Chapter Eight

The resident director wakes Dara and me late the next morning to let us know Ellie and her parents are moving her things out. Madison is already long gone for morning worship service, and Dara and I both agree it's too weird to stay in the room with Ellie next door. She takes off to get lunch with Kayla and Yasmin, and even though she invites me along, for once I want to be alone.

It's a warm and sunny afternoon, despite now being November, so I head to the crowded Oval to soak up what will probably be our last nice day of the year.

And to finally talk to my parents, a long overdue phone call.

"I can't believe you didn't call us yesterday! We could have…" Mom's next words are lost under the swell of bagpipes. They're taking their lunch break at the faire, and there is no escaping the noise.

"Sorry!" Dad shouts, his voice so loud, the speaker crackles. I pull the phone from my ear. When I put it back, he's still speaking. "… for the closing ceremony this weekend."

"I didn't know they had bagpipes in medieval times."

"Of course they did!" says Dad. "The bagpipers are the biggest hit during Highland Weekend."

"And you know Highland Weekend is very popular now," Mom says. "Ever since Outlander." She whistles, and I imagine she's fanning herself.

"Okay, moving on from your kilt obsession," I say.

"Should I get a kilt?" Dad asks, and his voice is just quiet enough that I know he's turned toward Mom, the phone all but forgotten. "I could get a kilt. I bet I'd look pretty handsome."

Mom laughs.

"Hey, parents? Did you forget the part where I said my roommate was—" I stop short, glancing around. I'm sitting alone, but there are clumps of people close enough that anyone could overhear. Word of Ellie's arrest spread like a boulder rolling downhill in the dorm. I don't need to kick another one over the ledge.

"Of course we didn't forget," Dad says. "Are you okay, Wynnie? Do you want to come home this weekend?"

"No, it's fine. You'll be busy with the faire anyway."

"You could come to the faire!" Mom says. "It might take your mind off things. A turkey leg and some face painting."

"And you love the Washing Well Wenches!" says Dad.

"The bus only takes an hour and a half," Mom adds. "We could have you back home in no time."

To sit alone at the house while they're at the faire? Or worse, to sit alone at the faire while they're working? Pass. Double pass.

"It's okay. I have work this weekend." I yawn, sleepy from the warm sun. "And I'll be home for Thanksgiving soon anyway."

My parents go quiet, and I hear frantic whispering.

I sit up, my eyes snapping open. "What's going on?"

"Your dad was supposed to tell you," Mom says.

Dad makes a strangled sound. "That's not what we—"

Mom shushes him. Then, sighing, she says, "Wynnie, we have a con that weekend. The Duel of Dragons Convention."

"On Thanksgiving?" I can't keep the shock and hurt out of my voice.

"Well, it starts on Friday, but we planned to drive up Thursday night. It's in Chicago."

I swallow hard against the lump forming in my throat. Why am I so worked up over this? It's not like Thanksgiving is a huge tradition in our house. Sometimes we don't even eat turkey. We usually visit my grandma in the nursing home in the morning, and we finish off the night with whatever fantasy show or movie has caught their interest, or occasionally—you guessed it—a Lord of the Rings marathon.

Thanksgiving isn't that special in our house. So why do I feel like crying?

"You could come home the weekend before," Mom says quickly, reading the emotion in my silence. "We can do all the Thanksgiving stuff then!"

I clear my throat. "Yeah, maybe. I have to go. I have work."

"Oh—okay. Hey, Wynnie, if you change your mind about coming home this weekend, we can make it happen."

"I'm fine," I say. "Love you. Bye."

I hang up before either of them can respond.

With Ellie gone, work and class have somehow become my refuge. We may not have been friends, but the empty side of our room is unsettling to look at, especially the bare mattress. At least when I'm out of the dorm, I feel marginally less alone.

I'm in the library, pushing an empty cart back after restocking some shelves, when I spot Jennie at the front desk, a notebook open in front of her.

I redirect the cart. "Didn't midterms just end?"

Jennie glances up, then groans. "Try telling my professors that. It's all projects all the time for us, baby." She drops her highlighter and leans her chin in her hand. "When they invent time travel, I'm going back to warn high school Jennie to run. Run far away. Don't even think about college."

