Chapter Twenty-Five

The next day, Three and I lose a significant chunk of time making out in an alcove in the library, and I think we both realize that if we're ever going to finish our Dirty Four story, we should not be left alone anywhere.

It's a little embarrassing that we can't sit next to each other for an extended period without our brains melting into useless goo. But it's also kind of nice to know Three is as into me as I am him.

And even though I have to quiet my worst insecurities when we're together, I can tell he has insecurities too. I'm worried about letting him see the outside of me. Three is worried about me seeing the inside of him.

By the end of the week, my brain has divided itself into two categories: thinking about Three, complete with giggling and feet kicking, and the growing nerves about running a story that will certainly make us a lot of enemies—decidedly less giggly and feet-kicky. Which must be why, when Sabina texts me to come by the Torch office because they've made a decision about Campus Life, I'm completely blindsided.

I make the trek there with my heart in my throat, and when I arrive, Three is waiting in the hall.

"Hey," he says, and I can tell immediately from the sound of his voice that he knows the result.

I stop a few feet away. "Congratulations." A little of the raw hollowness in my chest seeps into the word.

Three frowns. "Wyn—"

"Well, don't do that," I say with a laugh, forcing my feet to move again.

"Do what?"

"Feel bad for me." I have to hold myself back from falling against him. It would be unfair to expect him to comfort me when he should be celebrating.

"That's not what I'm doing."

I cross my arms, giving him a patient look. It would be embarrassing, after all, to let him see the way this has cracked my heart like an eggshell. "You don't seem like you're enjoying your win."

He drops his gaze, his mouth flattening. "Will you see me after you talk to them?"

"Don't insult me."

His head snaps up. "What?"

"You think I'm going to hold it against you that you beat me? After you've spent all year promising to beat me? Now you're worried about my feelings?" I am full of false bravado, but it's gratifying to finally see him smile a little. I grab him by the front of his shirt, yanking him closer. "Congratulations. You deserve it. I'm not mad at you."

He drops his forehead against mine. "Thank you."

I want to sink against him, but I know where that will lead, and we'll either lose a ton of time out here in the hall or be discovered by one of the Torch staff. And I'm not ready to explain this thing between us yet. "I should go inside," I say, pulling away reluctantly.

"Yeah." He steps back. I watch a few different emotions flick across his face before he finally settles, calm but unreadable.

"You better work on cleaning up your part of the story," I say. "Mine is looking pretty good, and it'll be embarrassing if my writing is too polished for yours to mesh with."

He huffs out a laugh, turning as I pass him. He leans a shoulder into the wall. "Yes, ma'am."

I pause with a hand on the door, glancing back at him. "Huh. I like how that sounds."

He grins. "I'm sure you do."

I point at him. "Stop distracting me," I whisper.

Then I pull open the door and step inside, leaving him in the hall.

"Hey," Sabina calls as soon as I walk in, beckoning me to her desk. As I get closer, her serious expression drops into a glower. "I fucking told him not to gloat."

I smile. "He didn't."

She eyes me, unconvinced. "Well, he did something."

He worried about me. That's what gave him away. He thinks he has the best poker face of all time, but I saw right through him.

"I guessed," I say.

She grabs her phone and stuffs it into her pocket as she stands. "Walk with me?"

"Sure. Of course."

As we head for the door, Three ducks back inside. His gaze snags on me before skipping over to the grunt desk.

I try not to look at our seats. Side by side.

He'll be moving to Mel's old desk now, and I'll stay behind to train whoever takes his seat. It smarts in two directions—being left behind while he moves up, but also missing sharing this space with him.

"Look, I'm really okay," I say to Sabina as the door swings shut behind us. It's a lie, but won't be for long. "I know he's a good reporter."

"He's a great reporter." Sabina leads me down the hall and into the elevator. "But you're also a great reporter. I've told you that." As the elevator doors slide shut, she turns toward me. "You're just a different kind of reporter. And we don't technically have the room for you. Yet. But you know you aren't at the grunt desk forever, right?"

"I know. People have to leave sometime—graduation demands it."

Sabina smiles. "No, I mean before that. You'll be stuck there a little longer, but I want to move you up too. Just not to Campus Life."

"I don't know anything about sports."

She laughs. "Trust me, they don't want you."

It feels good to smile. To joke with Sabina, of all people. I've idolized her all year, and she's finally looked my way.

The elevator doors open, and she leads me outside just long enough to cross the street to the café in the lobby of another building.

