the acrylic center table is an inflated golden balloon in the shape of the number 1. 

He looks like a deer caught in three pairs of headlights. 

"Carlos..." I whisper in disbelief. A lump forms in my throat that restricts me from speaking any further. 

"Callista!" he exclaims, eyes wide like he didn't expect me. 

"Happy birthday." 

His words are little more than a shaky whisper with a wide smile, a cautious step of an uncertain man, and my heart twinges again. I can't seem to swallow the stone that's lodged in my throat. 

"I— I didn't think you'd be up so early. And I'm sorry about the whole—" He gestures towards the balloons merrily resting on the floor. "—yeah. I still have to hang them up. I didn't know if you had plans for the evening with your friends, so I got it set up in the morning." 

My heart is about to burst. 

"But, as you can see, I still have to deal with the balloons and the— oh, breakfast isn't ready yet. Since you're already up, I'll make some...?" He trails off like he doesn't know what else to say. 

Gods, he doesn't have to say anything. 

The gesture is all that matters. 

Not to mention yesterday was one of the bad days. He'd fallen in so deep last night; I thought he'd spend the entirety of today drowning in a Remy Martin. 

I smile, but the smile is wobbly from the force it's taking me to keep the tears at bay. 

My stepfather's face pales, and he sets the balloon and the inflator on the center table top, a look of anxiety and panic taking over his features. 

"I'm sorry— I know you didn't want to celebrate, but I— you don't have to do this if you don't want to, it's alright. This was stupid anyway. What with Ashley gone and— I'm sorry—" 

I shake my head and a rogue tear slips from the corner of my right eye. 

He's the picture of a man in troubled distress, and I suddenly feel like the world's biggest fucking bitch. 

"No, no, I just—" Fuck. "I just didn't expect this." 

He opens his mouth to say something but I beat him to it. "I love it. I love it. I— I didn't plan on doing anything grand, but I love it, I love it. Thank you. Thank you." 

I'm still mumbling "Thank you, thank you," as I navigate through the balloon-infested floor toward him, and throw my arms around him. 

He appears taken aback but recovers quickly, and then I'm engulfed in a cinnamon hug. The hug lasts longer than I expect, and I shut my eyes and welcome the embrace. 

A confession. "I don't know how to do this without her." 

"Me neither," I admit. 

From the first few weeks of knowing him, I'd gauged that Carlos was a gentle person, with a certain kindness even toward those who gave zero fucks about him. He was an affectionate man with a fragile heart, a heart that my mother had stolen away with her on the day of her passing. 

I had my mother's fire and penchant for bouncing back from anything life struck her with. I was more worried about how he would push through the despair. 

Carlos was a softer, benign man, and the way he navigated the aftermath of her death was much more admirable and responsible than three-quarters of the world's population. 

He pulls back. Smiles at me tightly, painfully. I know precisely why. 

Other than the curve of my nose and the complexion of my skin, genetics had disregarded Marcel Huxley and had taken into account all of my mother's features. The most striking similarity was the shade of my eyes. 

Emerald green, like my mother's, unlike the navy blue of my father's. 

He swallows. 

I wipe my eyes with the sleeves of my sweatshirt, feeling like a total idiot for reducing to a sobsock so easily. 

"Ashley told me—" A break in his voice as he speaks my mother's name. "Black Forest. It's your favorite, right? I can get another one if you're not in the mood for it." 

I sniffle one last time and push back the weight of the absence of my mother, and drift over to the cake. It's beautiful. I almost don't want to eat it. 

I pluck a cherry right off it and scarf it down. 

Carlos reprimands me for asymmatrizing the cake before taking a pic, but I stick my tongue out and pluck another cherry from the other side of the cake. The anxiety that was screening him retreats, and I'm offered a wholehearted smile. 

Glimpses of happiness are rare these days. 

I savor the moment. 

The balloons are forgotten, though they do add vaguely to the aesthetic. 

"I'm not good at vocalizing solo, but I'll try my best," Carlos says, and I laugh when he sings Happy Birthday in the most off-tune tune there is. 

"That's an obscene amount of cake for just two people," I say an hour later, throwing myself on the couch. 

He sends me a knowing smile. "You're going to want to binge on all that chocolate and cherry for the next week." And he's absolutely right. 

There's still a curtain of anguish in his eyes. 

It's a lot more prominent right now. 

I comfort myself with the thought that Mum is sitting right here, beside the two of us, smiling, laughing, never abandoning us. 

It's a nice day. 

He kisses my forehead and whispers good night, the first time ever. Only Mom used to do that to me. 

The next morning, I wake up at nine-thirty, but when I go to the kitchen, Carlos isn't there. I check the living room. The porch. The garage. The car's still there, so he isn't out. I head inside to his bedroom. 

The door is shut. I turn the handle. 

Unlocked. 

And then brown, stale blood. So much. Everywhere. 

A kitchen knife in a hand sprawled across the floor. Lifeless, sunken eyes looking up at the ceiling. A final expression of longing, sorrow, and hope etched forever across a face that'll never see the light of day again. 

I scream.  

Wednesday — September 6, 2023 

When I walk into school the next day with a chilled, non-alcoholic Curaçao to-go, it's eight twenty-five. 

Coffee was getting boring so I decided to try something new. I left for school earlier than usual because I wanted to take the longer route to school that brushes the edge of Blackwood Forest. 

I'm in the process of depositing my disposable cup in a trash can at the end of the hallway when I feel a shadowing presence behind me. 

My skin prickles and when I turn around, a twenty-inch-shouldered bastard is looking down at me with mocking doe eyes. 

Euphemizing my instinctual bitch face with a flat smile, I take a step sideways to get the flapping fuck out of there and proceed with my day. It's way too early for this shit. 

My to-do list for the day has the following items: 

1. Get into a bitch fight with Sabrina, steal her phone in the chaos, delete the porno video of me and Chance, and toss it in a pile of dogshit (hunt for dogshit first).
OR
Kiss Sabrina's ass, become a minion, steal her phone when she's not suspecting it, delete the porno video of me and Chance, and tuck it back safely where I stole it from. 

2. Get cozy with Drake because he's a darling, and I might be developing a teeny tiny crush on him (verify if he's toxic with Des first). 

3. Deal with Chance. 

4. Find out WHAT THE FUCK does he keep yapping about. 

5. Don't go anywhere near his crown jewels; don't let him anywhere near mine. 

6. Don't. Chicken. Out.

Marcus, though, has other plans in tow. 

"Can we talk?" he asks, stepping into my space so that I'm stepping away to not touch him only to end up spilling into an empty classroom. 

Wonderful way to start a Wednesday morning. 

"That is speculative." 

Whoever designed the infrastructure was a moron. Marcus leans against the doorframe and crosses his legs, hands hanging loosely in his pockets, leaving me maybe half a foot's space to make my improbable escape. Unless I hack those shoulders off and give myself an extra foot's gap. 

"It's about Chance." 

My heart stops and my face falls. I open my mouth to say... something? I seal my lips again. 

"Hm?" Right, he's still waiting for a response. 

"What about him?" is all I can string together. 

A dramatic eye roll that Regina George would envy. "He's descended into a complete self-and-universe-loathing bastard since the day you showed up." 

And that's my fault how? 

