Win Petrov was speaking to Macallan when I marched up to him, but I figured he wasn't interviewing her because he didn't have his phone in his hand. The Cannondale bench had mostly cleared out, and I spotted Kelsey and Gianna heading over to the clique that was our group of parents. Rolling back my shoulders, I harnessed what little remained of my self-control to refrain from interrupting what seemed like a half-serious conversation between the two of them.

"The newspaper is looking to publish candidate profiles for the student government elections next month," Win said, still holding that damn clipboard of his. "It's an invaluable opportunity if you decide to run for the presidency."

"I remember reading Jameson's profile from last year. It was very thoughtful and well-written," Macallan replied, fiddling with the cuff of the stylishly oversized black sweatshirt that she'd pulled on over her jersey. It was part of our team's new apparel collection for the season. "I also remember that you wrote it."

"Is that a yes then?" Win's mouth hinted at what might have been a smile, but he quickly reigned it back in. It was as though he didn't want to come across as overly keen, and he seemed to be getting away with it. He spoke with that smooth self-assuredness and persuasiveness that I imagined a luxury car salesman had. I half expected a Maserati to materialize on the turf field.

"It's more of an I'm still thinking about it," Macallan replied with a little laugh. It was genuine, but still had an edge of apprehension."The truth is, I haven't ever really thought about running. I've been a part of student government since my first year, but I haven't actually run for office. I think I may be better suited for the more administrative roles, and they're obviously less contentious. Besides, I'm prioritizing other things right now, like school and lacrosse." She turned her crystalline eyes on me and grinned. "And making time for this angel."

Win's green eyes slid over to me, his expression unreadable. "Chandler," he acknowledged in a flat yet cordial tone.

Despite having Physics together, Win and I hadn't spoken much in the last few weeks. We weren't lab partners anymore, and we weren't friends. We weren't ever really friends, anyway. The last time that we'd exchanged more than just mindless small talk was at the open-house that Cannondale hosted at the old manor on campus. Win had attempted to justify why the Cannondale Weekly hadn't published anything condemning the survey, and I'd had the grand idea of yanking him into the crosshairs of whatever sort of feud Caroline had instigated with me.

Was it immature and borderline conniving of me? Potentially. But had it irrevocably impacted me, causing me to regret doing it? No, of course not. I would do it again.

"Your junior editor is going to give the newspaper a bad name, Win," I said, looping an arm through one of Macallan's. "Her interview skills are abysmal."

Win lifted a brow that vanished beneath his mop of midnight hair. "Caroline interviewed you?"

"Um, obviously," I huffed out. "But listen, you're wasting your time and resources if you think she's a half-decent journalist."

"That's a bit harsh," Win rebuked with a scoff.

"It shouldn't matter if it's harsh because it's the truth. Caroline intentionally stopped recording during the interview, and asked borderline problematic questions to get under my skin." I paused, and rolled my eyes for good measure. Macallan exhaled a soft sigh, seeming to see through my theatrics. "You'd think she'd want to keep recording, but it's not like anything she's done has made much sense."

"All right, I'll look into it," Win lifted his hands in mock surrender and nearly dropped that damn clipboard in the process. Why did high school journalists even need clipboards? It wasn't as if they were aesthetically pleasing. "I'll look into it, Chandler."

Even though Win sounded and looked sincere, that wasn't enough for me.

"Sure you will," I drawled out my response before pausing again. It only took a moment for me to decide that I had something else to add. "Just don't let the little crush she has on you cloud your judgment. You can do better."

Win actually dropped his clipboard. "Christ," he muttered, swooping down to scoop it off the turf. When he straightened, he looked dead into my eyes and I bet he thought he saw absolutely nothing inside. "I forget that you're like this sometimes."

"What am I like sometimes?" I fired back. Now, was my previous comment immature and borderline conniving? Yes. But would it irrevocably impact me, causing me to regret doing it? Probably not. I needed to make a point.

Macallan intervened before Win could answer, setting a light hand on my arm. "Let's talk more later, Chan. Our parents are waiting-"

"Hold on," I brushed Macallan off, unhooking my arm. I knew she had the best intentions, but the we that she was referring to probably wouldn't include Win, and he wasn't going to get off the hook so easily. "I would really love to know what the honorable and objective editor-in-chief of the Cannondale Weekly has to say about me. So, go on, Win. I'm all ears."

Win's gaze shifted to Macallan for a moment, almost like he had to visibly weigh his options. What those options were, exactly, I couldn't be sure.

"Maybe another time, if you're lucky," Win answered, flicking rogue turf pellets off of his clipboard. His gaze noticeably softened when he turned to Macallan. "For what it's worth, Macallan, I think you should run. You'd make a great study body president."

As Win turned away, Macallan sent him the same little smile she'd given me earlier. "Thanks, Win. I'll think about it. I promise."

I didn't say anything to Win, but it was clear he wasn't going to wait around, anyway. He had no reason to, not when he'd claimed the moral high ground. As I watched him retreat through a haze of irritation, I noted that this was the second time that Win had approached Macallan about publishing something in the Cannondale Weekly.

Macallan exhaled a deep sigh, promoting me to redirect my attention. "How are you?"

I gave a short laugh and dropped my gear to the turf to retrieve my own black sweatshirt from my backpack. "How am I? I'm fine, Macallan. I promise I'm fine, but this-" I made a grand yet vague sweeping gesture. "Is so frustrating."

"That much is obvious to everyone."

