Chapter Eleven

I spend the next couple of days trying everything I can to remember what happened after I ate the edibles. I got the most from Dara—that I was throwing up when she called, and she left her Buckonnect date to come take care of me. That I was brushing my teeth when she got home, and apparently had been at it for a long time. That I'd begged Three, mouth foamy with toothpaste, to stay the night.

It was mortifying to hear, again, that I'd begged.

I gathered a few more details from Jennie at work the next day. She apologized for not taking better care of me and swore she'd tried calling, and as she recounted what an asshole Three had been on the phone with her, I had a brief recovered memory of him leaning in my bathroom doorway, my phone pressed to his ear as he said, "Then fuck off."

My eyes fluttered wildly as I tried to reconcile the image. Because there was no way, absolutely no way in hell, that he was standing there shirtless.

But I guess it aligns with the details of the night. I can't stop hearing the crystal clear disdain in his voice as he said, "You threw up on me." It played on a loop in my head as I double washed his sweatshirt last night, just in case he wants it back.

But when I arrive in the Torch office a couple days later, nervous-sweating with his sweatshirt tucked in my bag, he's not at the grunt desk. On my way here, I was dreading crossing the newsroom to him, but now I'm dreading watching him approach me when he arrives.

So I distract myself with Buckonnect for a few minutes, which is another stress all its own. I haven't heard from Hayes since Saturday night, when he messaged me five times in a row, then never responded—not that night or since.

hayes6834:at the risk of this sounding like a line…you up?

hayes6834:hoping you're not. it's pretty late.

hayes6834:but if you are…

hayes6834:we could play would you rather

hayes6834:like would you rather chew your own toenails or someone else's fingernails?

I'm especially worried I scared him off when I sent a nonsensical response back to his "would you rather" question that night, though I tried to explain Sunday morning.

pomerene1765: tornaols

pomerene1765:ok as it turns out I was asleep

pomerene1765:actually in the case of full disclosure I should tell you I wasn't entirely sober

pomerene1765:somehow entirely on accident! would you believe I'm not even cool enough to get intentionally blitzed?

pomerene1765:do people even say blitzed? have I been spending too much time with my parents?

When he didn't answer, I tried again yesterday.

pomerene1765:if you had to pick one secret in the world to know, what would it be?

pomerene1765:I realize this isn't a would you rather question lol

I stare at those unanswered messages, dread pooling in my stomach. Then I try once more.

pomerene1765:hey…is everything okay?

pomerene1765:I'm a little worried

Because now that I think about it, I am worried. He messaged me five times in a row in the middle of the night on Saturday. What if he was walking home from a party? What if he got hit by a car? What if he fell in the river? Or a ditch? Or into a kidnapper's trunk?

Or maybe the fact that I wasn't sober was a turnoff. I could see Lincoln, for instance, being a stickler for that kind of thing. I can't help but keep linking him to Hayes, the puzzle connecting loosely.

pomerene1765:I could be overreacting and if you just don't want to talk anymore that's totally fine, but if you're planning to ghost me can you at least give me a sign you aren't dead?

pomerene1765:or…well it's not fine lol I'd definitely not be fine if that's what's happening here, but I can't keep you against your will so I'd understand I guess

Nothing.

I'm about to message again when I hear the door open, and I swing around. Three steps into the newsroom, his gaze lifting from his phone and landing on me with surprising intensity. It lasts only a second before his expression clears, and he tucks his phone in his pocket.

He drops easily into the seat beside me without saying anything.

I pick up my headphones but hesitate. I should get the hard thing over with now. The longer I wait, the more people will arrive in the newsroom, and then I'll never be able to do this quietly.

"Hey, um," I whisper, angling toward Three without looking at him, "I wanted to say—uh…" I glance up as Three leans his elbow on the arm of his chair, putting our shoulders so close, they nearly touch. His face is turned down toward mine like we're sharing a secret.

His eyebrows arch in question, and my heart picks up speed. I tell myself it's just an allergic reaction to thanking him for something. "Well, I realized I was a little… flustered the other day. When I woke up." I glance around, checking to make sure no one else is paying attention. The last thing I need is the rest of the staff getting the wrong idea of Three and me. Dara said she's been fielding questions from the girls who were in the lounge when he left, wanting to know who he was and, Dara quoted, "where they could get them one of those."

I had to tamp down an intense flare of jealousy I definitely had no right feeling.

I lean a little closer, lowering my voice. "I should have said thank you. So, thank you."

His gaze flicks over my face, and something about this up-close, undivided attention makes my cheeks warm.

He turns away at last, putting some distance between us. "You're welcome."

