THINGS CHANGED FASTER THAN I wanted them to.

And it's my fault.

In the weeks immediately following her move to Ranscher, whenever we spoke on the phone, Suki and I would end up sobbing and making our words unintelligible. I hated being separated from her. She missed me a lot, so we'd message back and forth late into the night, early in the morning, through school, through work, through everything. She was still the person I wanted to tell about my day. She was still the person who calmed my heartbreak, even if she was the one to cause it.

She'd send me photos of their new house and her newly decorated room and how she set up the nursery in light blue, though Cassie is a girl. We talked constantly through messages, though I found that I ended up crying anyway and blurring the digital text on my screen. But I made do.

The nearer it got to Cassie's due date, the more our messages dwindled. Suki would be online less and less, replying with hours in between each message. It was difficult to keep a deep, thoughtful conversation going at such a stunted pace, so naturally, our messages slipped into small-talk territory. How was school? How's the new house? How's the job?

Once she put forth the prospect of me flying out to Ranscher for a week. She said I deserved to be there when my daughter came into the world, and she wouldn't want anyone else by her side. And I thought (and said it, too): there wasn't a guarantee that I would see the birth even if I went that week. Who would I stay with? Who would pay for the flights?

The idea of spending all the money I worked for over the winter holiday on return flights for the off-chance that Cassie's birth would land in the doctors' ballpark and, at best, having to go home a handful of days later, just seemed insane. No way I would do that. I could fly out once she was born. No fucking way.

And I could tell things ended that day.

Brittany noticed my mood. She begged for company at some college party in Halston—claiming she couldn't drive—and asked me to drive. I saw through it; she was trying to get my mind off Cassie's impending due date and the sickening reality of how quickly my life flew off the rails.

So, when Cassie was born, I wasn't even awake.

I was six feet under a dozen bottles of beer, plastered on a moth-worn couch in some off-campus house. Girls would flop down on the arm and breathe damp questions into my ear over the thudding music. The party-goers were nearly all Halston University students, and I never asked how Brittany earned an invitation.

Suki was too tired to let me know when labour had started. I understood completely, but I also knew that her cousins knew who I was. Any of them, Niko, and Haru could have reached out, but no-one did. It stung to feel so excluded, but then relief at having escaped the gut-wrenching fear and stress of labour prickled the back of my neck. Guilt followed immediately, but it wasn't as consuming as it used to be.

If I had agreed to Suki's plan of flying out to Halston, I would have missed the birth anyways. Cassie came early in her gestation, and early in the morning. I would never have willingly been drunk the day my daughter was born, at a healthy weight, on the eighth of March.

And she's gorgeous, like her mom.

In our next phone call, she apologised. Labour took her into the early hours of the morning, and the time zone difference was not something she expected me to absorb. In fact, she didn't expect much of me anymore.

In our conversations, she was so accommodating and understanding and low-maintenance about my obligations to her and Cassie. The dynamic changed. I went from boyfriend to friend to weird phantom without ever breaking up with her. I could just tell—ever since I refused to fly out to Ranscher—she started finding support elsewhere.

I became just another thing she left behind in Carsonville.

It was around the end of March that my dreams of Suki started.

The location changed each time, but the theme was the same.

Whether she was opening the front door of a suburban house for me, sitting on a picnic blanket in Haywood Park, or laying nose-to-nose next to me. She would be murmuring excitedly about whatever was happening in her day—I could never remember these conversations after waking up, much as I ached to—and when I noticed she was working herself up excessively, I would try to kiss her.

But when my fingers cupped her chin, they'd fall right through. I couldn't figure out if Suki was a ghost standing, sitting, or laying in front of me, or if I was the one who didn't really exist in her life anymore.

The impact of the dreams was the same as the impact of talking to her over the phone. I could hear all about what Suki was getting up to, but our connection was always flimsy, never fully realised. I was half-in, half-out of her life, and it cut me like a blunt knife.

By the time the daytime rolled around, I always felt like I was more out than in. Her messages comprised more baby photos than words, and they were the same images she posted on her social media. Our interactions weren't exclusive anymore. There was no Terrence-and-Suki, there was Terrence and there was Suki.

And I was happy she was moving on, in a way.

We'd cried ourselves to sleep so many nights, sometimes listening to each other sob on the other end of the line, three thousand miles apart. Any peace Suki could find, I wanted her to keep. Even if it meant relinquishing my claim on her heart for other things.

