Chapter Twenty-Six

We spend the weekend making our Dirty Four article sparkle, putting the finishing touches on our interviews with two former pledges that hint at—though can't definitively confirm—the involvement of high-level alumni in the fraternity drug ring. It's not perfect, but it's the best we're going to get, and it will at least get eyes on the fraternities involved. That we end up getting our work done in a reasonable amount of time is mostly thanks to Dara and Madison, who switch off playing chaperone in my room. Their presence keeps Three and me on our best behavior for a few hours.

It's strange, having this relationship-ish with him. Stranger in its lack of strangeness. We share meals in the dining hall, talk on the phone late into the night, and still argue, though now we make up with kisses and the occasional flipped middle finger that feels as sweet as a pet name.

Sunday night, he leaves my room with promises of turning in our article the next day, after one last fresh look at it. I think we're both nervous about sending it in for Sabina's eagle-eyed editing. No matter how much praise I get from her, I still worry that maybe this will be the story that disappoints her. The one where my writing simply isn't good enough. It wouldn't be my first rejection at the Torch.

But it's comforting having Three by my side in it. I know he's a great reporter. I trust his instincts. And I've read his writing, which speaks for itself.

I wake Monday morning feeling good. I've fixed things with my friends and with Three, the Campus Life spot didn't go in my favor, but there are other opportunities for me, and our Dirty Four story is nearly ready, just in time to include it with my journalism program application.

So I should have guessed, of course, that something was about to go terribly wrong.

When I get out of therapy that afternoon—my new standing appointment every Monday—I have texts from two very unexpected people, and nothing from the boy I'm supposed to be meeting in a few hours.

I swipe open my phone and check the more surprising one first.

ELLIE:

If you don't run the story they'll leave you alone. But I'm not sorry. He deserved that.

I frown at my screen, then check the next.

CHRISTOPHER:

You need to talk some sense into him. I know you don't want this.

As I'm reading Christopher's message, my phone buzzes twice with new messages—these from Sabina.

SABINA:

Don't listen to Christopher. You and Three need to decide what you want to do together.

But if he doesn't want to run it because he's worried about his own safety, we have to respect that.

I immediately call Three. It rings and rings, then goes to voicemail.

I try again.

And again.

When he still doesn't answer, I call Sabina.

"What happened?" I ask when she picks up.

Sabina makes a surprised noise. "You don't know?"

My heart is hammering. Between Ellie's ominous text and the ones from Christopher and Sabina, I'm putting together a picture I really don't want to see.

"No?" My voice cracks on the single syllable.

Sabina swears. "He called Christopher this morning and said he wants to wait to run the story. He—goddammit, Three. I can't believe he didn't tell you." I'm already shaking from nerves, and it intensifies in her pause. "He got jumped by some frat brothers last night."

"What?"

"He's fine. He has a minor concussion—"

"That's not fine!"

Sabina goes quiet. Then she says, "So you two really are… Huh. You know, Christopher said he thought so, but I did not see that coming."

I don't have time to unpack whatever that means, or how many editors at the Torch have been gossiping about us. "Where is he now? At home?"

"Yeah—Christopher!"

"Hey," Christopher says breathlessly from the other end of the line. "I think if you talk to him, he'll go for it. He's more worried about you than himself."

"I'm going to kill you," Sabina says to him.

"I think we should still run it, if you want my opinion," says Christopher.

"I don't care about the stupid fucking story, Christopher." I hang up, cutting off whatever he says next.

I try Three's phone again, but he doesn't answer, so I start toward the clinic exit and push out into the cold. I know what building he lives in, but I've never been to his room. He has a roommate he finds barely tolerable, and it makes sense for us to spend more time in mine, where it can be just the two of us. All I know is that he doesn't live on the first or top floor, because he mentioned how loud his neighbors are, both above and below.

I text him as I walk, my worry making the short journey to irritation.

ME:

You better be asleep because if I find out you're ignoring my calls, you're going to deeply regret it

Just know I will go through your entire building knocking on every single door until I find you

My phone rings a moment later, and I almost crack a nail stabbing at the answer button.

"I swear to god—"

"I wasn't ignoring you," he says quickly, but his words sound different than usual—rounder. Softer. Like someone who just left the dentist. Like he's being careful with how he moves his mouth, or the opposite—that he's having trouble being careful.