"The worst thing I've done to him is simply exist. If he wants to be such a bitch about it, then he's just got issues that need sorting out." 

He pushes off the doorframe and walks over to me. I stand my ground this time because I'm not letting people boss me around. I might be labeled 'New Girl', but I've got experience dealing with rich entitled bastards. Namely: thirteen-year-old Chance, Marcel Huxley, etc. 

"Besides, you're his best friend, aren't you?" Phantom hands squeeze my heart when I speak the label that was once mine. "Shouldn't you know whatever the fuck's going on with him?" 

He's standing an inch away from me now, staring at me thoughtfully (that's the nice way of saying he virtually looks like he wants to clock me in the throat). "So you don't deny that his descending into his worst self is because of you?" 

Did it even matter anymore? 

Anyone with eyes could tell that something had gone down between us, and it had been battered by hail and lightning and thunderous spirals. 

"Look, Marcus, all I can say is that I haven't done jackshit to him. The masochistic behavior he's indulging in me can't be blamed on me." 

And that should be the end of the conversation. I've spoken my mind, so peace out bitches. 

But of course not. 

"Babe, Chance is genuinely one of the best people I know," A hand reaches out to caress my hair. "And I don't like you painting him as a sociopath with mental issues." 

Then, said hand fists my hair, and the softness in his voice turns to animalistic rage. 

"I'm pretty sure I'm violating, like, ten different constitutional laws right now," My waist hits the teacher's desk as he forces my feet backward. My blood turns cold and clammy fingers scramble for purchase. "But fuck with him again and I'll skin you alive, morality be damned. You understand?" 

"I—" 

Shock paralyzes half of my body. The other half is glitching from the amount shit it's straining to process. Everything happens so fast, I don't have time to react. 

"That a yes?" 

The face that stares down at me is the picture of vengeance. I swallow; I'm so lost, so conflicted, and so ready to drive off a cliff with Chance's body hanging off the hood. 

"Yeah," I squeak, wincing as his hand retracts and settles on the desk beside my waist. 

It's over just like that. My head and my heart struggle to catch up; I'm breathing fast. 

I hear a soft chuckle and realize my head is bowed and my eyes squeezed shut, quick breaths tangling in succession. When I open my eyes, I find Marcus looking at me with morbid amusement. 

"Shit, did I scare you that bad?" And he's grinning like it's the best thing he's ever known. 

I need to get out of here, and I need to get the fuck out of here. 

"Are you done?" I speak once my voice is fortified again. "Because I've got class and I really don't want to be late." And I really don't want to be anywhere near you because you're fucking raving lunatic. 

Another one of those eye rolls. "Stay. Just for like five minutes. We missed our chance Monday evening. And yesterday, you were just a straight-up bitch to me." 

I don't think he got the memo that I want nothing to do with him after he fed the fire and the flood that Chance was raining down on me. 

He misunderstands my perplexed silence, and given the three-brain-celled creature he is, I shouldn't be surprised. "Don't worry, you've got a chance to make it up to me now." And a wink. 

Shivers run up my body at the realization of our proximity, and not the good kind. I need to end the fictional, fantasy, nightmarish land he's ballet-ing in. 

"Marcus," I say when he leans his forehead against mine. If I go for his throat again, or his balls, pretty sure he's not going to be the kindest twenty-inch-shouldered guy in this building. 

"Mhm?" 

"I really, really want to get away from you. Like, six minutes ago." 

His face is the one that falls this time, but he steps away anyway. Wind rushes at me and I feel like I can breathe again. Chance really hangs out only with his kind of crowd. 

"Thank you," I say civilly, ignoring his blabbering invite about his always being there for me if I needed to release some steam. As I speed-walk out of the classroom, I look up for a moment and realize it's labeled Advanced Placement Calculus. 

I pause at the doorstep. 

Just my luck, right? 

My watch reads eight-thirty-three. Two minutes to class, so there's nowhere I can escape to and return in time. 

I grit my teeth and turn one-eighty degrees on my heels, ignoring the way Marcus' face lights up, and head over to the last bench at the corner of the class, burying myself in self-misery and silent awareness of the activities of the male in the classroom. 

He sits down too, and pulls a textbook out from the storage space under the desk. 

I don't know what the fuck just happened, but I didn't like it one bit. I do know that Marcus is now officially on my shit list and that, I can live with. 

●⁍●⁍● 

Destiny keeps me company in the second and third periods. 

I spend Fifth Period sucking up to Sabrina while Sasha eyes me with a newfound interest that I can't begin to understand. Sabrina's phone is clasped in her manicured fingers for all forty minutes, so I'll have to go home and celebrate my utter failure with three nice flutes of Champagne. 

The fourth and sixth periods are a blur of me trying to figure out the dynamics of Hazel West and Ryder Ashdown's personalities. Drake makes a brief cameo while I'm switching classes and — for some reason — I can't stop smiling after that. 

I eat lunch with the same crowd as yesterday, and when Drake walks me to my Graphic Arts class — because it's right across from his Economics class, — my stomach flutters with nonsensical fireflies. 

Amidst all this, I forget that the only reason I'm even able to have one normal day is because Chance Ambrose hasn't shown up to desanctify my body today. When I do recognize the fact, I wonder if he decided to ditch the day. Then again, Marcus' presence had been absent during lunch too. 

Maybe they were off plotting evil ways to pick on unsuspecting new girls. 

We have Information Technology together last period, and we're paired up for practicals because V and W are snugly close on the name list. 

"I think you might be my favorite new student ever yet," he says with a sideways grin as he pulls a chair out for me in the lab. 

"No way," I fake gasp, smiling as I sit down and turn on the CPU. 

"Yes way." Drake switches on the monitor and hijacks the keyboard and mouse. "You're taking care of the theoretical part." 

Bastard. 

We stick to light, harmless talk for the beginning of the class, getting our work done quickly with occasional sphallolalic comments. It's nice until somehow the conversation steers through rocks and debris and turns the ignition off right before the ghastly cabin called 'Chance'. 

"You can choose not to answer if you don't want to," he says before the questions begin. "I'm just curious. Like everyone else. There aren't many people who show up at the beginning of Senior Year and manage to turn Chance Ambrose inside out like a pissy washcloth." 

Well, damn. 

"You used to live here in Blackwood before?" 

I nod. "My whole childhood, in fact." 

An arch in an eyebrow. "Damn. What happened?" 

"My parents divorced." 

An arch in both his eyebrows. 

"My mom met someone else so she moved to Canada to live with him. I got along better with her than my father so I went along with her. That was three years ago." 

"And now?" 

"They're both dead." 

His raised eyebrows shoot up to his hairline. A detached part of me finds his reactions amusing. 

I remember smiling to myself last week while reminiscing about the times we'd shared. It had been an incredible life. And then I was bawling my eyes out at the reminder of never again. 

Maybe if I was back at my childhood house all alone without the knowledge of the presence of my mother back there, maybe if I was locked in my room with no one but myself to love and hate and no one to wish good morning and good night — maybe then I'd be crying again. 

But out here, where everyone would see me lose my shit? No, I'm going to keep it together until I'm safely isolated. 

"I— Fuck, Callista, I'm so sorry—" I know he's sputtering words he doesn't mean because he thinks he fucked up by asking the wrong questions but that's alright. They're dead, and they're dead. Thinking about them, or talking about them, or neither of the above won't change anything. 