With oxygen pumping to my brain again, I remember one more thing. "I have your shirt too," I whisper. "But I'd prefer everyone didn't see me returning your clothes to you. So maybe we could do that outside?"

The corner of his mouth gives a tug, like the ghost of a smirk. "Worried people will get the wrong idea about us?" The look he gives me says it all: Yeah, right.

Something like hurt cracks in my chest that he's so quick to brush it off as ridiculous. I mean, I get it—he's… traditionally good-looking. And I'm…

I feel a flare of anger, defensive and annoyed—with him and with myself. "Yeah, that'd be out of this world," I snipe, reaching into my bag. "You're an asshole." I shove his sweatshirt at him, and it falls out of the nicely folded square I labored over after washing it, landing in a heap in his lap.

"Evans," Three says.

I hold up a hand. "Don't speak to me. I have a lot of work to do." I pop in one earbud, then turn to glare at him. "I don't even know why I'd thank you for the other night. Like you said, you got paid. And if you try to tell anyone what happened or anything I said, I'll just deny it, and why would anyone believe you?"

I move to put in my second earbud, but he catches my wrist, palm burning hot against my skin.

"I don't need to tell anyone else what you said or did." His voice is low but casual, despite the way his eyes have darkened. "But I do have one question."

My heart gives a warning thump. I feel like a rabbit cornered by a fox. I might be fast, but he's faster. "What?" I ask, the word knife sharp.

Three smiles. "When are you going to tell me what we were doing in that dream you had about me?"

"What—what dream?"

He tilts his head, giving me a sly look. "I think you know what dream."

As he waits, the memory comes back, hazy at the edges but not enough to misunderstand. Three's catlike grin as he said, "If you've been dreaming about me, just say so."

And the way I stumbled over my answer: "How'd y—I mean—"

Which was as good as saying, How'd you know?

Now Three's expression shifts, like he can tell the memory just hit me like a bus. He could not look more smug than he does in this moment.

My heart goes haywire. Like the fox just took a leap and got its teeth around my throat.

Three's grip on my wrist slackens, but he doesn't let go. He doesn't want to end this until he knows he's well and truly won.

I might be bleeding out and on the verge of being eaten, but I'm not dead yet. I twist toward him, laying my free hand on his chest. He touched first, which means this is fair game. Until he releases my arm, there are no rules.

"You really want to know?" I murmur.

Unfortunately, Three doesn't lose his composure. If anything, he brightens. "That's why I asked, Evans."

"I'd rather show you." I move my hand up until my fingers cup his throat. "It went a little like this."

A thrill of power rushes through me when I feel his pulse thrumming wildly under my touch. I give the barest, lightest squeeze.

"So that's what you're into," he says, his voice so quiet, I barely hear him.

"Watching your face turn purple and the life leave your eyes?" I whisper back. "Oh yeah."

"You're sure that's how it went?" he asks, brushing his thumb over the base of my palm. When it passes my pulse point, I hope he doesn't notice how it's hammering. But I know I'm not lucky enough when his smile widens.

"What the hell are you two doing?" Christopher barks, appearing over the grunt desk.

I spring back, wrist still caught in Three's grasp. He releases it slowly.

"Nothing," I squeak, tucking my hands under my thighs. "He was bothering me."

Three clears his throat but doesn't speak.

Christopher's attention shifts to Three. "I want to talk to you about that story." He jerks his chin toward his desk on the other side of the room.

Three nods. "Yeah. Just give me a second. I'll be right over."

Christopher eyes him, brows arching, before he turns and walks off.

I still haven't put in my second earbud, and I can't help but ask, "What story?"

"Worry about yourself, Evans," Three says roughly.

I scowl, turning away. "I wasn't worried at all, Wellborn."

But when he gets up a few minutes later to head to Christopher's desk, my eyes trail him. Christopher has been pulling Three aside quite a bit lately, always about some story. If he's taking Three under his wing, that'll be a leg up Three has over me for the Campus Life spot. It started with the article on Ellie, Three carrying out Christopher's retribution for getting scooped by Two Minute News on that story about the girls who overdosed last year.

And if Christopher is imagining Three as his protégé, I can't help but wonder how I'll compete on my own.

"Hey, don't look so miserable," Dara says, reaching across the table to set a piece of her garlic bread on my plate. "You'll get other ideas."

I'm currently wallowing, my gold medal sport. Three working with Christopher on some mystery story had me keyed up, and after losing my VR equipment piece, I panic-pitched something new to Mel, eager to have another story on my plate. But Mel axed the idea before I could even prep an outline. It would have been about the soon-to-open campus package center owned by the largest online retailer in the world, but apparently the impact that would have on small businesses in the area isn't interesting to anyone but me.