My heart squeezes, and I stop walking. "Why do you sound like that?" The words come out quiet, twisted up in a whine.

"I'm okay. Don't come here."

I put a hand on my forehead, looking in the direction of his building. "I'm not trying to bother you. I'm only—"

"You're not bothering me," he murmurs. "I just don't want you to freak out about this."

"I'm already freaking out. I'm freaking out more that you don't want to see me."

"That's not—I do—I'm…" He sighs.

"Please don't make me sit here and wonder what's going on. We don't have to talk. Just let me be there."

He doesn't respond right away. Then, very quietly, he says, "Okay. But text me when you get here. Don't knock."

I'm sure, if Sabina was right about him having a concussion—even a mild one—his head is probably pounding.

I text him from the lobby of his building, and when I step out of the elevator on the fifth floor, a boy is leaning out of the only open door. He has a mop of messy brown hair and sleepy eyes complete with dark circles, and I realize I've seen him before.

"Wells," I say before I can think better of it.

This is him. Throwing-the-game Wells. Second-best-because-he-doesn't-want-it Wells. And despite everything Three told me about their relationship, he's here.

"Wyn," he says with a nod, as though he knows exactly who I am. If he's surprised I know who he is, he doesn't let on. "I know what you're thinking. Only this idiot would have an emergency contact that lives two hours away."

But that's not what I'm thinking. I'm thinking I want to dissect their relationship like a biology class frog—with a scalpel and a magnifying glass—to see all its tiny parts and everything that makes it tick. I want to know how, after everything Three has told me, they got to the point where Wells is his emergency contact in the first place.

But that's not why I'm here right now.

As the door swings shut behind us, my panic is rivaled only by my piqued interest at getting a new glimpse into Three's world. There's a small common entryway for both rooms, the bathroom off to one side. One of the bedroom doors is closed, but the other is open, and Wells leads me toward it.

"Just a warning, he looks like complete shit right now," he says. "More so than usual. So don't be too surprised."

I can tell he's trying to lighten the mood, but I can't bring myself to smile.

"Slandering me? Right now, of all times?" Three says as we step into his room.

After Sabina said he was jumped, I've been imagining the worst. Bloodied, bruised. Maybe a broken bone. Head bandaged.

But for once, I think that whole Wyn, you watch way too much TV thing actually works in my favor.

That's not to say he doesn't look terrible, because he does. He's sitting up in bed, propped against his pillows. His top lip is split and swollen, and there's bruising under both eyes, around his nose, and along his jaw. He has a big scrape on his chin, like he skinned it on concrete.

I clench my teeth, fighting down my rage so I don't scream. From the way he winces every time he talks, I know he's in pain. Probably even worse than he's letting on.

"It's not as bad as it looks," he says.

"Yes, it is," says Wells. "And he has a concussion."

Three glares at him. "A mild one."

"I heard. From Sabina." Three has the decency to look apologetic, and I soften. "What happened?"

He sighs, closing his eyes. "Word must have gotten around that I left Tau Delt. I guess people were asking why, and it got back to Ellie. She sold us out. Me, specifically, but they said if we run the story, they'll come after you next."

"Why would she do that?"

Three gives me a sardonic smile. "Isn't it obvious? She's still dealing. If they go down, she goes down. Again. She'd be violating her probation, and she'd definitely be kicked out of school this time. She has more to lose than any of them after getting caught once already."

"That's why you told Christopher and Sabina to hold it."

"Because Ellie knows where you live and could easily get into the building. Christopher was pissed, but I'm not willing to compromise your safety for this. I knew this story would make us enemies, but I didn't expect anything this bad."

"Compromise my safety," I repeat dully. "How long have you been practicing this speech, exactly?"

Even with the bruising on his face, I see him flush. "Since before I called Sabina."

"You called her first?"

"She's editor-in-chief," he says, as though it's obvious.

"I bet Christopher loved that."

Three shrugs, then winces. His voice is strained when he speaks next. "He wouldn't have been happy either way."

"How did you even find out it was Ellie?" From the text she sent me, I know he's right. I can't decide which is more unbelievable—that she thought I'd actually listen to her when she warned me off this story, or that she was dumb enough to keep dealing after she got caught the first time.

"They told me."

"What, you just stood out there and had a chat with them? Are you an idiot? You should've run as soon as you saw them!"

"I didn't know they were in on it."