"I thought engineering was your passion."

Jennie's eyes narrow, and after a moment, she laughs. "I can never tell when you're joking."

Someone clears their throat loudly behind me, and I turn. Our boss, Scott, stands a few feet away, fists on his hips.

Ah, damn.

"Wyn," he says, motioning me over.

Jennie quickly slides her study materials off the desk and into her lap.

"Hi," I say to Scott, grabbing the cart again. "I was just putting this back."

"I'll do that. You-know-who is up on the third floor. Could you go take care of it, please?"

I balk. "But—I did it—"

"Let him know if it happens again, we'll have to ban him from the library." Scott grabs my cart. "Please handle it discreetly."

I watch his retreating back, my fists curling at my sides. "Handle it discreetly?"

Jennie winces.

"Handle it discreetly." I push up the sleeves of my sweater, hot with rage. "Sure. I can be discreet."

"Wyn," Jennie says as I head toward the back office. I shove open the door and round the desk, dropping into the chair.

Jennie follows. "What are you doing?" she whispers, glancing over her shoulder in the direction Scott went.

"Handling it discreetly."

I unlock the computer and pull up the Wi-Fi access-point dashboard. Technically, I should not know how to do this. I'm not even authorized to use the dashboard—it's supposed to be accessible only to the library managers. But we had some issues with the library Wi-Fi a few weeks ago, and while the IT team was working on it, they gave the whole staff access so we can temporarily reset the access point.

Which is why I know exactly how to reset it, and how to shut it off completely.

"Scott is going to flip his lid," Jennie says.

"Then he can come up with the solution next time."

There isn't a noticeable change when the Wi-Fi goes down. Not right away, at least.

I shove back the chair and march past Jennie, heading for the stairs. The noise starts when I'm halfway up to the second floor, everyone realizing it isn't a glitch or a momentary drop of connection.

I find Porn Guy on the third floor, a frustrated sneer on his face, slamming at his computer keys. I saunter toward his table, shaking from the adrenaline rush. I put both hands on the back of the chair across from him and lean down.

"Having fun now?" I ask.

He looks up. Irritation melts from his face, and his mouth pulls into a closed-lip smile.

"I warned you," I say. "Get out, and don't come back."

I wait for him to pack his things, arms crossed and foot tapping out an erratic beat against the floor. People look in our direction, distracted from the loss of Wi-Fi when there's a bigger, better drama happening.

When Porn Guy reaches the elevator, I head for the stairs. I'm waiting at the bottom when he leaves the elevator, strolling toward the exit.

"Wyn!" Scott hisses, emerging from the back office.

Jennie stands behind the desk, eyes wide.

"He's gone," I say as I approach them, willing into my voice a calmness I'm certainly not feeling.

"What were you thinking?" Scott's face reddens, and he points into the office. "In here. Now."

It occurs to me, as my bravado fades, that I can't afford to lose this job. So it's a relief when Scott spends the next ten minutes tearing into me for abusing my access to the Wi-Fi dashboard yet doesn't actually fire me. But I just know he's going to make me suffer for this one.

"Wyn," Sabina calls when I walk into the Torch office a couple days later. "Hey, perfect timing." She waves me over to her desk.

I drop my bag at the grunt desk, relieved that, for once, Three is nowhere to be seen. It's the only upside to my entire week. Between Ellie getting kicked out, my parents skipping Thanksgiving, all the penance Scott has had me doing since I shut off the Wi-Fi the other night, and the statistics quiz I bombed yesterday, I'm exhausted.

It must show, because Sabina does a double take as I approach her desk. She opens her mouth, then shuts it and glances at Christopher. He's hovering beside her, bent at the waist to peer at her laptop, but he straightens at her look.

"We wanted to give you a heads-up about next week's edition," he says.

Sabina clears her throat. "We heard the student who was caught dealing drugs out of her room was your roommate."

A flush warms my cheeks. "I didn't realize everyone knew about that already."

"They will soon," Christopher says. "That's what we wanted to tell you. Three pitched a story about your roommate's arrest. He's almost done, and we plan to run it."