Besides, my daughter filled my place in her life. That wasn't so bad.

I pick at a flaking strip of paint on the wooden picnic table. Carsonville Academy students bustle all around us on their way to the cafeteria and other lunchtime haunts, but none are close enough to hear us talking. Away from prying eyes.

"Her middle name is Haruna."

"Pretty." Brittany smiles beside me, translating, "Spring blossom. And, I suppose, named after her grandfather."

Suki found the perfect middle name for Cassie. It honours her heritage and Haru, but the meaning outshines everything. It makes me think of the happiest times of my life. I heard spring blossom and my mind immediately went to the magnolia trees in Haywood Park, to all the picnics we had there at the beginning of our relationship. Our first time during Golden Week.

"It's you." It's her. Always, forever, right now, since the day I met her. "You know?"

I don't know what Suki sees on my face, but for a moment she looks like she's about to cry. She swallows audibly, brushing a lock of hair away from my eyes. Her usually deep brown eyes look like honey in the sunlight. That gentle smile she gives me is heartbreaking.

I know I'll remember that till the day I die.

"I know."

Brittany notices my stillness and pipes up. "Did she send photos?"

I slide my phone over, already open on the messages Suki and I share. Her eyes pore over each image as she flicks through the gallery.

"I mean, she's kind of ugly at present—"

"Watch it."

"—but I'm sure she's going to grow up a bombshell," Brittany smirks, amused by how easily I get riled up when it comes to Suki and Cassie. Anything else and my fuse is endlessly long. But never them. They're my weakness.

"She's got good genes."

Most times, Brittany would ruin the moment with a wildly inappropriate remark, but I think she knows not to push it today. I appreciate her being here, pestering me to stop me crying, deriding my anger at the world, sweeping me to loud places.

I need someone who understands, and in this town, there's only one person who does.

In any case, I don't mind when she teasingly jabs me with an elbow.

I even push her back, letting out a chuckle when she topples right over on the bench. "Thanks, Brittany."

"You're welcome, Terry."

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Becoming friends with Brittany Stanson is easier than I thought it would be.

From the outside, it looked like non-stop drama, cattiness and airheaded conversations about makeup. On the inside, it's pretty damn sweet.

Not only is Brittany mostly occupied with her latest boyfriend, Madison Murdoch doesn't even talk to me most lunchtimes. When she does, she's surprisingly direct and non-confrontational. Like, pass the napkins, please.

Reece and Derek are my closest friends, because they're dudes. It's just easier to click with them. The biggest perk of being Brittany's friend is the doors that open to you by association. Sometimes literal doors, leading to raging house parties where someone's smuggled in a keg of beer. Other times, metaphorical doors.

I get invited to sit at one of the nicest tables in the cafeteria. Whenever we go anywhere, people ensure they stay out of our way. That's mostly to avoid Brittany's current plaything, who is combative and hates looking where he is going. Students wisely avoid bumping into him, therefore they avoid bumping into us. The evasive effect lasts even when I'm not with Brittany. The students of the Academy know me by name first instead of face first now.

I think they think I could put in a bad word about them and get them falsely implicated of cheating on a test, or their lockers trashed, or beaten up. None of those would ever come from me, of course, because I'm not a snitch. If someone has a problem with me, they should just tell me to my face.

Lunch today is pasta bake with a heaping of leaves on the side. There are eight people at this table; the five of us sophomores, Brittany's senior boyfriend and two cheerleaders. Pretty, but not very friendly. They giggle at every second thing Brittany says however, oohing over how cute she is, which indicates that they're either psychopathic or not terribly clever—because Brittany's sense of humour sucks.

"—get her to leave him the fuck alone. He's moved on. She should, too," Brittany snaps, earning another giggle. Her brown eyes dart over to me and she raises a brow. "Can you help me out, Terry?"

"Hm?" Another perk to being Brittany's friend, I don't actually have to be a friend-friend.

I don't need to hold her hand through her emotional boo-boos, care about her day, hang out with her outside of school hours or even pay attention to what she says. Her only demands are not to talk about her to others, and that I stick around and stay around when she needs me. I can do that easily, since I hate gossip and I don't see myself going anywhere in the near future. My social life is dead outside of this group.

On the day that her boyfriend and his cheerleader friends are away from the cafeteria preparing for the ensuing pep rally—kill me—Brittany flings her packet of vinegar chips at me and asks, "Do you have your set on you?"

I resist the urge to roll my eyes. My set of lockpicks.

