41. Brielle

The clang of pots and the hiss of the stovetop fill the kitchen with a symphony of frustration. Levi is towering over the counter, his fingers drumming an impatient rhythm on the marble.

"Levi, I didn't ask for your help," I snap, grabbing a spatula to flip the sizzling chicken in the pan. The aroma of herbs and spices does little to soothe the tension between us.

He leans in, too close, his breath hot on my cheek. "You're doing it wrong," he insists, his voice low and grating.

"Back off." I shove him away with more force than necessary. His presence is like a storm cloud in my sunny kitchen. "Why do you even care?" I whirl around to face him, spatula still in hand. "Why can't you just let me be?"

Levi's jaw clenches, and his eyes, usually so warm and playful, are now storms themselves. "Because you're not thinking straight. This thing with Grayson and Conrad…it's complicated, Brielle."

"Complicated?" I laugh, but there's no humor in it, only a sharp edge. "What's complicated about it?"

"Everything!" He throws his hands up, exasperated. "You're playing with fire, and you're going to get burned."

"Or maybe you're just mad because—" I bite down on my lip, the words threatening to spill before I can think better of them. But they're already out there, hanging between us. "Maybe you're mad because it's not you."

Levi freezes, and the air seems to suck right out of the room. His gaze bores into me, searching, probing. "What are you saying?"

"Are you upset because you have feelings for me, Levi?" My heart pounds, daring him to contradict me. "Or do you just dislike seeing me happy?"

His expression shifts through a rapid succession of emotions—anger, hurt, confusion—before settling back on anger. "That's not fair, Brielle. You know that's not what this is about."

"Then tell me," I demand, feeling the heat rise in my cheeks, as much from his proximity as from the argument itself. "Tell me why you care so much."

But he doesn't answer, his lips a firm line, his eyes revealing nothing. We're caught in a silent battle of wills, each waiting for the other to break.

The clink of dishes is like a metronome to our argument, steady and relentless. Levi's arms are crossed over his chest, a barricade I can't seem to breach.

"Levi, you're impossible," I say, my voice high with frustration. The scent of garlic and onions burns at the back of my throat, mixing with the adrenaline that courses through me.

"Me?" He scoffs, shaking his head. "You're not even listening."

"Enough!" The word cuts through the tension like a knife. Dad stands in the doorway, eyebrows raised and a dish towel slung over one shoulder. A brief moment of silence falls, and I hear the refrigerator's hum, a quiet observer to the chaos.

"Can someone explain what's going on here?" Dad tries for lightness, but there's an edge of concern in his voice.

"Your daughter—" Levi starts but I cut him off.

"Levi's insufferable," I spit out, the words tasting bitter. "He won't stop interfering with?—"

"Because you're clueless, Brielle," he retorts, equally acidic. "You don't see?—"

"Okay, okay!" Dad puts up his hands, stepping between us. His eyes find mine, a silent plea for peace. "Maybe it's best if you two don't cook together today."

I open my mouth to argue, but a shrill ding-dong slices through the air, punctuating his suggestion. The doorbell.

"Saved by the bell," Dad mutters, but I barely hear him. My heart skips a beat, caught off guard. Who could that be now?

Levi glances at me, a question in his gaze, but I'm already untying my apron, the fabric slipping from my fingers like a flag of surrender. The room feels suddenly too small, the air thick with words left unsaid and emotions unchecked.

I leave Levi and Dad in the kitchen, the sound of their voices fading behind me as I step toward the front door. "You've got the kitchen, Levi," I call over my shoulder, not waiting for his reply. The apron crumples to the floor behind me, forgotten.

I stride across the tiled foyer, a blend of surprise and wariness knotting in my stomach. Each footfall on the hardwood is a drumbeat to the rapid pulse in my ears. What now?

My fingers brush against the cool metal of the doorknob, hesitating for the briefest moment before I pull it open. Sunlight spills into the entryway, casting long shadows that stretch out like omens.