I tried to play off my misery when I got back to my room tonight, but Madison was home alone and is one of those people who insist you should "talk about your feelings." So I told her what happened and was mid-story when Dara arrived. I worried they'd think this is all I talk or care about, but Dara was sympathetic, and they insisted we get dinner together to cheer me up.

"But will those ideas be worth anything?" I grumble, mindlessly stirring my soup. "What if all I can come up with are subpar stories no one wants to give the page space to?"

"I don't think it was subpar," Dara says. I don't miss the way she nudges Madison, who's been distracted picking pepperoni off her pizza slice. Apparently she didn't want to wait for a fresh cheese pizza to come out of the oven.

"What if you focus on something else?" She folds her pizza in half and takes a bite. "Instead of these serious pieces, something a little more fun?"

"I'll never beat Three that way," I mutter, breaking apart the garlic bread Dara gave me. I pop a piece into my mouth.

"Is that why you're on the school paper?" Dara asks. "To beat Three?"

I pause, startled by her question. "Well… no. Obviously not. I chose the school paper because people deserve more than the twenty-four-hour news cycle." I pull a face. "Or the Two Minute News cycle. But I'm also not on the school paper yet. Not unless I beat him. And he has such good ideas, it makes me sick."

"Maybe the problem is that you keep trying to write a Three story instead of a Wyn story," Dara says. "Like, instead of trying to be him, why don't you try to not be him? From what you've told us, everything he writes is big and scandalous. But you wrote something that ended up getting a woman a whole car."

I sit up straighter. "What?"

"Your Buckeye Crossing story," says Madison. "Didn't you ever check on that GoFundMe?"

"They raised enough for Kate to buy a car," Dara explains.

I feel a wave of shame that I never checked on Kate again after that first story. I knew about the GoFundMe, of course, but I didn't know it'd gained that much attention. I thought she'd end up with a few hundred dollars at most to get herself started.

Now, pulling it up, I see it raised quite a bit more, and there's an update picture of Kate and her daughter standing in front of an old gray sedan.

Pride begins to battle with shame, even though I had very little to do with this. I remember thinking that Kate was only one person losing her home in Buckeye Crossing. Now, looking at her and her daughter in front of their new car, I realize this didn't help one person—it helped two. It's not an entire group of students or a whole housing complex, but it's certainly a start. Two lives connected to the goodness of other people because of something I wrote.

"You made people care about someone," Dara says. "Why not write something Three would never waste his time on, like a human-interest piece?"

I hesitate. "Like… like what? If you were to read a story, what would you want to hear about?" It feels a little cheap, like cheating, asking Dara and Madison to hand-feed me ideas. But I can't write an interesting story like this without my finger on the pulse of what people want to read.

"They're tearing down the Whispering Wall," Madison says. "Outside the arts center? I heard about it at rehearsal last week. It's a campus landmark. Isn't that important?"

"Will people find that interesting?" I glance from her to Dara. "Like, enough that they'll actually read it?"

"A pastor conducts worship service whether his congregation is two or two hundred," Madison says.

"Yeah, but the Torch won't put me on the pulpit if I've only got two people in the pews."

"The Whispering Wall is a campus staple," Dara says. "You should at least pitch it."

"I bet you could get a lot of stories from students and faculty," says Madison. "Maybe even alumni if you know who to reach out to. I could ask my prayer group and the glee club if they know anyone who wants to talk about it."

"I can ask my friends too," says Dara.

It's not the most compelling story ever, and I don't know how I'll spin it. Worse, I don't know if I can handle another rejection right now.

Dara senses my hesitation and gives me a gentle smile. "Would Humans of New York or This American Life have gotten so huge if people didn't want to hear about stuff like this? We talk about them all the time in my marketing classes."

Well, I hadn't considered that. "Maybe I could check the school's social media and see who commented on the announcement. If people are upset about it, they might have stories."

I'll think of something—some way to make people care about this that Mel will have to acknowledge.

I pick up my phone, pausing when I see I have a notification. One I've been waiting for.

hayes6834:sorry I've been MIA

hayes6834:I'd explain it but it'd take a lot of anonymity out of this whole thing

I exhale in relief. At least he's not dead. Or ghosting me.

pomerene1765:why? is there some viral two minute news update about how they found you half dead in a ditch over the weekend?

hayes6834:lol sure let's go with that

hayes6834:makes me seem way more interesting than the truth

pomerene1765:no, your secret bad boy persona makes you seem interesting

pomerene1765:finding you half dead in a ditch is just seasoning

hayes6834:oh right, how could I forget

Then another message comes through—one that sends warmth bubbling through me.

hayes6834:I'm in this with you btw. no ghosting.