Chapter Twenty-Three

It wouldn't be unheard of for one of the Torch staff to be in the newsroom late, so I'm relieved when I get there and find it empty, dark, and locked up, everyone gone home. It's what I was hoping for when I suggested the office, my brain supplying the only place where we feel like perfect equals. A power play, at this point, would only do more damage.

As the ceiling lights flicker to life, I survey the room. I could take the table where we sometimes have meetings, putting Three and me at opposite ends. Or I could take a different desk, leaving conspicuous space between us. But when I settle at the grunt desk, it feels right. We've fought so many battles here. Why wouldn't we have one more in the space we've shared from the beginning?

Behind me, the door rattles, and I hold my breath as it creaks open. The air goes hot and electric with his presence, like the room can sense something is about to happen.

I turn slowly. His head is angled down, so I can't see his face. He's in his old coat again, and this soft sweater he wears a lot, and khakis I've definitely made fun of him for owning. The sight of him makes my heart thunder like it's a Triple Crown contender, and I have to turn away again to gather my bearings.

This would be a lot easier if I weren't so desperately attracted to him.

After a moment, I hear the door shut softly, and his footsteps thump steadily against the carpet. Anticipation zings through me as I wait to see where he'll go—if he'll take his seat, or if he'll claim someone else's desk, the way I considered doing.

I hold my breath when his footsteps stop behind me. Then, after an agonizing few seconds, he pulls out the chair next to me and hangs his coat over the back. As he sits, he shoves his sleeves up roughly, his movements jerky and agitated.

He scrubs his hands over his face and into his hair before dropping them into his lap. Then he shifts to pull his phone from his pocket. I try not to, but I can't help watching out of the corner of my eye as he opens Buckonnect.

His thumbs fly across the screen, stabbing out a message. My heart lodges in my throat as I wait.

A moment later, my phone buzzes on the desk, and I pick it up.

hayes6834: I wasn't only talking to you for you. I needed this too.

I force myself not to look at him as I read his words again and again.

As I do, another message pops up.

hayes6834:this isn't a guilt trip. I get why you're mad. I just want you to understand

pomerene1765:what could you have possibly needed from me?

I feel wired and shaky as I hit send, knowing that we are now… talking. He opened the door, and I stepped through it.

Not in the way I expected, but things with Three rarely are.

hayes6834:are you kidding? you couldn't tell how badly I needed to talk to someone?

I think back on my early messages with Hayes, which felt so lighthearted. But it wasn't long before I relied on him for so much—friendship especially, but also something deeper. Someone I could talk to about my imposter syndrome, my angriest moments, my fights with my parents, my sadness.

It occurs to me that my best talks with Hayes mostly came later, after Three knew it was me. He was honest about his own anger, his parents, his feelings about his place in the world. How hard he is on himself.

It makes it impossible to ignore what he's saying. That he needed to talk to me—badly enough that he kept talking to me. He brought up meeting, gave away pieces of his true self, and nearly the entire time, he knew exactly who was on the other end of the chat.

But it's so, so hard to reconcile the Three I know in person with the boy in my phone.

pomerene1765:let's say I couldn't tell

pomerene1765:you know why I needed to talk to someone. why did you?

hayes6834:I hated this school when I got here.

hayes6834:I still hate parts of it. tau delt. my roommates sometimes. but I was being crushed by my parents and the only thing that was fun was the torch and fighting with you and talking to pom. when you told me you didn't have any friends, I was worried about you. but I didn't only keep talking to you because of that. I kept talking to you because it was the same for me.

pomerene1765:you're going to try to sell the idea that you don't have friends? are you kidding? everyone loves you.

I've almost forgotten he's sitting right beside me, and I jump when he makes a skeptical noise from the back of his throat.

hayes6834: no lmao they really don't

hayes6834:I don't have a ton of friends. I have hardly any. and it's weird for me because I came from being in school with all my closest friends and my cousins and I never had a chance to feel lonely because everyone was always there. it's not like that here.

hayes6834:I'm not having a good time

hayes6834:or I wasn't. except with you.

hayes6834:you don't owe me anything but I wanted to be honest. because I don't think I could have stopped talking to you even if I thought you didn't need me. I needed you.

I swallow hard, staring at those last three words. Each one burrows a little deeper into my heart.

Then his next message comes through.

hayes6834:I still do.

I turn to him but freeze when I notice he's shaking, every line of his body rigid with tension.

Hesitantly, I lay a hand on his arm.