"Xavier?" My voice barely rises above a whisper, but it's all I can muster. He stands there with that easy smile, the one that never quite reaches his eyes.

"Hey, Brielle." His cheer is bright, too bright. "Your dad invited me for the game. Brought my folks along too."

"Right, the game…" The words tumble out clumsily. In the back of my mind, I hear Levi's accusations, feel my own tangled feelings. But here stands Xavier, unaware of the storm he's stepped into.

"Come on in." My smile is plastic, stretched tight over the chaos inside. I step aside, letting him pass, the scent of his cologne an unwelcome reminder of the pretense I'm about to uphold.

The muscles in my throat tighten as I fight the urge to blurt out everything about Grayson and Conrad. I imagine Dad's face, the disappointment there if he knew, and clamp my lips shut.

"Your mom brought snacks?" My attempt at casualness sounds forced, even to me.

He nods, a lock of hair falling into his eyes. "Yeah, she went all out."

"Let me help." The words are out before I can stop them. I need something, anything, to do with my hands.

We move toward the car where his mother is unloading trays from the back seat. Her smile is warm, but it doesn't reach her eyes—not really. When she sees me, her arms open wide.

"Brielle, dear!" She clasps my face, thumb brushing my cheek in an affectionate gesture that feels more invasive than comforting.

"Hi, Mrs. Delaney." I muster a grin, hoping it hides my discomfort.

"Call me Laura, sweetheart." Her voice is honeyed, thick with unspoken expectations.

I nod, swallowing hard, and take a tray laden with mini quiches. The flaky crusts crumble under my careful grip, a contrast to the solidity I'm struggling to project. Xavier watches, saying nothing, but I can feel his gaze heavy on my skin.

Back inside, I set the snacks on the counter, my movements robotic. I should be relieved, grateful for the distraction, but unease coils tighter in my stomach. Xavier's presence is a mirror reflecting all the things I can't say, shouldn't think. And somewhere behind me, Levi's frustration simmers, adding heat to the already stifling room.

I slip into the living room, the noise of cheers and commentary washing over me like a wave. The big screen blares with the excitement of the game, a stark contrast to the turmoil in my chest. My dad and Xavier are already there, huddled together in camaraderie I can't quite share.

"Hey, Brielle," Xavier calls out, patting the cushion beside him with a casual smile that somehow feels loaded. "Come sit here."

I hesitate, every inch closer to him feeling like a betrayal of the chaos in my heart. But the expectant look from my dad nudges me forward, and I lower myself onto the spot. The cushion dips under our combined weight, tilting me slightly toward Xavier.

"Great view, huh?" he says, gesturing at the TV.

"Best seat in the house," I murmur, but my gaze drifts past the screen to the empty doorway where Levi's shadow loomed moments ago.

Xavier laughs at something on the screen, his shoulder brushing mine. I should laugh too—I know I should—but the echo of Levi's voice, sharp and laced with something unspoken, clings to the edges of my consciousness. The room is warm, too warm, and it has nothing to do with the close proximity of bodies or the heated competition playing out before us.

"Enjoying the game?" Xavier's question pulls me back, and I force my eyes to meet his.

"Of course," I lie, a brittle smile stretching across my face. Beneath the surface, my emotions churn, an unpredictable current threatening to sweep me away. Levi's words, his frustration, it all lingers like the taste of something bitter.

"Looks like we're going to win," Xavier continues, oblivious to the storm brewing inside me.

"Looks like it," I echo, though the scoreboard barely registers. Victory seems a hollow concept when my own thoughts wage war within me. I shift, trying to focus on the plays, the strategy, anything but the tension that coils tighter with each pounding heartbeat.

"Is everything okay?" Xavier's voice cuts through again, sharper this time, tinged with concern.

"Perfect," I say, a little too quickly. The word feels foreign on my tongue, a thin veneer over the truth of my inner conflict. Levi's anger, my own confusion, it's all a tangled mess that refuses to be ignored, even as I sit here, trying to pretend that everything is just fine.