Fury lights like a fuse in my chest, and I feel it burn all the way down. "Three pitched it. Of course."

"It's an important story," Sabina says. "This wasn't just pot on campus. These were hard drugs."

"And if we have a hard drug problem sprouting up, people need to know," Christopher adds. "It's dangerous, and we don't want a repeat of last year." At the hint of resentment in his voice, I'm not sure if he means the girls who overdosed or Two Minute News getting to the story first.

"Yeah, I know," I say, my voice sharp. Sabina and Christopher exchange a look, and I take a calming breath. "Sorry. I know it's an important story. It's fine."

"We want to make sure you won't feel hurt by this," Sabina says gently.

"It doesn't even say your name. So it shouldn't be a big deal. Plus, we need to run it before someone else does." Christopher gives me a look. "You know that'll be worse for you."

Well, that answers Christopher's motivation.

"I get it. Run the story." I take a step back, glancing toward the grunt desk. "Is Three around?"

I try not to betray my mounting rage. My hair could stand on end at any moment, and I want to be far from this office when it happens.

"He left a little while ago," says Christopher.

I nod slowly. "Okay. I gotta go. But thanks for the heads-up."

"Wyn, are you sure—" Sabina's words are cut off by the door as it swings shut behind me.

In the hall, my hands curl into such tight fists, my knuckles crack. I am one wrong step away from exploding. I trek across campus, my fury beating out a steady drumbeat: Three. Three. Three. Three.

I don't know where to start. I don't even know what I want from him. No one has ever ignited this kind of anger in me before, and I've never had someone push my buttons so precisely.

But maybe it's because I had a hidden Three button all along, designed just for him to push. He's the only one with my rage manual, and he knows exactly how to turn me on.

Wait, scratch that. My brain is running away with itself.

I'm standing outside the gym when I finally slow. The last time the universe dropped him in front of me for a fight, it was right here, just as he was walking out of the aquatic center. That was the day I declared that it's on between us. That I'll ruin every chance he has—of winning the Campus Life spot or getting into journalism school at all. Over my dead body.

Or over his,I think as I push open the door to the aquatic center.

It's the longest shot in existence, expecting to find him here a second time. So I should be way more surprised when I step through the doors to the lap pool and spot his lone figure cutting a backstroke down one of the lanes.

When he reaches the end and turns, he pulls into a freestyle stroke, face down in the water.

I could yell his name. I could wait until he's finished. But I do neither. I want to catch him off guard. I want him shocked.

I set my bag on the ground and whip off my shoe, weighing it in my hand, then chuck it into the pool. I miss by several feet, and it splashes into the next lane over.

Well, I never claimed to be much of an athlete.

It still gets the job done. Three pulls up short, yanking off his goggles. He whips his hair out of his face, breathing hard as he turns in a circle, his eyes finally landing on me. He looks sufficiently surprised to see me, which eases a small bit of the wrath that's squeezing my insides.

"Jeez, Evans, are you tracking me or something?"

"Lucky coincidence."

He ducks under the lane rope, diving down to the bottom of the pool. When he comes back up, he's holding my shoe. He swims toward me, pushing his hair back from his face before resting his elbows on the ledge. He gazes at my shoe, then up at me.

"Were you trying to maim me?"

"Worse."

He grins, hauling himself out of the pool. I find myself—stupidly—deeply distracted by the fact that he's both shirtless and wearing those tight, knee-length swim shorts professionals wear. I catch myself staring one beat too long, and my gaze flicks up to his face.

Before Three can say anything, I ask, "What, do you think you're Michael Phelps or something? What's with the Olympic swimwear?"

Three smiles. "Are you wishing it was a Speedo?"

"The only thing I wish about you is that you'd go missing." I make a grab for my shoe.

Three pulls it back, holding it out of my reach. "I don't think so," he says with a laugh, warding me off with his other arm. "So, I take it they told you about my next story?"

My anger rages anew. I clench my teeth so hard, my jaw pops. "What is your problem?"

"People deserve to know what's happening on campus," he says calmly, as though I'm the unreasonable one.

