Trip's head was in my lap, but I swore his mind was elsewhere. We sat on a long bench positioned along the perimeter of the pond on campus, the soft evening light glimmering on its smooth surface.

It was Tuesday and late enough in the evening that there weren't many other students prowling about, but the absence of prying eyes wasn't enough to quiet my nerves. Returning to Cannondale on Monday with significantly shorter hair hadn't gone unnoticed by my peers, nor was it perceived as anything other than a campaign for attention. Gianna had informed me that there were a few nosy comments about it on bostonspilledtea.com, but I had no interest in reading them. I also knew that those comments would only amplify said nerves and result in me doing something impulsive and irreversible because I had a track record for that now. It was a damn shame that girls couldn't change up their hairstyle without it being perceived as a response to emotional turbulence. The unfortunate part about this stereotypical assumption was that it held more truth than I would ever verbalize.

So, even though I was comfortable with Trip, I wasn't at ease. I had to repeatedly remind myself to relax my shoulders and take measured breathes, careful not to alert Trip to my state of mind as he flipped through the detailed flashcards he'd made for our upcoming standardized AP Gov exam.

At Cannondale, the end of April meant the beginning of intensive and all-consuming studying for the standardized AP exams. These exams were the culmination of each year-long Advanced Placement courses, and occupied the first two weeks of May, each expertly scheduled to ensure there was no overlap between any subjects. I would sit for four exams this year, with AP Gov slated first. I knew that this exam would be easier for me compared to AP Calc, but I was happy to study with Trip for reasons beyond his detailed flashcards.

I missed spending time with Trip. It was that simple.

So after our respective lacrosse practices, we'd endured a few hours in the library going over the free response questions from previous exams (if we got one on salience of precedent in the Supreme Court, I would march right out the door), and had then migrated to the pond for a change of scenery. We had important things to discuss.

"I'm going to start a rumor that you're going to ask me to your Senior Prom," I announced as I absentmindedly ran my fingers through Trip's mess of curls. Prom wasn't until early June, but there was no harm in making clear and concise plans. I'd learned my lesson in the lead-up to Winter Formal.

"Is it still a rumor if it's true?" Trip asked, flipping a flashcard with Federalist No. 10 neatly penned on one side.

"If it's true then you might as well get on with it," I advised coolly. "Wouldn't want to have a repeat of Winter Formal, would we?"

Trip chuckled, but his voice took on a serious edge. "Grayson won't make the same mistake twice."

I took a moment too long to settle on an appropriate response. I felt as though I was tiptoeing across an icy pond, wary of cracking the surface with any verbal missteps. Trip must've sensed my apprehension because he carefully sat up, shifting his legs so that his sneakers landed flat on the grass.

"But should I start a rumor that you're going to ask me to Junior Prom?" Trip asked, a clever glint highlighting the flecks of gold in his brown eyes. "We should play it safe and cover all of our bases."

"Agreed. Our rumors deserve equal opportunities."

Trip grinned, but his gaze abruptly turned inquisitive. He set his flash-cards down and turned towards me, our knees touching. "So there's something I've been meaning to ask you."

"Oh?" I went rigid with anticipation, and I was sure Trip felt it because he gently tucked a wayward piece of my hair behind my ear, his fingertips brushing against my cheek. He'd yet to verbally comment on my haircut, but had sent a heart emoji in the response the selfie I'd sent him on Saturday before calling me so that I could catch him on the rollercoaster ride that was my weekend. I hadn't brought up my haircut during the call, telling myself that I shouldn't risk accidentally telling him that I'd cut my own hair in my emotionally fraught state.

"My parents want to meet you. I know we're trying to schedule something with your dad, but my mom is in cahoots with some of the other parents on my team and now she's co-hosting this whole captains' cookout thing with the Kirbys' at my house next weekend. It's rare that my parents are in town at the same time, so I guess they're just super eager to do something...especially since it's probably the last time they can before I graduate.

Trip's breathless words arrived like an expected gust of wind on a humid summer day. It brought a smile to my lips, and despite all of my pent up anxiety regarding my relationship with Trip McKenna, I didn't dare choke. I was still Chandler England, headstrong and clever enough to forgo words when something else could just as accurately serve as an answer.

We sat close enough together that closing the distance between us transpired over two giddy heartbeats. I gently brushed my lips over his, needing to commit the feeling of kissing him to memory. Trip kissed me back, soft but thoroughly, and I needed to commit the feeling of that to memory too. It was like falling and floating simultaneously with no sense of direction. Sometimes, I wished that physical touch wasn't my love language because it clouded the logic with something else, something distracting and potentially irrational.

We broke the kiss sooner than I would've liked, and I opened my eyes into his, searching for reassurance that nothing between us had changed.

"But to be clear, you're inviting me to this captains' cookout?" I asked, arching an eyebrow as I tried and failed to ward off a smile. I wondered if he was close enough to hear my heart pick up its rhythm.

"Yes, yeah," Trip clarified, a smile hovering at the corners of his mouth as he toyed with my gold chain. "Sorry, I am inviting you to that. I probably should've led with that."

"I'll be there. It's going to be fun," I promised.

Trip gave an endearing laugh, color glinting in his cheeks. "I don't know about fun, but it'll be interesting for sure. I've kind of always kept Cannondale and home separate...and now I'm hosting a party."

"You'll make a great host, I don't doubt that."

Trip drew me in for another lingering kiss before breaking the news that he had to return to the library to meet Grayson Kirby. Their AP Literature exam fell the day after AP Gov, and the two of them had teamed up to construct a shared study guide.

I walked with Trip back to the library, and watched him scale the stone steps two-at-a-time up to with the kind of sturdy grace that attested to his athleticism.