I stare at him, and everything starts to slot into place. Three isn't stupid. If it was the Dirty Four and there was time for conversation, he would've run. He would've known nothing good would come from talking to them.

He must see the realization dawn on me, because he shoots me a humorless smile. "Yeah. We'll have to start calling them the Dirty Five now."

Tau Delt. "They thought you knew."

"They thought that's why I left. Because I was preparing to sell them all out. All that investigating, and I didn't catch what was right under my nose. One of the brothers asked me to meet him last night, and I thought they wanted to invite me back. That my dad called in a favor or something to save face."

Wells makes a sound that's half-derisive. He follows it up with a cough, turning his head away.

Three doesn't acknowledge him. "He told me to bury the story. Said if I don't, I'll regret it." He starts to smile but it dies as a wince. "If I'd known he had four other guys waiting, I probably wouldn't have run my mouth."

"That's unlikely," says Wells.

Three glares at him. "I'm confused—are you here to help or make things worse?"

"Just checking that your head injury isn't causing delusions. You definitely would've still run your mouth."

Three sighs. "So the answer is that you're here to make things worse. Okay."

"I think you should've expected that when you made me your emergency contact."

It's fascinating to me, watching Three interact with someone he's close with. Especially Wells—someone he clearly cares for deeply, despite what I know about their past.

Now that I see them together, I realize what Three meant when he said he was lonely. He wants connection like this—the easy understanding of another person, even if it's complicated at times. He doesn't just want a crowd to walk with, like he had with the other Tau Delt pledges. He wants real friends.

I know the feeling well. It's easy to spot in him now that I'm looking for it. Now that I understand him too.

"Ellie texted me this morning. She definitely knows they jumped you."

"I'm sure she's super broken up about it," Three says.

"Not exactly." I pull out my phone, gripping it so hard, I'm surprised it doesn't crack in my hand. "Are you worried they'll come after you again?"

"No, I'm worried about you."

"And if I wasn't a factor, you wouldn't be hesitating."

He sighs, closing his eyes. "I can't talk about this right now. I have a head injury."

"Dramatic," says Wells.

Three flips him off.

"Unless you give me a reason not to right now, I'm telling Sabina to run it."

His eyes fly open. "No."

"If we run it and they come after you or me, everyone will know it was them. I'm not worried."

"You should be. If the school starts investigating them, they might retaliate out of spite, knowing it's a lost cause."

"Again, I'm not worried."

"Wyn."

"Did you file a police report?"

"Yes," Wells says. "At the hospital last night."

I glare at Three, annoyance flaring. "I hope you know how pissed I am that you didn't call me when this happened. You started making decisions without me—"

"I didn't decide anything," he says weakly. "I just asked them if we could hold it. I wanted to talk to you."

"I'm deciding, then. We're running it. I'm calling Sabina." I pause and clench my jaw. "Actually, I have to call someone else first."

I step out of the room and shut the door gently behind me. Then I move into the bathroom and shut that door too, knowing I'm about to get loud.

When I call Ellie, it rings twice before going straight to voicemail. When I try again, she denies the call even faster.

I'm breathing fire when her voicemail beeps.

"I knew you wouldn't answer, because you're a fucking coward. But I want you and your friends to know that this story is going out. This week. And not only that—I'm going to put my entire effort for as long as it takes into getting you and every single one of them expelled. I can't believe I ever, for a single second, thought you were worth trying to understand. You're scum. And when I'm done with you, your future will be shredded. Your transcripts—useless. I will send the articles we've written about you to every university and community college in the state—maybe farther. You might've thought I'd call and tell you I'm the bigger person and I hope you learn from this, but that's not me. I hope you rot, and I plan to make sure of it."

I hang up, breathing hard, and dial Sabina next.

"Hey," she says when she picks up. "How's he doing?"

"He looks terrible, but he's okay," I reply. "We're running the story."

"Are you sure—"

"Sabina, please. He's not worried for his safety—he's worried for mine. I'm not. I want them to pay."

She sighs. "Journalism isn't about retaliation, Wyn. It's about reporting the news."

"And this is news. They're not just selling pot. These are hard drugs. We all know what happened with that counterfeit Adderall last year, and we'll hear more stories like that if this keeps going. Having hard drugs on campus puts everyone else in danger. People need resources. We can't hold a story like this just because I'm worried they'll come after me. And Three getting the shit beat out of him is pointless if we don't run it. They can't intimidate the truth away."