He lets out a slow breath, and when he looks over at me, my stomach gives a violent swoop. He's crying. And he lets me see for only a moment before he seems to remember, his expression tightening as he quickly angles his face away again.

"What—Why—"

"Sorry," he says, his voice hoarse. He tugs his arm out of my hold and rubs his eyes, like he can erase everything I just saw.

I frown, pulling his sleeve until he looks at me again. "Don't apologize for that." I swallow, my throat aching. I don't know why seeing him so clearly in pain makes my heart crack.

I rifle around in my bag until I unearth a travel pack of tissues. I tear it open and pass one to him.

He exhales a soft, shaky laugh. "Thanks."

"I get the feeling this isn't about me."

He looks away again.

"You don't have to do that," I say, laying a hand on his back. "You don't have to hide."

He crushes the used tissue in his fist but still doesn't look at me. I'm starting to think he doesn't let himself cry often, or maybe ever.

I remember something Hayes said to me once, when I talked about being sad. How I felt like I could be sad anywhere.

Sometimes I really wish I could hold you.

Yeah, I think now, looking at the tense line of Three's shoulders. Same.

So I shift over in my seat and wrap my arms around him.

It's awkward. And uncomfortable. The arm of my chair digs into my stomach, and I have to hold him sideways, rather than straight on.

But after a moment, he relaxes. He stops shaking. His breathing evens out. And he begins to lean against me, the rest of him loosening.

"What happened?" I murmur.

I hear him swallow, but he doesn't speak.

When another beat passes, I say, "We can go back to Buckonnect if that's easier."

"No." His voice is thick and scratchy. "I like this. I just need a second."

I wait, rubbing my hand in soothing circles between his shoulder blades.

After a minute, he huffs out a small laugh. "If you keep doing that, I don't think I'll ever talk."

I pull back a few inches, peering at the little bit of his face he'll let me see right now. "Why?"

"Because I like it too much," he says. "And if I start talking, I'm afraid you'll stop." He tilts his head toward me, finally meeting my gaze. He's still red around the eyes, and his skin is splotchy, but I'm struck with a thought as I look at him.

He's a pretty crier.

Of coursehe is.

I exhale. "Are you okay now?"

The corner of his mouth lifts, sardonic. "No." He rubs his hands over his face and through his hair, raking it back roughly. "I've been cut off."

"From…?"

"Everything." His expression crumples again, and he fights down the emotion, smoothing out before he continues. "My parents—they have this really small, uncomfortable box they expect me to fit into. And tonight, I told them I quit Tau Delt and submitted to change my major—"

"Change your major?"I can't believe what I'm hearing. "You're quitting journalism?"

"No, that's what I changed to. From business to the journalism pre-major so I can apply for next semester."

"You've been a business major all this time?" I stare at him, dumbfounded. "How did I not know this?" This last part I whisper to myself.

A ghost of a smile touches his lips. "You're quite the investigative journalist, Evans."

I glare at him, and I'm gratified when amusement sparks in his eyes. But it dims quickly as he seems to remember where we are and what we're discussing.

"I'm sorry," he says. "This isn't what tonight is for. You didn't come here to listen to my problems."

"Do you really think I need an apology for that?" I tilt my head, peering at his face. "I also didn't come here so you could put on a mask and pretend to be okay for my sake. That's not what I want from you."

"I just feel like I've… trapped you here. To deal with me."

"That's not how I feel." I angle toward him, brushing his hair back from his face. It's strange, how naturally the gesture comes to me. Touching Three has always been easy—part of a game, toeing the line. But I never expected that something as innocent as brushing back his hair would feel so… intimate.

From the look he gives me, I think he's feeling the same. Something in him relaxes, leaning into me.

"What happened?" I ask, dragging my hand away.

He catches it, clasping it between both of his. "I thought if I explained about Tau Delt first, they'd be okay with it. If I told them about the hazing, or the constant drinking, or the way some of those guys talk…" He turns my hand over, his focus on my palm as he brushes his fingertip over each individual line, the softest touch. Then he seems to remember that I'm still… me, and he sets my hand gently back in my lap, putting distance between us again.

"But my dad's a legacy," he continues. "He wasn't surprised by any of it. Like he… expected it, and expected me to be okay with it. And I'm not. If that's who he wants to be, then he can be that guy, but I won't. I'm not here to make the world worse. Which is what I told him, and he was—well—pissed. At that point, I knew there was no going back, and I didn't want to anyway, so I let it all blow up at once. Told them I switched my major." He shrugs, finally lifting his gaze. "Now I'm on my own. No tuition, no spending money. Nowhere to stay this summer, because I'm definitely not welcome at home—not when I could end up being a bad influence on my sister. When this billing cycle is over, I'm off the family phone plan. Insurance, too, so I guess it's good we have campus health services. But that's about where my luck runs out. I'm cut off. In every way you can be."