"I wanted to talk to you about this first before we really get to work on it," Sabina says after she orders—a cold brew for herself, which I can't imagine drinking in these frigid January temperatures, and a flat white for me, which I order out of pure self-consciousness. I normally take coffee with a lot of sweetener, but I don't want Sabina to think I'm unsophisticated.

"Because if we do this, you won't be writing for Campus Life. This will be your sole focus." She makes her way to a recently vacated table and sits. As she brushes bagel crumbs from the tabletop, she says, "It'd be a separate column entirely. And you won't have a managing editor, so you'll report directly to me."

I have to bite my cheek to keep my smile from breaking my face in half.

Sabina clocks it and smirks. "Don't get too excited. I'm kind of demanding."

"I don't care. This is literally all I want."

"You don't even know what I'm about to propose."

"It doesn't matter. I'll do whatever you ask. I'd write about the campus squirrels if it meant I was working under you."

She puffs up, pleased. "So you wouldn't hate writing more of your human-interest stuff every week? A single-column feature story?"

"Seriously?"

"What?" Her smile turns wry. "You hate it?"

"Not at all! I'm just—I'm kind of…" I trail off and take a sip of my coffee to wet my rapidly drying throat. "I'm surprised. I know you said you liked the stuff I've been writing, but I didn't think you liked it that much."

Sabina shrugs. "I think it's interesting. People like it. Sometimes it's good news, sometimes it's sad. And I think stories that get to the heart of a person are some of the most important stories we can put out. Reading about other people makes us feel less alone. Plus"—she smiles, a little sheepish—"I think it might be our best weapon against Two Minute News."

Something fizzy explodes in my chest. Me. She's saying this about me.

All this time, I've been so focused on what a great reporter Three is, and it never occurred to me that I didn't have to be better—I only had to be different. Inimitable.

"But," Sabina continues, a note of regret in her voice, "you'll have to work at the grunt desk a little longer while we get it going."

"I'm okay with that," I say. "I've been writing and working the grunt desk all year."

"Hopefully not for much longer." She relaxes in her chair. "I have a good feeling about this. I think people will want to read it. We wouldn't see things like This American Life get so successful if people weren't interested in other people."

Dara said that too, when I wrote my first human-interest piece. She believed in these stories from the very beginning. Pushed me to write them, in fact—she and Madison both.

"I also didn't want you to hear we'd moved Three up and think that meant we'd undervalued you."

"I wouldn't have thought that," I say quickly. "I know he's more qualified than I am. I mean, I wasn't editor-in-chief in high school."

"Neither was I."

I blink at her. "What?"

"I don't think what you did in high school has any bearing on whether or not you're a good reporter, or whether you're qualified. You could end up editor-in-chief one day too."

Something sparks in my heart, hot and bright and yearning. I want it. I want it so bad.

Sabina smirks. "I can't wait to tell Christopher."

"Tell Christopher what?"

"That you and Three got the exact same look on your face when I mentioned making editor-in-chief." She sighs, pushing her chair back, but she looks pleased. "I'm sensing we'll be dealing with a years-long battle between the two of you."

I'm sensing she might be right.

When we get back to the newsroom, Three has already made the switch to Mel's old desk. The grunt desk looks sad and empty without him.

I slide into my seat and pull my laptop from my bag, feeling his gaze from across the room. I ignore him.

And ignore him.

And ignore him…

Finally, when the intensity gets to be too much, I grab my phone and tap out a message.

ME:

Hey you left something over here

I look up in time to watch Three snatch his phone and swipe it open. His brow furrows, and he turns toward me.

I reach a hand under the desk, then pull it back out and slowly turn it, flipping up my middle finger.

Three's expression flattens, and I grin as my phone buzzes.

THREE:

Why do I feel like you just blew me a kiss in the middle of the newsroom

ME:

Must be one of your many issues

Sorry but you're the one who did it romantically

Do it again

Get back to work

I feel his stare on me, and I sigh. Fighting a smile, I lift my hand again and discreetly flip him off.

He pretends to catch it and holds it to his chest, a dreamy look on his face.

I roll my eyes and point at his computer, mouthing, Get back to work. I mime typing.

Three pulls a face, fingers flicking over his keyboard as he imitates me.

Annoying. He is so annoying.

But when he sneaks another smile in my direction, something warm blooms in my chest, and I have another thought.

I can't wait to keep fighting with him.