"It was a while back, so it's alright. Well, my mother, I mean. My stepfather, he—" I stop myself when I see our teacher checking up on the paired students beside us. And I'm glad for the interruption because I was overflowing and spilling my heart onto his side of the desk. He didn't care; I was just making a fool of myself. 

"We don't have to talk about it if you don't want to," Drake says and I'm half-sure he's saying it only to get himself out of the conversation, and that's fine. People do that, and I can't change people. They have no obligation to listen to sob stories they don't want to. 

"Mhm," I mumble, clicking on random links and watching the pixels rearrange themselves. "I'm sure you've got much more interesting questions up your sleeve." 

"I— uh," I glance at Drake and his mouth is open like he's looking for words that he can't find, so he shuts it and clenches his jaw. His knee begins bouncing, and then he says, "If you ever wanna talk about it, I, uhm... I've got crazy mommy issues too, so like, if you ever, you know, just— yeah..." 

I think this is the first time I've seen Drake Valentino out of his element. 

"Just—" 

"Yeah," I whisper, a reticent smile twitching my lips. 

"Yeah," Drake affirms, and the awkwardness and weight in the air dissipates. 

The subject of Dead Parents And Mommy Issues is forgotten. 

When, after a while, the subject of Chance reappears, I'm not even surprised that it's the only thing he's interested in. 

"Only if you promise to keep your mouth shut," I say, an edge of warning in my tone. There's nothing in the rulebook that says you can't eviscerate a dude who doesn't keep his promise. 

"I won't, scout's honor." Three raised fingers and a golden retriever smile. "I just want the scoop. Well, the tea — to be precise." 

I smile, then sigh as I think about Chance. 

"We were friends," I begin slowly, but the word friends just doesn't feel right. Too mundane and without depth for the bond we once shared. 

"We were friends," I say again with more conviction because I'm simply drizzling chocolate and raspberries and pretty words on plain vanilla. "Before my parents' divorce, we were friends. And then, we weren't." 

The unconscious, impatient tapping of Drake's pen against the spacebar fills the silence. 

"And?" he nudges when I stop speaking. 

"And that's all there is." 

"No." 

"Yes." 

"That is fucking anticlimatic!" His hand slams down on the desk as he exclaims, and I wince as the paraphernalia is set rattling. "You literally told me on Monday evening that you guys were depressed as shit because you were separated and that he then turned into 'a complete asshole who's high on meth', so there's clearly more to the story than you're letting on." 

Oh, that. Right. I should really start talking a little less. "Let me rephrase: that's all you're getting." 

The bell rings and everyone in the class files out, but Drake does not let me leave. 

A pleading expression, a soft, encouraging voice, a cautious climb over one-half of my wall, (I lost count of how many) charming smiles, pretend respectful boundaries, and five trick questions later, he squeezes out that there was — and is — bad blood between mine and Chance's parents, that Chance and I were very, very close friends, that I point-nine-eight-three-six percent thought — and think — he's attractive, that I wish things between us weren't so bad, and that I want nothing more than my Chance back. 

Fuck. 

●⁍●⁍● 

Maybe I won't have to celebrate my utter failure with three nice glasses of Champagne. 

"So y'all're like, an item?" Sabrina asks when Drake and I part ways in the hallways. I think he mentioned something about football that I don't remember — because I was busy alternating between slapping the shit out of a virtual Chance and then climbing it like a koala and smashing my lips on his. "You and Valentino?" 

Shouldn't have thought about him so much. 

I was doing so well until IT. 

"No, Sabrina, we're friends. I hang out with him like I hang out with Des because he's fun to be around. Do you get the analogy?" 

Destiny's told me that all Sabrina cares about is enticing reactions from people so I clip the leash of the part of me that jumps at the prospect of any stimulus to a box plastered with a neon label that reads 'Do Not Open'. 

"Thank fuck, you can't have Chance and Drake," she says with a laugh that has an undertone of patronization, and I ask, "What?" 

"Nothing." Her cheery smile is up again. Just your average Sabrina Lopez character, so I pay her supercilious disposition no regard. I'm not here to entertain the idea of becoming her bosom buddy; I just need to get that video deleted and all will be well. 

My eyes turn to large circular discs when she extends an invitation of an evening-cum-late-night drive through Blackwood Creek, 'just us girls'. 

I say yes before I can think, but when I walk through the front gates of my house, — walk, because Destiny needed to head down to the med store for her mom and it would take a while, so no Lexus-passenger-princess-treatment for me — I begin to wonder if maybe I should've said no. 

I mean, a late-night drive with Sabrina Lopez? What if I do end up dead in a ditch with my throat split open this time? Okay, maybe my father wasn't being entirely unreasonable with wanting to know about my whereabouts. 

Speaking of Marcel Huxley, as I make my way across the front yard once I reach my house, I spot him seated on a stone bench at the shoreline of the artificial pond. The pond isn't huge, only about twenty-five square feet. 

I do a double take, and a triple, because how the fuck is he everywhere all of a sudden? It's almost like the universe isn't letting me stick a toe out of line with his knowing. What happened to his being constantly absorbed in an interminable pile of work? 

He's staring at the pond with a distant expression, but when I turn away and make for the front door, the sound of my ankle-length boots scuffling with the asphalt catches his attention, and he looks up. 

Isn't this a pleasant afternoon. 

His eyes land on me, and for a moment, it looks like he wants to say something. Then he swallows and whatever he planned on saying is consigned to oblivion. 

I'm about to leave, but then remember that I'm going out with Sabrina later in the night and he'll throw a hissy fit if I set sail without telling him. So, for precautionary measures, I inform him that I'll be out with a few friends in the night. 

"Which friends?" he asks, and I have the subtlest urge to roll my eyes in Marcus-plus-Regina-George fashion. 

"Sabrina Lopez," I say. 

"Sabrina Lopez?" He's the one who does a double-take at me this time. "As in the daughter of Nicholas Lopez?" 

The name sounds vaguely familiar. "Maybe, I don't know. I'm not particularly interested in inquiring about the family trees and generational lineage of my friends." 

He looks away from me and back at the pond with a look in his eyes that says: Lord, give me the strength to deal with this. I purse my lips in offense. 

"Nicholas Lopez is...?" I trail off, not exactly wanting ask him outright who that person is because, like, I don't like looking like a clueless idiot. I'm pretty sure I've heard of the man, though. 

"Head of the Senate," And I blink in surprise. That's why he sounded familiar  — I've seen him on the news. "Prospective candidate for the 2024 Presidential elections, according to the nosey part of the media." 

If Sabrina is the daughter of the President of the Senate, then I'm not dealing with an average rich bitch; I'm messing around with the daughter of a powerful person. 

Note to self: DO NOT get on Sabrina's bad side. 

Speaking of elections, I needed to apply for my Voter's ID. Since I didn't get my Canadian citizenship, I'm legally still a citizen of the US. 

He abandons the matter of Nicholas Lopez, and I almost do roll my eyes when he asks, "What time will you be back?" 

"Eleven or half-past," I say, making his eyebrows raise judgmentally. 

"Eleven?" he repeats, disapproval clear in the tone he uses. Okay, boomer. 

"Or half-past," I repeat for good measure. "Because I'll be leaving around seven. I'm just letting you know." Not asking for approval that's a decade too late. 