It was only when he'd vanished through the library doors that the unease I'd felt earlier crept up on me again. Somewhere along the way, I'd internalized the notion that I was on the cusp of being betrayed. I was turning this supposed tension between us into something bigger than it was - something that I'd silently fed the flames of only to have it all turn to ash after a few quiet moments alone.

Maybe I was just waiting for an unscheduled train, content to stay stranded on the platform forever with all my baggage.

And for why?

Just to tell myself I told you so?

Not everyone was up to something, and Trip wasn't.

But to make matters worse, Trip's departure from Cannondale was no longer a distant reality - an unscheduled train. The world as I'd come to know it at Cannondale would end, and even though I knew it was coming, it always seemed to be on the horizon. I didn't want to believe that our best days were behind us.

At sixteen, you could be everything and nothing to someone in what felt like the blink of an eye. It was almost May, and I was terrified to blink.

✘ ✘ ✘

When I returned to Roosevelt Hall, I found Jameson Hill sitting on the bottom stone step that led up to the doorway with his backpack at his feet. Seeing me coming, he stood upright and shouldered his backpack.

"Jameson, hey." I smiled and gave a polite wave. As I stopped in front of him, I clocked his Columbia University t-shirt. "Congrats on Columbia, by the way. You make Macallan ridiculously proud."

And ridiculously more of a romantic, I mentally added. After Jameson announced his college decision on his Instagram story over the weekend, Macallan reposted it and posted a series of photos of them spanning the two years they'd dated.

"Thank you. I like your haircut." Jameson sounded sincere, though the modest smile he offered me faltered after a second. "Do you have a free second? I'm waiting for Macallan, but I've been wanting to talk to you."

"Oh." I felt my own smile falter. "Well, of course. We can definitely talk."

Jameson Hill had a presence. He exuded this informal regality that defined his disposition and captured your attention in a way that wasn't always obvious. I suspected that I wouldn't have noticed it if I hadn't spent time around him as a result of him dating Macallan. However, we were only really friends by extension. It wasn't because we weren't compatible, but that was just how our dynamic worked. What we had in common was loving Macallan Blake, and that was more than enough to facilitate mutual respect.

"Macallan isn't going to run for student body president," Jameson said, his voice holding an unexpected note of despair. "She says she's still on the fence about it, but I know she's not. She's made up her mind, but the thing is that I know she wants to. She's always wanted to run, and now she's just letting go of her dream because of everything that's happened since Winter Formal."

I allowed myself a moment for Jameson's words to sink in. Macallan's presidential ambitions at Cannondale didn't come too far out of the blue. She'd participated in student government since our first year at Cannondale, and had students like Win Petrov enquiring about her potential candidacy so he could publish her profile in the Cannondale Weekly.

"Why isn't she going to run?" I asked. While I could wager a strong guess, I wanted to hear her boyfriend's evaluation. It would say more about him than her, anyway.

"For starters, she's worried that what happened at Winter Formal will hold her back. She had detention for a month...I mean, her mandatory penance." Jameson took a breath, his response seeming to wind him. "But Trip read over the student government bylaws regarding candidate eligibility, and there's nothing in them that prevents Macallan from running. So, I've tried to convince her-"

"It's her decision, Jameson," I delicately interrupted. I knew he meant well, but Macallan's heart needed to be in it. Running for student body president at a prestigious boarding school like Cannondale was no easy quest or something you decided to pursue at a drop of a hat drop. Some students dreamed about their campaigns since their first day of high school, eager to add the accolade to their college applications.

Being the student body president could separate your application from thousands of borderline identical ones at top universities. It was very much make or break, do or die. And Jameson knew this. After all, he was Cannondale's current student body president and Ivy League bound.

"I know, I know," Jameson sighed out. He lifted his baseball cap and ran a hand through his dark hair. "But I think she needs to hear it from you and Kelsey. You guys are her best friends and I know we don't want her to regret not trying just because of the crap on that website, which is also why she isn't wanting to run."

I opened my mouth to express my agreement, but Jameson wasn't finished. His expression hardened with determination and I found myself holding my tongue.

"Macallan's not second-best, silver to your gold, or however those damn surveys want to portray her," Jameson continued, speaking with the authority of an incumbent politician on the campaign trail. "She's Macallan Blake. She's someone great, not someone who's constantly breaking the fall for other people."

Jameson's words felt like a slap to the face. By other people, I had no choice but to believe that he meant me. I was certain he thought he was being courteous by dancing around what he wanted to say, but all it did was put a spotlight on all of the facets of guilt I'd carried with me following Winter Formal - guilt over inciting the tension between Macallan and Grayson, guilt over keeping things from Trip that didn't need to be kept from him, guilt over acting like a version of myself who I scarcely recognized in the mirror.

I somehow unearthed the willpower to put on a brave face. "Okay, I'll talk to her," I stated, starting up the stairs to the main entrance of Roosevelt. I took measured steps, careful not to create the impression that I was eager to get away. "I can't promise that she'll change her mind, but I will talk to her."

Jameson's shoulders eased, revealing a tension that had previously gone unnoticed. Apparently, a lot had gone unnoticed - namely, the grudge Jameson held. "Great. Let me know how it goes."

Nodding, I scanned into Roosevelt and let out a sigh of relief when I returned to my dorm room without having to entertain any small talk with the other junior girls in the hall. Macallan and Kelsey were still at the library, leaving me with much needed silence and space. I dropped my backpack onto my desk chair and moved to my bed, my mind playing hop-scotch as it jumped from one thought to another. I was vacantly staring up at the ceiling, fairy lights flickering my periphery, when my mind settled on a terrifying prospect: Trip McKenna wasn't the only one I was at risk of losing.

I suddenly couldn't stop looking at the two empty beds in the room.

✘ ✘ ✘

welcome back trip, i missed you x