"I'm… I'm so sorry. That's—"

"Don't be. I'm not. I've wanted to do this for so long, but I was—afraid, I guess. Of what my life would look like on the other side. Of how my parents would react, especially my dad." He sighs, tipping his head back. "I always knew he'd be mad. That they both would. And honestly, it's worse than I thought. But I also know that no matter what my life looks like now, it's not worse than what it would look like ten years from now if I kept doing what they wanted."

I think back on my messages with Hayes, and the things Three has said to me himself—about the expectations his family has for him. It's the starkest similarity between them, how honest he's always been with me about the burden he feels from his parents.

And yet, I remember those first few weeks, over fall break and Halloween. When he talked about his mom, and that comfortable exasperation he had with her. He's playing strong right now, but I don't think the tears I saw are about money. I think he wants to make his parents proud. That being someone people believe in is important to him. Imagining how much hurt he's burying just to talk to me makes my heart ache.

"I really fucked this up," Three says with a humorless laugh. "I just—I couldn't not do this with my parents today, if tonight I was going to ask you to trust me. To give me a chance." I must look surprised, because he frowns and leans in, his voice softening. "Isn't that why we're here? To talk about us?"

"Us," I repeat, testing the word.

His gaze turns hopeful. "I know you think there's this huge difference between who I was with you and who I really am, but—Wyn, you know me. Everything I said as Hayes—that was me. We could have been sitting just like this"—he motions to the grunt desk and our side-by-side chairs—"having those conversations. It would have still been me." He watches my face, hesitating. "But I'm also this guy." He taps the arm of his chair. "I know that's the problem. Trusting Hayes was easy, because he was honest and nice to you. The reality is that I can't be him all the time. Sometimes I'm also this. I fight with you, and I say things I shouldn't, and I can be an asshole. I tried to be honest about that too—as Hayes. But I don't think—"

"I like this you."

His face slackens with surprise.

I take a deep breath, preparing for the plunge. "I like you as both. And I want you to be honest with me like this. That's what I liked about talking to H—to you."

He swallows audibly. "I liked being honest with you. I liked that it was you."

"You did?"

He shifts, facing me fully. "I thought I made that pretty clear when I said I like you. A lot. You said you were worried I'd be disappointed when I found out it was you, but I was more worried you'd be disappointed it was me." He pauses, and the confession hangs heavy around us. Then, tentatively, he adds, "Are you? Disappointed it's me?" As soon as the words leave his mouth, he tenses like he's bracing himself.

"I was never disappointed."

He exhales a shaky breath, nodding. "Okay."

"I was… scared. That it was you." He drops his gaze, mouth pulling down at the corners. I feel, once again, the unfamiliar urge to comfort him. "You have to understand that. I didn't know what to expect from you. I was supposed to believe you found out I was Pomerene at a time when we had almost nothing between us but mutual sabotage, and you chose not to use it against me? You had everything I said when I was high, you had all the stuff I'd told Hayes—you could've destroyed me. Easily. How was I supposed to think it was anything but a long con?"

Three nods slowly. "I get it. I couldn't even admit it to myself at first—that I just really selfishly wanted to keep talking to you. Because I could pretend if you needed me, it wasn't because I needed you just as badly. And the longer it went on, the deeper I dug myself in a hole, because I was starting to like you here"—he knocks on the arm of my chair—"and here." He motions to his phone. "And I knew there was no good way to tell you it was me. Not without lying, or hurting you—and then I hurt you anyway."

I look down at my hands. "I think that's what I'm most afraid of. Getting hurt. I was embarrassed that I told you so much when I didn't know it was you, but I'm more worried about how much I'll be willing to give you now, knowing exactly who I'm talking to."

I startle when he brushes my hair behind my ear. "It's not going away for me. The way I feel about you. And I know you don't trust me right now; I know I have to earn it. But Wyn…" He slides a finger under my chin, tilting my head up. His gaze is intense, imploring. "I want to earn it. I want to be someone to you."

My heart squeezes. No one has ever spoken to me like this—so earnestly. It should be embarrassing to hear him say it out loud, but instead his words slide through me, turning my blood warm.

"You already are," I whisper. "You are someone to me."

He softens, smiling a little, almost exasperated. "I don't mean someone you find irritating—"

"I know what you mean," I say breathlessly as I grab him by the back of the neck and kiss him.