An exhalation and flattened lips. "I'll ask Lillian to prepare an early dinner." 

"That's not required; I'll get something outside." And because I'm already so conflicted over Chance, I don't need my mind diverging over another person as well. 

Eight days and eighteen years he's been radically absent from all spokes of my life; why's he suddenly been so interested in socializing since Monday?  

"Are you sure?" 

I nod. Can I go upstairs now, please? 

I'm pretty sure that's what my body language says because he doesn't keep me any further, and despite being slightly disappointed by my refusal, he relents and says nothing more. 

A sharp pinch in my chest makes me realize that alright, I might have been a little too harsh, but shouldn't giving someone a taste of their own medicine be exhilarating? 

There's a fine line between what should be and what is. 

I walk up to the front door to let myself in and hibernate until Sabrina's Porsche comes honking down my driveway. 

I should probably get my own car. 

These are the thoughts I'm immersed in when I reach for the door handle, but before I can wrap my fingers around it, the welded metal twists on its own, and then the door swings open and I'm standing face to face with a woman with fiery red hair — and I straight up go what the fuck. 

Briar Solace. 

Infamously known as the woman my father cheated on my mother with. 

The memory of Mom shouting at my dad isn't a pleasant one. Then again, she had also been cheating on him with Carlos and had happily driven off into the sunset with him — with the luggage and I strapped to the back seat — so I guess the blame's either on both of them or neither of them at all. 

There are two mugs of coffee in her hands, — I recognize those mugs: they're usually stacked in a cupboard in my kitchen — and a file is tucked into the crook of her elbow. 

"What—" I begin, turning around to look back at my father to gauge his reaction. Apart from the subtlest of grimaces, there's nothing in his expression that indicates surprise. 

It's his life; he's allowed to do whatever the fuck he wants. But still, it hasn't even been half a year since Mom died, how's he so unaffected? 

Three years of being divorced, I remember, and so naturally he's severed all threads of emotional connection with her, this lucky bastard. 

I stamp down on the surge of baseless anger, resentment, and desolation, and offer Destiny's mother a smile I force myself to give and push past her. 

Is it honestly that hard? Dedicating your heart to the one person you swear to live your life with? I don't know what love is, but I do know that it isn't a mass of reneged promises or constant years of secrecy and disloyalty. 

I sit down on a barstool at the kitchen island, wrapping my fingers around a glass tumbler and lifting it to my lips. 

Why promise yourself to another if you know they're not the one? That's one thing I never understand. Are our stars truly that splintered? 

There's another file on the kitchen island, this one lying open. I set the glass on the countertop, and then lean closer to see what it is. 

A scattered stack of pictures, some in color, some not. They're pictures of people. Single snapshots and group photos. I unintentionally cringe; most of them are unattractive. 

There's a white sheet below the pictures. Curiosity is a conniving little cat, and who wouldn't want to cuddle the knock-off cuteness? So I gather the matte photo papers and stack them up, pushing them to a side. I ignore the paper clip that falls to the ground. 

In bold, black, Agency FB letters: 

MIDTOWN MANHATTAN, NEW YORK, THE UNITED STATES OF A— 

"Excuse me." 

I pull back like a pickpocket getting called out in the middle of Times Square on loudspeaker. 

Mrs. Solace slams the file shut and bends down to retrieve the fallen paper clip. 

"Oh, you stacked the pictures," There's an edge to her tone. Then she smiles at me. "Thank you, dear. I can get messy sometimes." 

At least she didn't make the divorce messy. 

She lingers for a moment, eyes on me uncertainly, and it resembles a crazy huge part of Marcel Huxley. Like she wants to ask or say something. But she leaves anyway. 

How long have the two of them been together, I'm wondering. Destiny would've told me if they'd tied the knot, so that was out of the question. 

Maybe I'm looking at this far too rationally. They're both adults living their lives the way they want to, and that is it. 

Still. 

Was this what — was this who — my father had been preoccupied whenever he said he had work? The prospect slightly hurts. 

●⁍●⁍●  

"You're going to get us killed," I say as a matter of factly five hours later when Sabrina runs another speedbreaker. 

"Judy Hopps has more balls than you and she's barely two feet tall," she says in my same assertive tone. 

That's so out of context but okay. 

She runs a red light this time, and the only reason we're not sent barreling down the road is because the intersection is empty. 

"You're going to get us arrested," I say this time, but she waves me off. 

"They wouldn't dare." And a self-assured smugness radiates from her as she says it. 

"So you are Nicholas Lopez's daughter." 

And then there's the realization that stealing phones technically is a crime but not worse than stealing the phone of the daughter of the Vice President of the United States of America. 

I'm fairly certain it sounds alarming when put like that. 

"I'm famous?" she says bemusedly and laughs when I roll my eyes. 

The headlights fall on a signboard that reflects THANK YOU FOR VISITING BLACKWOOD CREEK and then we're entering the town of Sparrowville. 

Sabrina smirks at me, then lightens the press of her foot so that the accelerator drops from eighty mph to about thirty-five. Down the road, there's an upturned trash bin, and when we pass by it, the headlights light it up. 

My eyes go wide when I see that there's a man inside the large green bin. On his hands and knees — completely inside it, — hunting for food. Gods, I haven't even seen dogs do that. He pulls back and sits on his knees, clothes torn and face gaunt. 

The soft pink Porsche screams money, and the way he eyes the car as we pass — like it's otherworldly; an impossible dream — it makes my stomach contract. 

When I'm still looking at the man, my head turning around to look back, Sabrina says, "They need to pull themselves together and get themselves employed. Living like this, it's on them." 

"There aren't enough job vacancies. Hell, I've seen engineers have to turn into daily wage workers because of that." 

She clicks her tongue. "That happening is a one in a million ratio." 

That's clearly an exaggeration. "Still." 

She draws her lips together. "When my father wins the 2024 elections, I'll ask him to create another anti-poverty scheme. Happy?" 

When. Not if. 

She pulls up outside a dark building, and through the window, I can see strobe lights flashing — like the Winter Festival of Lights is trapped inside those four walls. 

Her triple-wing-liner eyes eye me mischievously and I wonder if I could maybe just knock her out cold and take the wheel and speed back to my Craftsman. 

She grabs my hand and says, "Come on!" and I know there's no getting out of this. 

●⁍●⁍● 

"And honestly, at this point, it— feels like they only wanna talk to me 'cuz I, like, know that bastard son of fuckin' chicken— oh! I'm s— s— sorry—" 

I hiccup again and the nice guy shakes his head at me with a smile, reaching for a napkin to wipe away the drink I spilled on his forearm. 

"I should stop drinking," I tell him, distantly aware that I said the same question... maybe forty-three seconds ago? Or was it three shots? "What am I drinking again?" 

Nice Guy is still smiling as he makes me another shot. 

"Silver tequila," he says, holding up a transparent bottle. "Lime juice," then an orange bottle: "Cointreau." Dunno what that is but I trust Nice Guy. He puts some powdery thing around the rim, and I gasp. 

"It's just salt, don't worry." And then he slices up a lemon and places it on top. Slides it toward me from across the bar top. 

"But— but I want an umbrella." I point at the drinks the couple four stools away from me are drinking. 