The crowd roars on the TV, a sharp contrast to the silence settling over me. Dad and Xavier's parents lean forward, eyes glued to the screen, every muscle tensed in anticipation of the next play. I try a smile, nodding along to a comment about the quarterback's last move. It feels like I'm mouthing words to a song I no longer remember the tune to.

"Great catch, wasn't it?" Xavier's mom says, her enthusiasm bubbling over.

"Amazing," I agree, but the word is hollow, empty. The tension with Levi festers, a wound that refuses to heal. I sense Xavier's gaze on me, questioning, but I can't meet his eyes. Not now.

"Refill?" I ask, my voice too bright, as I stand abruptly, snatching up empty snack bowls. It's an excuse to escape, to breathe. I head to the kitchen, the clinking of the bowls a small distraction from the cacophony in my mind.

Inside the quiet sanctuary of the kitchen, I lean against the counter, closing my eyes.

Should I tell Xavier?My heart races at the thought.

Grayson and Conrad are part of me, a secret kept in shadows—but this…this would be dragging them into the light.

Dad would be disappointed. He sees Xavier as the perfect match, the safe choice. Revealing the truth feels like stepping off a cliff. The fall could break more than just me—it could shatter the delicate balance we've all been tiptoeing around.

I open my eyes, focusing on the patterns of the countertop. There's safety in the known, in the unspoken. But lies, even by omission, fester. They grow roots.

"Need a hand?" Xavier's voice comes from behind me, soft yet somehow intrusive.

"No, all good." I force my hands to steady, placing snacks into the bowls. I turn, offering him a practiced smile. "Let's get back to the game."

"Sure," he says, but he searches my face, looking for a hint, a clue. I wonder if he sees the cracks in my facade, the silent scream behind my eyes.

"Ready?" I ask, before he can probe further.

"Always," he replies, and there's a warmth to his voice that I wish I could feel.

We walk back into the living room together, the noise of the crowd welcoming us back, a reminder that life goes on, regardless of the turmoil within.

I settle on the couch, the leather cool beneath my bare thighs. There's a dip in the cushion where Xavier sits. I ease into it, every nerve firing with the need to bolt. I stay put, though. Stay silent.

"Great game, huh?" Xavier says, his voice slicing through the thunderous cheers from the TV.

"Intense," I manage, my gaze flickering to the screen. Players dart and weave, a blur of motion that mirrors the chaos in my head.

Dad whoops, slapping his knee, lost in the thrill of the game. Xavier's parents chime in with their own jubilant shouts. I try to mimic their enthusiasm, clapping along, but my hands feel numb, disconnected.

Xavier leans in, his shoulder brushing mine. "You okay? You seem…off."

My heart stammers.

Tell him. Don't tell him.

The words tangle like thread too tightly wound. "Just tired," I say instead, swallowing back the truth with the bitterness of deceit.

"Let me know if you need anything." His eyes are kind, trusting. It twists something inside me.

"Thanks," I whisper, and turn back to the game.

The room pulses with each play, yet I'm adrift in the midst of it all.

Levi's words echo, a haunting refrain. He doesn't understand. Can't understand what it's like to juggle hearts, to balance on this precarious edge.

Xavier's laugh, rich and carefree, breaks through my reverie. I force a smile, nodding along to something I didn't catch.

My mind races back to Grayson's touch, Conrad's kiss.

The memory sears, sweet and sharp.

Time trickles by, slow, relentless. I draw in a breath and let it out, trying to sync with the rhythm around me. Yet the fissure widens with each passing second, a chasm between what is and what could be.

The game ends with me beside Xavier, a picture-perfect scene marred by the storm within. My heart beats a fractured cadence, longing for what I can't have in the light of day.

Levi, Grayson, Conrad—they're all here with me, even as I sit alone among the crowd.