He responds instantly, twisting toward me, matching my intensity and then quickly doubling it. Like betting, each of us calls every time the other ups the ante, until our frantic kisses turn deep and languid, and my heart feels like it might break free from my chest, and I swear I can hear his beating just as hard.

We fumble with our chairs, fighting with the arms that separate us until he shoves out of his seat entirely. He kneels, his arms coming around me and pulling me to the edge of my seat. His torso is bracketed by my thighs, and as his mouth reaches mine, I whisper, "You should kneel more often. It's a good look on you."

A laugh bursts out of him, and his next kiss is a smile pressed to my mouth. "God, Evans," he mumbles against my lips. "I hope you never change."

Kissing him blurs time and place, narrowing my entire universe down to his touch. I finally understand what all those romance novels meant when they talked about losing yourself in someone. I want to stay lost, knowing only the heat of his hands, the sound he makes when I nip his lower lip, and his deep exhale as he pulls me closer.

When we finally come up for air, we're both mussed and still smiling. I can no longer draw up my anger from earlier. It's like cupping water in my hands. There's nothing left to hold on to.

I want him.And he wants me too. Maybe I don't trust everything, but I trust that. He's in this with me. He said as much as Hayes, so many months ago, when he found out I was Pomerene. He knew, and he chose this anyway.

"You know, historically my birthdays have been pretty shitty, and this one had a rough start," he says as he rests back on his heels, his hands warm on my knees. He gives them a squeeze. "But this is a nice turnaround."

"Your… what?"

He smiles. "Some birthday, huh?"

I smack his chest. "Why didn't you tell me? You did all this—and then your parents—why—?"

"Wyn," he says, laughing as he catches my hand in his, "this is what I wanted. If I'd waited, I would have just spent one more day missing you."

I flush, looking away.

"Besides"—he presses a quick kiss to my jaw, his mouth finding my ear—"I got the best gift in the end."

Three insists on walking me home, and on the way to my building, we talk. It feels natural, the way everything else between us has—the fights and arguments, every battle gaining and losing ground, and all our conversations. I realize, now that I'm looking for it, that we have a rhythm. We always have.

At the front of my building, we linger, hands clasped between us.

"I'd like to take you on a date," he says, not quite meeting my gaze. "But it won't be anything… nice. Not until I find a job."

"You'll be there? On this date?"

He snorts. "Yeah, I think for it to qualify, we both have to be there."

I smile. "Good enough for me. And maybe as one broke student to another, I could give you some pointers on the job-hunting thing."

He chuckles. "You mean you'll help me with my résumé?"

"Yeah, first tip: the kind of job you're getting won't require a résumé."

I'm surprisingly charmed when his smile turns sheepish. "I guess it's a good thing we're about to have more free time."

"What do you mean?"

"We're almost done with our story. We especially have to be now, since I left Tau Delt. My access to the Dirty Four"—I don't miss the amused twitch of his lips—"is about to be severely limited. But I want to shift focus to the guys who dropped out during pledge period. I've got two from the last few years who might go on the record about what they saw. Plus, I don't think we can hold Christopher off much longer. We should shoot for next week."

My stomach drops. Our story.

"What? Why do you look like that?"

I bite my lip. "I… haven't worked on it in a few days."

"Evans."

"I thought you were going to kick me off!"

He levels me with a look. "You're in so much trouble."

"It's fine! A week is plenty of time. I'll work on it all night if that makes you happy."

"I'm the opposite of happy. You thought I was going to kick you off? Who do you think I am?"

"I didn't know what to expect. It's not like I haven't been doing anything; I just haven't done as much as I should have." I shoot him a sideways look. "You're telling me it didn't even cross your mind that I might bail?"

His answer is lightning quick. "Not for a second."

"Well… okay." I wince, feeling guilty. "I'll start catching up tonight. And tomorrow you can work me so hard, I'll think I'm at journalism boot camp." As soon as the words leave my mouth, a flush erupts over my face.

Three swallows audibly, and his gaze drops to my mouth.

I hold up my free hand, blocking my lips. "We shouldn't. I need to focus. I'm going upstairs right now"—I try to tug apart our clasped hands, but he holds on—"so I can work on it—Three."

He reels me in, swooping around to plant a kiss on my cheek. "See you tomorrow."

And I'm so surprised, the only thing I say is, "Happy birthday."

His laughter follows me into the lobby, and when I look back before I enter the elevator, he's still standing on the other side of the door, smiling.