"Those," he says slowly, like I'm a little kid. Bitch. "Are cocktails. Umbrellas aren't for shots." 

"But I want one. Please? I'll leave, like, a seven-star review on—" Hiccup. "—Tripadvisor. Pinky promise."   

"Jesus." 

He looks at the other bartender who moves away from the couple to attend to another man. Then bends down, plucks an umbrella from the cabinet behind the bar, and gingerly drops it in my shot glass. 

I smile widely. 

"So, I was saying—" I look back up at him and he's pushing back his shirt sleeves, then rests his hands on the edge of the bar top. Ooh, veins. And muscles. I know that I know that what's it called uh— uh B something— 

Brachioradialis. 

Yes, that's right. I smile to myself. I'm so smart. Gonna steal the Valedictorian spot. Such a main-character thing to do. 

I pluck the umbrella out of the shot glass and place it down next to the glass. Mmm, I'm going to back go home and poem write this. 

He pulls a stool toward him behind the bar and sits down. "You were saying?" 

What was I saying? 

"Mhm, so, they don't even give a shit about me, they're all just lil bitches who fuck around for fun 'cuz they can go and hide behind their mommy's Gucci skirt and daddy's five-piece Armani suit if shit ever hits the air conditioner." 

"You sound racist, but like financially." 

"Oh," I whisper. 

"But it's high school," he says like it is what is. "People feed on drama." 

"Hmm." 

I rest my cheek on the wooden bar top, spinning the umbrella between my index and middle finger. Then I plop it back in the drink. But when I look at the margarita, it doesn't look that inviting. 

Partially because it feels like something is weighing down on my chest and suffocating my throat and building up pressure behind my eyes. 

"Yeah, you probably shouldn't. You've had only two drinks and you're already half out of your mind." 

Only two? Woah, I'm a lightweight. 

I do feel light, but like, only physically. After telling Nice Guy everything about Mom and Dad and Carlos and Chance, I feel sad. I wanna go home and sleep. 

I spin around on my stool and look around the nice, cozy, quaint bar, but I can't find Sabrina. 

"Did she leave me all alone?" I ask Nice Guy. He doesn't reply. Ugh. "'Course she did, she's such a bitch. Maybe I should dress her up as a carved pumpkin and parade her around school. Oh— and then she's gonna go crying to daddy and I'll be behind bars." 

Nice Guy slides my shot back toward his side of the bar top. "Just a suggestion, but I really don't think you should take this one." 

Yeah, maybe he's right... 

I sigh. 

"I wanna go home," I tell him. I'm tired. I shovel the last piece of cake I ordered and jump off the bar stool, landing right on my feet. 

Okay, we can stand. If we can stand, we should be able to walk too. 

I already paid, didn't I? I think so, yes. 

"I'll call a cab," he offers. 

"Nah, 's alright. I'll go look for her. Prolly 'round here somewhere." But she isn't. 

I hunt for her everywhere, but I don't find her. And that feeling in my throat's increasing like hell. I stumble outside and lean against a street lamp. I don't feel so good. 

It's like— like— nausea. 

I take a deep breath. The cold air might have helped a while back. I grip the pole with an iron fist, and then my knees buckle and I'm throwing up. 

Okay, we're feeling better. 

I breathe heavily as I rest my forehead against the iron pole. 

I hear rustling from the sidewalk opposite the one I'm on and find the homeless man on the street from before. He's looking through another dustbin. The sight of him makes me unhate every aspect of my father because at least I don't have to live like that. 

He catches me staring and meets my eyes. 

The awe-struck look is gone and now he's looking at me with disgust. 

"Fuckin' rich bitches." And there's so much animosity in that phrase. 

"I'm sorry," I whisper, still leaning against the pole. I think the fresh air is giving me my senses back. 

"Ye, like hell y' are." 

And when he finds nothing in the bin, he abandons that one and moves to the next one, about fifty meters down the sidewalk. 

Sabrina's car is still where she parked it, in the bar's parking area, untouched and isolated. 

I'm so done with today, and maybe I shouldn't have skipped dinner with Marcel just 'cuz of unresolved ego issues. 

Never doing that again. 

The night is nice and warm with a cool breeze dancing in the air, so I pop a breath mint in my mouth and carefully walk down the pavement. I look up at the sky. I haven't seen a single star for so long. Pollution's clouded it all. 

I don't know if I'm walking toward Blackwood Creek or the heart of Sparrowville. 

Maybe I shouldn't run off like this. 

But I'm not running, so I think we're good. 

I'm still looking at the sky and walking, and I make it a couple of blocks down, I think, before someone slams into me. 

The force to my torso knocks the breath out of my chest and I crash on the pavement on my ass, twisting last minute and cushioning my head with my arms so that I don't go splat and die. 

"Shit I—" 

The boy who knocked me to the ground pauses as he sees me, and red crawls up his cheeks. "Shit. Sorry." He offers me a hand and pulls me up. 

I coil back at first, but then see that he's genuinely concerned and doesn't have any traces of malignance in his features. He looks like a kid, maybe thirteen or fourteen, but he's tall enough to match my height. Fuck, I'm short. 

"Sorry," he repeats again, clearly horrified. 

I'm about to say it's alright, but I keep staring at him. It's like... I know him? He looks familiar. So familiar. That blonde hair, those blue eyes. 

I rack my head but don't find an answer so I just tell him that it's fine. "At least you're not a serial killer." 

"That's... a concerning comparison." He blinks but soon regains composure. "Anyway, do you live nearby? 'Cause if you don't, trust me when I say we've gotta get out of here." 

Huh? 

"Why, what's going on?" 

He doesn't respond. "Haphazard guess that you don't live around here, so let's scram." 

"Is there a dick-measuring contest going on?" I ask very seriously, because then yes, I guess it's reasonable to wanna scram.  

"Try probability-of-succumbing-to-mortal-wounds-measuring contest." 

That sounds reasonable too. 

I'm so glad I wore platforms and not pointy heels because when he pulls me along with him, I stumble only once every five steps. 

Gonna have to go back to Café Blanc some day and tell Nice Guy that I'm in fact not a lightweight. I can walk. 

Even the back of the boy's head looks familiar. Agh, who?? 

"That's crazy," I mumble. 

"Yeah, crazy ass woma— I mean dudes with these huge ass guns, I don't understand how they even carry it around, like man, I'd die if you asked me to do that." 

"No way," I mumble. 

"Yes way, and—" Fuck yes, he reminds me of Drake. Mini-Drake. "—I don't understand how people find it entertaining to pummel fists into each other — to have fists pummelled into them — or watch that shit happen. Makes me queasy, honestly." 

He stops near a bridge that runs over a lake, bending down to fucking hot wire a motorcycle that's lying there. 

Okay, maybe there's a tiny bit of serial killer in him. 

What's even going on. 

I watch, because I've never understood how that shit works. He pauses midway and turns his head in my direction, his throat working as he swallows. "This is kinda not legal, so can you maybe please not snitch on me?" 

Awh. 

Okay, no serial killer in there. 

"You're an adorable little kid. I wouldn't snitch on you if someone paid me a hundred bucks." Then reconsider, "Maybe, if it was five hundred, but not for a hundred." 

I think the phrase adorable little kid made him upset, because now he's silently glaring at the whatever-is-the-name-of-that-part-of-the-motorcycle as he works. 