"And you had to be the one to write it? Give it to someone who can at least be objective!"

"I'm very objective." He drops his arm when he's sure I'm not going to make another move for my shoe. "I objectively think that if coke and Molly are being dealt on campus, the students deserve to know. This isn't some kid passing out his prescription Adderall for extra cash. It means there's probably some serious dealing happening, and that makes everything else a lot more dangerous."

I slap my hands together in a sarcastic clap. "Hero to the people."

He scowls. "Evans, someone died last year."

"I know that!"

"I'm also objectively interested to hear how the administration plans to handle Ellie's case, when a Black student was expelled and served thirty days in jail for dealing pot on campus last year. It's called holding the school accountable for how they plan to treat a white girl from the suburbs in comparison. The code of conduct says they can expel her for possession, yet I heard your roommate was in class three days ago." I'm about to admit I didn't know any of that when he holds up my shoe like a microphone. "Care to comment?"

"You're an asshole," I say into the shoe, then make another swipe for it. He holds it out of my reach with a smirk.

"It's called news, babe." That he somehow commits everything I say to memory is so completely irritating, I could scream. "Besides, I don't know why you're so surprised I wrote it. I'm the literal worst person you've ever met, remember? What did you expect?"

"Fine. Write the article. I don't care." I reach for my shoe again, but Three passes it behind his back and into his other hand. I fumble for it before I realize letting him see me struggle is another point in his ledger. I let out a growl of frustration, straightening. "And keep the fucking shoe." I put a hand on his chest, shoving him backward.

He drops my shoe and latches onto my forearm, yanking me with him. I don't even have time to struggle.

We both tumble into the pool.

I come up gasping, weighed down by my jacket. I manage to tread water with significant effort, reaching for the wall. Three must take pity—and probably doesn't want me to actually die, maybe, I think—because he loops an arm around my waist. He pulls me to the ledge, and I grab on, panting. I struggle out of my sopping jacket and haul it out of the pool. It slaps onto the tile like a dead fish.

Three hovers so close, his legs brush mine underwater.

"I hate you." I push him away from me, splashing him in the face for good measure. "I wish we'd never even met."

He shakes the water from his eyes, shoving his hair back again. "Yeah, I know."

As I put my hands on the ledge and try to pull myself out of the water, I'm hindered by my heavy clothes and—ah—embarrassing lack of upper-body strength. He drifts close again, his hand skimming my hip. When he loops his arm around my thighs, I grab onto him with a gasp, kicking against his hold. He loses his grip, and I slide back down until we're aligned, pressed together.

"Try something. I will take you down with me, I swear to god," I growl, arms tight around his shoulders. His skin is warm, a sharp contrast to the cold water. And he's solid. Not overwrought with muscle, but strong.

I didn't expect that.

His gaze on my face turns intense, and his jaw tightens briefly before he glances away. "Grab the wall," he says, using one hand to remove my arms from around him. "I'm trying to help you."

This time, when he bobs low to curl his arm around my thighs, I let him. With his free hand, he grabs the wall, leveraging me up. I flop onto the tile beside my jacket.

As I push myself up, Three's hand lingers on my calf. I feel it burning through my jeans. His gaze is heavy, sweeping down and catching. When he looks away quickly, I realize my wet clothes are clinging, every detail of my body cast in stark relief. I instantly regret having removed my jacket.

"Don't look at me." I put my socked foot on Three's chest and shove him away roughly, and his head bobs beneath the water.

I'm not ashamed of my body, but I'm only human. And I don't want to know what he was thinking—

It doesn't matter.I don't care what Three thinks of me, and especially not my body.

"If I freeze to death on my way home, just know I spent my last moments wishing for your demise," I say, grabbing my shoe from where he dropped it. I pull it on over my wet sock, then start wringing out my sweater, my hair, and the bottoms of my jeans.

Three hauls himself out of the pool, passing me on his way to the bleachers. All his intensity is gone, replaced by easy smugness. He grabs a towel lying on the lowest bleacher, then tosses it over my head. I scrabble for it, tearing it away from my face.

"Don't freeze to death, Evans." He backs away, heading toward the locker room. "Things would be so boring without you."