Brittany has taken a liking to my unique skill set in the last couple of months. Her eyes practically lit up like fireworks when I mentioned the hobby, and since then she's had a series of klutzy 'accidents' that need my help.

Like she locked herself out of her house.

Or she can't open the padlock to her dog kennel.

Or she shut her car door with the keys inside.

Or Reece asked her to get something out of her locker, but she forgot his code.

Padlocks, combinations, house doors, cars, lockers—I've unlocked at least two of each type for her since we all came back from winter break, and I strongly suspect she's testing me.

Nothing sketchy has happened yet, but I think today's the day. "What for?"

"Locker 231," she answers sweetly. I narrow my eyes at her suspiciously while she tosses her hair over her shoulder. Brittany and I both know that's not what I was questioning, but as always, she wants to make things difficult.

I grit out, "Why?"

"If you must know, this girl has photos of my boyfriend in her locker. They used to date, but they don't anymore. She refused to get rid of them when he asked, so I told him I'll get them back for him."

"Are they nudes or something?" I wonder blithely.

Derek snorts on his water and shoots a mirthful smile my way. He doesn't pay much attention to Brittany day-to-day either, I've noticed.

"You'll have to find out, won't you? Please? It's really important to me."

After lunch, Reece and I find Locker 231. I pull my tension wrench out of my backpack and select a soft rake to start with. These padlocks are usually loosened up by years of use, so I only need a light touch. I apply light tension, but before I slip the rake in, I pause.

"Whose locker is this? Brittany didn't say."

"Who fucking cares?" Reece laughs. His beefy shoulders bulge as he leans against the lockers, expectantly staring at the lock in my hands.

"I don't," I say truthfully. I've done plenty of questionable stuff in my past. A bunch of detentions for back-talking teachers, and provoking arrogant upperclassmen and two Dare Weeks under my belt. "But still."

"No such thing as justice, Tee," Reece smirks, knocking his knuckles against the locker. "If you accept the perks of being Brittany's friend, you should show up when she needs you to. Unless you can't get into it? Your tool isn't working today?"

I know Reece is trying to rile me up, but the challenge in his eyes strikes a sensitive spot. He's not so much doubting my lock-picking skills as he is my spine, my willingness to do what lies outside the comfort zone for most other people. I didn't run the Dare Week gauntlet—twice, which injured countless people— to ever have my nerve questioned. Especially not by fucking Dormer.

The lock, as predicted, is loose and pops open after a few strokes of the rake. I place the lock into Reece's open palm, arching a smug brow. "You were saying?"

Reece lets out a breathy chuckle, eyes slightly wide, nodding in acknowledgement.

I leave him to do the searching for the nudes or whatever it is that Brittany thinks will make her feel better. Reece doesn't move anything while I'm still in the hallway, and I turn the corner without having heard a thing.

The next day I hear that Delaney Morrison's locker was trashed, but no-one owned up to doing it.

It's just small gossip, tossed around in the corners of the classrooms before any teachers arrive. I don't have many classes with Morrison, but everyone knows she loves to scream at people. I don't blame all the gossipers for wanting to do it quietly.

The week after that, it's announced in assembly that the Debate season ended disappointingly after they had engine trouble with the school van that would have taken the kids to the competition. Still, as an obligatory show of support, they get all the Debaters onstage to present them with conciliatory participation certificates. A farce if I ever saw it.

I know nothing about what happened with the Debate team, but it's strange both these events hit Morrison. Maybe it was Brittany's fault for lying about Delaney being the ex-girlfriend of her current plaything to get me to open her locker.

Maybe it was Reece's for ripping all her books to shreds, because I certainly didn't look back after I picked the lock. My only duties are to fix what needs fixing and open what is closed. Reece is the muscle of the group.

Maybe it was even Delaney's for provoking Brittany with whatever grating, incessant complaints she unleashed—because every sophomore knows Morrison's words can wear anyone's patience done.

But it wasn't my fault. I have plausible deniability.

I'm just being a good friend.

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A / N :

Cringing when I remember all the plot holes and bad writing that still exists in TGR. But uni/ work is keeping me from undertaking any large writing projects like rewrites/edits. Both ongoing works (WTT and Under Oath) are just releasing pre-written chapters, and as you an see, sometimes I can't even do that regularly.

Anyways: I have the most feral brainrot after watching Bridgerton season 2. They outdid season 1. I'm even going to say they outdid 2005 P&P. I'm absolutely feral.

Aimee x