"Come on, don't get all emo now." He doesn't respond. 

"I wish I was thirteen. You're lucky you don't have to memorize the periodic table." I mumble and that elicits a response. 

"You sound like my bloody brother." 

"That's 'cuz your brother's speaking straight up facts. Did he by any chance mention dissecting guinea pigs for Bio internals?" 

His face pales. 

I grin. I love scaring kids. 

"What's your name?" he asks after a brief pause, leaning into the shadows to take something out of his jacket pockets that he shoves into the pockets of his jeans. 

I hear the faint rustle of plastic-polythene (what's that thing called?). 

"Callista." 

"Cool. I'm Kai." 

"Are you dealing drugs?" I ask curiously. 

Kai turns around in alarm like a mouse caught in a mousetrap and I have the sudden urge to ruffle his hair. This kid looks like a little cherub. 

"The fuck are you talking about?" And then his hands still and he's looking at me distrustingly. 

"Jus' asking," I mumble with a shrug. 

"Well don't." 

I hum as I look at the river, the sparkling surface rippling only occasionally. In the dim of the night, the river looks ominous. Like if I dipped my fingers in it, it would cling to my fingers like black oil. 

I yawn. 

Kai stops abruptly and turns around. Looking like he realized he fucked something up big time and doesn't quite know how to approach the subject. 

"You good?" 

"Okay, so..." The tone of his voice is an attempt at playing it cool as he begins, "I'm sorry... I don't know what came over me, don't know why I dragged you with me all the way here, but like, yeah. Your Sparrowville's—" He points at the route we just came from. "—and we are moving away from the town toward Blackwood Creek. Okay, shit, yeah, do you— I'm sorry, but— yeah, I'm gonna go... and you can just— turn around and head back down to wherever you were going and— yeah, can we pretend this never happened?" 

I roll my eyes. Dudes can be so stupid sometimes, for real. 

"Yeah, we're pretending like this never happens," he affirms. 

Alright, I accept ten percent blame for casually following him like a lost puppy, but he's a good conversationalist. What was I supposed to do? Ditch him? Ain't no way. 

"Do you—" He pauses, looking like such an adorable little kid, I could pinch his cheeks. "—want me to walk you back? I mean, your detour's kinda my fault so—" 

This is so entertaining. 

●⁍●⁍● 

"Oh, you're back. I thought I lost you in there." 

The urge to belt the fuck outta this blonde bitch is riding the craziest high ever right now, but I suck it up, because I refuse to stereotype people based on their appearance or be financially racist anymore. 

"You lost me, I lost myself, I found myself, now I've found you. Crazy, right?" 

An impression of surprise at an unexpected event. "You're drunk." 

"I am? No fuckin' shit, Sherly." 

She looks proper. A slight flush to her cheeks, but she isn't three sheets to the wind like me. I guess that makes sense since she's the one transporting our asses back to Blackwood Creek. 

"Get in the car, darling," Sabrina says when I don't move a muscle and instead stand there staring into her soul. 

"That vid of me and Chance," I begin, and she hums tentatively. "I want you to delete it." A blink. "I mean, c'mon, are you runnin' that low on the fun? I'll give you like thirty-three different websites if you get rid of that video." 

She frowns, and I'm pretty sure I offended her at least a little bit. Yeah, I wouldn't wanna be insulted by a drunk bitch either. 

"I'm not running low on anything, it's just good to have blackmail. People are Class A douchebags and I like knowing that if they fuck me over, I have dirt on their greasy asses." And a knowing look at me. "You'd want to have dirt on everyone who's shit-talking you because of what went down between you and Chance, wouldn't you?" 

Too many words. 

Too much info dump. 

I'm already half asleep. 

The pavement doesn't look very comfortable, but it should do if I have to listen to another paragraph. She better be drunk because that's the only excuse I'll accept for her talking so much. Maybe she isn't as sober as she appears. 

"Girl, look, I ain't gonna fuck you over, alright? If I do fuck you over, it's gonna be because you got dirt on me. Like, let's be real, I don't even know you. I'll fuck you over if you fuck me over, and right now? You're fucking me over." 

"If I wanted to fuck you over, I'd just tell everyone that you were an impossible, mentally retarded, and unstable madwoman and that you drove your stepfather to insanity so that he ended up shooting himself." A pause. "If that's how it went down; Hazel didn't really tell me the details. The dirt's on Chance because it was still recording audio, and I have to say, you sound really convincing when you say you didn't want it." 

I don't hear the second half of what she says. Insulting my stepfather is the line that sobers me up instantly, and I honestly can't with her anymore. 

"You know what?" I say, aggressively pulling open the passenger seat, sitting my ass down, and shutting it even more severely. Sabrina scowls at me. 

"You're driving, dropping me off at my house, then tomorrow at school, fucking project that video in the cafeteria on a loudspeaker for all you want, but insult any of my parents again, and I don't care if you're the daughter of a senator, I'll actually fucking end you. I'll even unleash Destiny on you, and heads up: she's crazy good at Krav Maga." 

Her scowl deepens. "My father isn't just any senator, he's the Head of the Senate." 

"I'll fuck you up the ass with a crowbar if you don't shut up." 

●⁍●⁍● 

I'm stumbling into the house at two a.m. on a Thursday morning. 

I'm gonna hit the sheets, fuck everything else. 

"Lemme take your hand, I'll make it right, I swear to love you all my life. Hold o— Motherfucker!" My toe stubs a leg of the couch and sends me off-tune, right at the chorus. 

Someone's on the couch, and my drunken actions rouse Lillian, who's asleep with her elbow on her thigh and chin on her palm. 

Aw. 

She wakes up with wide eyes like she didn't mean to fall asleep. 

"Sorry," I whisper, "You can go back to sleep." 

Lillian's rubbing the sleep away from her eyes, and then the eyes in question are narrowing at me like I'm a little shit that's pissed her off, but she can't quite show it. 

"I—" She begins after a deep breath. "Have been sitting here since ten, waiting for you to get back, Marcel was three seconds away from dialing 911, and your only reason for being late is because you're wasted?" 

Oh shit. 

She shuts her eyes, seals her lips, exhales, then sighs. "I apologize. I shouldn't have said that. I just mean to say, please don't keep doing this. It's not healthy." 

Right, she's got a job on the line.  

And Marcel could've dialed 911 if he wanted. I wasn't off shipping cocaine around the town or anything. 

Marcel walks into the living room right then. 

Before he starts his bullshit questioning, I scramble for the stairs and run up to my bedroom, maybe busting my shin bone against the banister as I make my hasty way to my room. 

The best bat burglar, I swear. Tonight, I'm heading out to sign a contract with the American Mafia. 

●⁍●⁍● 

It's Thursday afternoon already. 

"Tomorrow's our home game," Drake says, attempting to nuzzle his head into the crook of my neck after I denied him a kiss in Weight Training. 

There were only two other girls apart from me and Hazel. Russian twins, I gathered, from their accents and identical faces, who weren't interested in socializing, content with each other's company. 

Why did I pick Weight Training as an elective? 

Simple. Abs. And muscles. And that damned carbonara from Monday needed to go somewhere. I wasn't in the business of playing host to undesired belly fat. 