"Okay," Sabina says calmly. "I hear you. We'll run it."

In the background, someone whoops—probably Christopher.

"I'm editing our draft to add in Tau Delt, and then I'm sending it over."

We hang up, and I slip back into Three's room, feeling a little calmer.

Wells and Three stare at me.

Then Wells shoots Three a look. "You undersold her."

I flush, embarrassed that they heard me through two closed doors.

Three glares at him. "Hey, could you stop trying to charm my girlfriend?"

I whip my head around to gape at Three. "Your… what?"

He stares at me, his expression flat, as though the answer should be obvious.

"Oh, I'm sorry. Do you think you're allowed to be annoyed with me about anything right now?"

He softens, guilty.

"Well, as much as I love watching Three get annihilated, I should take this." Wells holds up his buzzing phone, answering as he slips out into the common area. "Hey, gorgeous. No, he's not dead." The last thing I hear before the door shuts is, "That's supposed to be good news."

Three snorts, but when I shoot him a questioning look, he waves me off. "I'd like to not be concussed when I try to explain that."

I let it go. "I need, like, twenty minutes to update our draft and add in Tau Delt, and then I'm sending it to Sabina."

He makes a noise of protest. "It's not—"

"We've read it a hundred times, Three. It's ready." I pull out his desk chair and drop into it, opening his laptop. "What's your new password?"

He hesitates, rubbing the back of his neck. "Ah…"

I level him with a cold look. "You're not seriously worried about me stealing from you again."

His eyes narrow. "You know, it's the ‘again' that really gets me."

"You should try to keep your stress level low. Considering you have a head injury." I tap his computer. "Password, please. I'd try to guess, but you already said I'll never get it, so I'd prefer to not waste time."

His cheeks redden, and he looks away. "Okay, listen. I want to preface this by saying this was a joke—"

"Which you're historically very good at. Jokes."

His gaze flicks in my direction. "You're one to talk."

I rest my chin in my hand, waiting.

He sighs, glancing away again. "E-O-W-Y-N-E-V-A-N-S. All one word. All lowercase."

I don't move. The flush in his cheeks spreads, coloring his chest, neck, and ears.

I look down at his keyboard, typing it out: eowynevans. My full name.

I hit enter, and his desktop appears.

"It was supposed to be funny," he mutters.

"Listen, this is, like, the most romantic thing that's ever happened to me, and you're kind of ruining it right now." I open his browser and log in to my email. "Where'd you save our story?"

He clears his throat and directs me where to find it. When I'm done and the telltale whoosh announces the draft is on its way to Sabina, I close everything out and shut his computer.

Then I finally take a second to observe his room. His roommate's side is a disaster, but Three's half is neat and clean. Nothing hangs on his walls except a bulletin board, which has different newspaper headlines pinned to it. His desk is hyper-organized, with file folders, cubbies, and cups with highlighters, exactly twelve identical pens, and three types of sticky notes. I imagine that when he isn't in his bed, it's made pristinely every morning.

Three eyes me, scooting over in bed. "Do you want to sit?"

"Am I allowed?" I ask, standing from his desk.

"If you don't, I'll be upset, so…"

I bite back a smile, sliding in next to him. He gives a little grunt of pain as he moves toward the wall.

"The most romantic thing that's ever happened to you?" he asks as he settles again.

"Yeah, it's a pretty low bar," I reply. "But you're the one setting it."

"I can definitely do better than that." He presses his face into my neck, nipping lightly behind my ear. "I want you to know I'd be kissing the hell out of you right now, but I'm supposed to be taking it easy," he murmurs. "I'm kind of worried I'd pass out or throw up, and I don't think I'd recover—you know, emotionally—from that kind of embarrassment."

I laugh.

"I probably shouldn't say this, but your drug rant seriously turned me on."

"Oh my god." I cover my face with my hand. "You heard that too?"

He tugs at my wrist, flipping my hand toward him so he can press a kiss to my palm. "Don't be embarrassed. I want to hear all your rants."

"Really." It comes out flat, incredulous.

Three lifts his head, smiling. "Yeah. Tell me everything you give a shit about, éowyn."

I flush, loving the way my full name—something that's always been a joke, lobbed like an insult—sounds leaving his mouth.

His expression turns pleased. "And keep looking at me like that."

"Yeah, I don't know if you noticed," I whisper, leaning in, "but this is how I always look at you."