"Hey," I frowned, tugging the sweatshirt over my head. My ponytail caught in the hood, and Macallan reached over to gently free it.

"Hey, yourself." Macallan sighed again, pushing some of the blonde flyaways away from her face. "Look, I'm sorry you had to put up with whatever crap Caroline imposed onto you, and I'm frustrated too. With everything. I'm done with feeling like some kind of depressed damsel in distress who needs her best friends, boyfriend, and the damn school to save her at every twist and turn. The truth is we're all just trying to keep it together. I mean, why do you think Kelsey's moved WAC meetings to every other week? It's becoming a lot for all of us, and you doing whatever you just did with Win doesn't help fix anything. He's actually one of the few people who's willing to take some sort of stand. You can see that, right?"

Macallan's words crash-landed on my shoulders, reinforcing that this wasn't a me problem that I got to keep all to myself. I wasn't the only one of us with baggage they wanted to bury in the ground and never dig up again. Not by a long shot.

"Right," I nodded, pursing my lips together. "What would I do without you around to keep me in line?"

"This isn't me keeping you in-line," Macallan objected, leveling me with a pointed yet simultaneously soft look. "This is me having your back on and off the field."

"That's corny."

"Just because it's corny doesn't mean it isn't true."

✘ ✘ ✘

Hours passed, and I tried not to count the minutes that my texts to Trip went unanswered. I wondered if he had any idea how much pathetic misery his silence stirred up inside me, or if I existed in an echochamber of my own insecurity.

I had enough self-respect to banish my phone to my bedroom while I sat through a few melodramatic episodes of Survivor with Dad. Why anyone would ever surrender their hidden immunity idol to someone else was beyond my comprehension. Self-preservation was literally the only foolproof strategy on this show, and I wondered if any of those blindsided contestants had ever heard of game theory.

The following morning, the bags hanging beneath my eyes seemed to resemble dark purple crescents. I had elected to not check my phone, my pathetic misery morphing into something that resembled both anxiety and denial. If I didn't look at my phone, I didn't need to confront what Trip had said or hadn't bothered to say. This right here was temporary self-preservation at its finest.

After accepting the fact that no amount of Glossier concealer would improve my dark circles, I applied mascara and ran a comb through the stubborn knots in my hair. The brown locks hit the middle of my back and I couldn't remember the last time it was this long. I hadn't had my hair cut since the summer when I went with Mom to see our favorite stylist Veronica over in Cambridge. Even though I'd been going to Veronica's salon for years, I knew she still went there, and so I couldn't bring myself to go and chat with Veronica about how Gretchen England was doing. It was the principle.

I set the comb down on the vanity with a little more force than necessary and huffed out a sigh. One of these days I would need to find a new stylist at a new salon. It wasn't like it was hard, and it wasn't like I needed to go somewhere luxurious that served flutes of champagne.

"Be downstairs in ten minutes, Chan!" Dad called from the other side of my closed bedroom door.

"I'll be downstairs in five minutes!" I countered, competitive for no reason at all.

Dad had invited the lovely Dr Teá Daley over for brunch, so I'd put some thought into my appearance with a new white cardigan and plaid pleated mini skirt. If I was actually going to leave the townhouse, I would slip on my loafers, except I wasn't, so my socks and UGG slippers would do just fine. But despite objectively liking my outfit, I could barely stand to look at my reflection in the vanity mirror a second longer than necessary.

The entire first floor of the townhouse smelled softly of cinnamon and syrup and old books. While the old books part was perfectly normal given that the person who lived here full-time was a History professor, the cinnamon and syrup were unique to the weekends. I wasn't typically a sweet breakfast person, but in my not-so-humble opinion, no one made French toast better than Dad. No matter how many times I'd attempted to follow his recipe with him giving me words of encouragement, I could never get mine to be even half as good.

Dad stood at the stove when I strode into the kitchen, almost in a decent mood. He'd already started cooking, so I assumed Teá would be arriving shortly.

"Good morning," he greeted, eying me from over his gold-rimmed frames. He wore an old Ralph Lauren sweater that I'd borrowed over the years but never had been able to steal with its sleeves pushed up as he poured the batter into the skillet.

"Can I have the test slice?" I asked, approaching the island. I picked up the reusable Whole Foods bag from the nearest stool and returned it to its rightful place in the walk-in pantry, hanging it over the inside handle.

"The what?" Dad eyed me from over the rims of his glasses.

I hopped up onto a stool. "You know, the slice that's made first and isn't as aesthetically pleasing as the rest, but tastes the same?"

"No. Can you start the bacon for me please?" Dad nudged packaging towards me, and I arched a brow. We were both vegetarians.

"You bought vegan bacon for Teá?" I asked as I examined the packaging of what wasn't actually bacon. I knew this meant that the French toast batter would also be vegan.

"Yes, because she's vegan," Dad answered, decisively flipping the piece of toast on the skillet. The exterior was perfectly golden-brown.

"Well that's it, then. She's too good for us."

The doorbell chimed before Dad could respond, but it didn't interrupt his smile.

"I got it!" I leapt out of my stool, eager to both answer the door and dodge vegan bacon duties.

I absentmindedly adjusted the waistband of my skirt. I was angling to secure an outfit-related compliment from Teá who I'd decided was objectively the most casually stylish adult I knew. As I opened the door, I summoned my most polite yet genuine smile to my lips, but it vanished a moment later, along with every good intention I had for the morning.

"Good morning, Chandler," Mom said.