Drake was eyeing both mine and Hazel's bare legs between reps, and we wordlessly united in our quest to worsen Drake's epididymal hypertension. Drake's eyes weren't the only ones we caught, and by the time forty minutes came to an end, I was feeling pretty pleased with my body. 

"And?" I ask, ducking out of his arms seconds away from encircling me and waving to Destiny. 

Destiny's feet pause as her eyes glance between Drake and me. An arch in her eyebrow. And then her gait reduces to a saunter, a playful grin forming on her lips. This girl's giving me a whiplash with her constant change in personality. 

"What have we here?" 

"A tragic boy who keeps getting his dick teased and heart splintered by this hellcat and still doesn't learn," Drake responds in a tone like he's stating the formula unit mass of sodium chloride. 

Uh-huh. 

"A golden boy with a panty-melting smile who I just like toying with," I correct a tone that has a very different type of chemistry. 

Drake beams, the miserable wisps in his aura disappearing into the breeze. 

"Yes, so I was just about to ask Callista something. Your presence is distracting her from me." Destiny rolls her eyes, abandoning me as she walks around Drake to where her Lexus is parked under the same tree as Monday. 

"You were?" I raise a quizzical eyebrow, loving the dynamic we have. 

"Mhm. So, I want you to wear my jersey to the game. Only my jersey; you're tiny enough for all the important parts to be covered. Tie a belt around your waist. A shiny one." Eyes shut and lips break into another grin. "Fucking hell, yes, do it." 

I blink. 

I am not planning on putting my ass up for display. 

"And they'll let you on the field without a jersey?" 

"I'll charm Principal Sullivan into letting me off. Older ladies can't resist me." A wink at the sentiment. A smile spreads across my face. He's such a pretentious asshole. 

"I'll think about it." I tighten the messy ponytail that took me all of ten minutes to get right and swipe the strands out of my eyes. Drake's the quarterback, he'd told me as much. My tongue was itching to ask if Chance was on the team as well. 

He probably wasn't. He preferred a box of loom bands over being tackled into the mud by dudes-whose-cocks-were-larger-than-their-brains. Stigmatic, but he was sort of an asshole when he hit the teen mark. 

The bigotry was adorable when it was coupled with a thirteen-year-old boy-scowl and nimble fingers working on a bracelet with violet and black loom bands. Said bracelet is still tucked into a small crocheted pouch at the bottom of an unpacked suitcase. 

I didn't know him anymore. His thought process regarding me had gone from Mount Vancouver to the Mariana Trench. For all I knew, his prejudice might have shifted and driven him to become a part of the dudes-whose-cocks-were-larger-than-their-brains. 

From yesterday afternoon, the large part was accurate. Maybe even the -er part. Maybe. 

"Don't bullshit me, love." He brushes his lips against my cheek, lingering there as he whispers, "We both know you're dying to say yes." 

Yes. 

Sort of. Not exactly. 

I'm just a tiny bit weak for guys whose personalities are just as attractive as their looks. Drake's charm is undeniable. Chance was a magnet that drew me into his forcefield every damn time too, but at least Drake wasn't out for my blood. 

We're only messing around a bit; and who am I to say no when I'm practically thirsting for distractions that don't involve the letters C, H, A, N, and E. And M, B, R, O, and S. 

The letter C is traumatic. Catastrophe, calamity, cocky, Callista— Chance. It's simply catastrophic, period. 

D is much better. D spells Drake, devastating, dinosaur, and dick. The best thesaurus a girl with daddy issues could ask for. 

Goosebumps skitter across my skin at the proximity, reminding me of Chance's body against mine, his lips against my ears. His very undesired body and lips. I banish the thought as it prods my neurons, urging my lips to part and let out his name. 

If only I got a dollar for every time my head came up with a what-the-fuck thought. 

Drake steps back with a satisfied smirk when words die in my throat and I catch my breath as the warmth disappears. 

"Text me." Another wink as his fingers brush my cheek and then drop to the bare skin of my clavicle that's only just exposed from my unbuttoned collar and loosened tie. 

Then he turns around and walks away. 

I watch Ryder appear and dap him up, and I see his neck bow and eyes squeeze shut with a clenched jaw when Ryder claps him on the back. 

Just when Destiny's pulling out of the parking, I see Drake leaning against the window of Ryder's Aston Martin, Hazel before him with a concealer brush in her hand and tilting his face sideways as she gently runs it across his skin. 

I file the scene away to ask him later in the evening. 

●⁍●⁍● 

"Tell me you did not just snag Drake motherfucking Valentino on your fourth day at BCA." 

"I did not just snag Drake motherfucking Valentino on my third day at BCA." And I say it with a proud straight face. 

Destiny swats me and the five rings adorning her fingers rip strands of my hair out as her hand retracts and I scream, rubbing my scalp. "You're a fucking bitch." 

"Says the girl playing two of the top-tier dudes." 

"I'm not playing anyone." 

Chance and I were in no universe even close to being anything to each other, except maybe adversaries. Drake and I are... well we just are. 

My denial earns me an eye roll. 

The Lexus turns down the street into the residential area of Blackwood Creek — 150 proud acres of sprawling luxury. The enclave screams an aesthetic contemporary lifestyle for the rich. 

It's enchanting, but I'd trade it all in a heartbeat if I had my mother and stepfather back with me. 

Destiny's pulling up outside my Craftsman when I mentioned my run-in with Chance yesterday. Just the Psychology class part. Not the post-ditching school event. That memory makes my cheeks heat in shame, yet still sends a thrill racing down my spine. 

Her interest spikes at that and we're lying face to face on my California bed fifteen minutes later, her eyes wide with curiosity relating to an adjective I'm not sure exists yet. Excitement? Anticipation? Aversion? I don't know. 

I suck it up and decide it's time to come clean. 

And I do. 

"Can I just say—" She holds up a palm after a theatric pause once I finish telling her all the incidents re Chance that took place this past week, "—respectfully, what. The. Fuck." 

And there's a kernel of dread on her face, too. 

"Actually, no. What the fuck doesn't begin to describe even a point-seven percent of everything you said— everything he did to you." 

She's sitting up straight now, grabbing my hand with hers. 

"Callista, serious-fucking-ly, what the fuck. You cannot go on like this— tell your damn father—" My eyes widen in horror and I shake my head. "Or— or— you know what, you're not fucking leaving my side tomorrow onwards. If he comes up to you again, he's prey for the hawks, period." 

For all that's gone down between my ex-best friend and me, I can't find a way to sit silently and watch her talk about him like that. No matter how godsdamned stupid I am for it. 

Feelings are never rational, are they? 

"Des, you really can't lay all the blame on him. I mean I'm the bitch who let him do all that shit to me." 

"That does not fucking matter." 

I think she didn't hear the part when I buried my face in the pillow and I said I was ninety percent terrified and ten percent might have liked it. 

"Look, C, question?" 

"Shoot," I mumble. 

"Why didn't you tell me this on Day 1?" 

Despite her fiercely bitch-I'mma-fight-to-death-for-you words and wobbly, disbelieving speech, there's an undercurrent of accusation to her tone. An asseveration of mistrust. 

That does me in; makes my lip peel back and molars dig into the membrane of my inner cheek. 

"Why didn't I? Yeah, sure, like I'm going to go just around telling people I got shit-talked to my face by my insanely hot ex-best friend who's gone psycho and wants to murder me for a reason I don't fucking understand yet!" 

