CHAPTER NINE
CAROLINE
Iplant myself in front of the full-length mirror, hands on my hips, and just... stare.
White off-shoulder top, fitted black ripped jeans, strappy heels. Cute, right? Cute-cute. Not just "passing grade, she tried" cute. Actual, I'd-wear-this-on-purpose cute.
High school me could never. Not because I didn't want to. God knows I drooled over outfits like this every time I scrolled online. But stores don't exactly design for girls with my old size. Everything either fit like a circus tent or threatened to cut off circulation.
So yeah, I stuck to baggy hoodies and oversized T-shirts, and let's just say mirrors weren't my besties. Looking at my reflection always meant picking myself apart—too big here, too wide there.
Honestly? The mean names people threw at me—pig, sugar plump, whale, fat cow—didn't sting half as much as my own voice in my head did. I was my own worst enemy, handing out insults like free samples every time I looked at myself.
But now?
Now I catch my reflection and... I don't flinch. I don't cringe. I actually kind of... like what I see.
I lean closer, fiddling with my hair—up? Down? Ponytail? Bun? No. Down. Definitely down.
The waves frame my face just right, catching the light like moonlight spun into strands. It takes stupid amounts of maintenance (toner, masks, the whole nine yards), but damn if it isn't worth it. I actually love my new hair color.
My makeup's done too. And miracle of miracles—it doesn't look like a toddler finger-painted my face. Progress.
In high school, I couldn't blend to save my life. My foundation line could've doubled as a crime scene tape. But then my NYU roommate (whose mom was a beauty stylist, of course) took pity on me and introduced me to the sacred rule of beauty:blend, blend, and for the love of God, blend.
Now? I can hide my freckles.
Yeah. The freckles. I hate them. Always have. They're from my mom's side—her Mediterranean roots gave her these soft, sun-kissed freckles that make her look effortlessly pretty.
Mine? They just made me feel blotchy and uneven. Like someone sprinkled dirt across my nose and cheeks and called it a day.
Zach loved your freckles,the annoying little voice in my head whispers.
I blink.
Excuse me, what? Where the hell did that come from? Delete. Backspace. Absolutely not. How did he just invade my brain like that?
My inner sass monster rolls her eyes.Uh, maybe because his name and face are plastered all over campus?
Right. The banners. The giant, smug, stupidly photogenic banners of him and the rest of the hockey team, hanging like Ridgewater's personal shrine to its obsession.
Their opening game is this Friday, and apparently that calls for wallpapering every square inch of the school with their faces.
Damn it. Damn those banners. Damn this school's unhealthy hockey worship. And damn Zach Westbrook for being impossible to escape—even inside my own head.
Because the thing is—I'd been doingso good. Gold star level good. School's been in session for almost a month now and I've managed to avoid him completely. Not a single bump-in at the dining hall. Not a passing glance in the quad.
And yeah, I was proud of that. Like,proud proud.Almost started to believe it myself—this fantasy that maybe Zach Westbrook didn't actually go here. Maybe he graduated early, joined the circus, moved to Europe—who cares?
As long as it meant I could breathe without his shadow stomping all over my oxygen.
But then. Two weeks ago.
Boom.
The banners.
Suddenly Zach's face is everywhere. Ten feet tall, glaring down at me in high-definition. In the student union. In the library. Next to the vending machine where I just wanted a damn cracker. I swear even the bathroom stall door has been eyeing me with his stupid smirk.