Her lips part but I don't let her speak. "Plus we haven't been in touch for years; did you seriously expect me to just show up and spill my heart to you?" 

I look away from her and train my gaze on the rolling clouds outside. My nails leave indentations of waxing moons on the upside of my palms when I unclench my fists. 

A hand on my shoulder. "Callista..."  

I want to shrug it off but I take a deep breath instead. 

She takes my inaction as an indication that I'm not going to sever her spine and scoots over the mattress bed next to me, legs dangling from the edge. 

"I just— he's bad news, okay? Genuine bad news." She squeezes my fingers, then whispers, "I don't want you to get hurt." 

Huh. "You know, if you cancel all emotion from your voice, you'll sound a crazy lot like my father." 

She laughs uncertainly, then starts cautiously, "Has he— did he tell you why he's turned into an asshole? I mean, yeah, he was born an asshole and shit, but he never was an asshole to you, was he?" 

No. No, he wasn't. 

Her mention of why has me thinking about yesterday afternoon. I'd made a mental checklist of everything worth noting, but I couldn't tell anything from it. 

"C?" 

"Maybe?" I mumble. "I don't know, it's all just so chaotic and messed up; I don't know where to begin." 

She expels a breath. Then again in a soft voice, "I get that he was an important person to you, and your mind's picking itself apart for an answer—" Understatement of the lustrum, "—but you can't fuck yourself over just because a guy decided to switch personalities and ditch you like trash. His choices are his; don't let them chew you up and shit you out." 

A crooked attempt at a smile from both of us. 

"Well, too fucking late for that," I mutter. 

The next ten minutes are spent scarfing down waffles of five different flavors: courtesy of my housekeeper, Lillian. 

"I'm sorry," Destiny says midway through the third bite of her savory waffle. "For not noticing that something was going on." 

I manage a small smile. 

What was going on? — was the real question. 

I cut my pistachio waffle into an isosceles triangle and stab the piece with my fork. 

Turns out the envelope wasn't Cupid's arrow after all. 

Whatever happened, it stemmed from that night. And the only possible way I could have fucked up was the damned letter I left behind for Chance, spilling the secret I'd harbored in an underground crevice of my heart— 

"FUCK!" I scream as it all clicks into place. 

Metal clangs against ceramic as Destiny flinches when I throw myself on the carpeted floor and cover my face with my forearms. The claw clip I discarded on the floor earlier during the day digs into my back and I aggressively shove my hand under my back to grab and toss it away, straight out the window. 

Kill me now. 

Someone's got to fucking kill me right the fuck now, because. 

"Are you okay?" Destiny asks with genuine perplexity. 

No, because, of course. Of course, he thought I was just playing him all along. That I befriended him only because of my girl crush on him, not because I honestly and truly saw him as a person worth befriending. 

Chance had been skeptical of his opposite gender since the beginning of middle school — when professions of love were sharpied across his locker every other week; when handwritten notes slipped out of his textbooks every morning; when being the lifeblood of scrutiny pissed him off as much mango-flavored gummy bears. 

Fuck, and I did the same Hellish-Heaven-Jesus-Christ-Lucifer-Satan-and-Beezelbub(?)-damned thing with the love letter, didn't I? 

Yesterday, when he mentioned three years ago, the prospect of him hating me just because I may have liked him a little seemed so out of proportion. 

"I straight up laughed in his face, for fuck's sake, and called it a joke." 

Fuck. 

No fucking wonder. 

"Fucking hell, he hates me!" 

"Callista, I need you to calm the fuck down and talk to me." Destiny drops down beside me, her checkered teal skirt pooling around her thighs in her kneeling position. 

Why is she so reflexive today? 

"I— I—" 

How do I put the realizations eating away at me and the fizzing feeling of overwhelmingness into words; the weighty cognizance that the ramifications of my actions are coming back to bite me right in my spleen and appendix and fucking asshole? 

"Can we talk about it tomorrow?" I blurt out. 

"What?" 

"I— need a little time." To process this. To process how I, like an idiot, ruined Chance's perception of our friendship. 

No action in this life is ever inconsequential, and I'd conveniently overlooked that philosophical fact. 

Destiny's staring at me with wide-eyed bemusement. Yeah, I probably look like a bitch on crack. "Talk tomorrow?" I say, and she shakes her head like she doesn't understand a thing. 

Well, Des, you're not the only one. 

●⁍●⁍● 

I manage to convince Destiny to leave, and five minutes later, I'm stacking up all the plates that are on the bed and carrying them downstairs. 

You've got some nerve, thinking you can waltz back into town after that stunt you pulled. 

I mechanically place them in the dishwash, one after the other, ignoring Lillian's telling me that she'll do it for me. 

I always knew you were a whore. 

Does crushing on someone really make you that bad of a person? 

Damage irreversible. 

And I refuse to believe that, because I'm going to set the record straight. 

●⁍●⁍● 

The girl who tore apart every bit of my sanity. 

A voice in my head that sounds a crazy lot like Destiny tells me, Hypothetical situation where this is all true: isn't he being really, really, really immature? I don't know. 

The girl who I once trusted, and the girl who shredded my soul beyond repair.  

I tug at the edge of my bedsheets, smoothening out the creases. 

No one's going to remember a girl as heartless as you, Willow. You're insignificant. 

I climb on my alcove bed and lean against the frame of my window, looking down. The claw clip lies isolated on a fresh patch of grass. 

And I'll be right there by your gravestone, drunk off my ass and kissing the feet of the universe for bestowing me the kindest of blessings. 

Is he really that paranoid, or am I simply overlooking the magnitude of what I did? 

●⁍●⁍● 

I should kill you. 

I should kill myself. 

I pick the claw clip off the grass. 

Don't you see you've changed me? 

I did. I saw it so fucking well now, and it's all my fucking fault. Every act of resentment was deserved. 

I said don't fucking touch me. 

Tears spill into my palms as I conceal my face in them. They slip past my fingers like grains of sand and withered memories. He's never wanted me, and all I did was create an abstract realm in my head where nothing could rip apart me and Chance. 

But this wasn't the abstract realm, this was a bitter, cruel, real world where all actions had ramifications and repercussions. 

I head back upstairs before my father finds me and begins his questioning again. 

You owe me an explanation for making me believe that our friendship was real. 

The sun's sinking slowly into the West, like it's done its job of glaring at me and now that I've come to terms with facts and fiction, it's done for the day. 

You made me go against every one of my rules, beliefs, and morals because I believed that you were worth it. 

A knock on my door. 

"You made me believe you gave a shit—" 

Lillian informs me that Marcel had some last-minute work that stole him away, so he won't be present for dinner. 

"And the second I trusted you enough to completely lower my guard—" 

"That's alright, I wanted to have dinner in my room anyway," I tell her. 

"—you fucking stabbed me right in the back and twisted the goddamned knife!" 

●⁍●⁍● 

I would have done anything for you, Willow. Anything. 

I lay my head down on the pillow. 

You ruined me that night, Callista. 

Sleep claims me after a while of tossing and turning, but it isn't a pleasant one. 

YOU RUINED ME. 

●⁍●⁍● 

But there's one part of our story that still doesn't make sense. None of this explains what he meant about my actions impacting his parents' relationship.