He has a point. "Probably not."
"Walk with me," he suggests. "I need to grab more napkins from storage."
Following him down a hallway lined with bulletin boards covered in flyers, event announcements, and photos of smiling teens at various activities. Marcus unlocks a supply closet and pulls out a package of napkins.
"James was eighteen when he came here," he says without preamble. "Aged out of his last foster home and had nowhere to go. Most kids in his situation would have been focused on basic survival, but James was not. He was obsessed with getting into university.”
I listen silently, hungry for any information about the James I never knew.
"He worked two jobs, studied until midnight most nights, and still found time to help other kids with their homework." Marcus smiles at the memory. "He built his first website for us, replacing the awful thing I'd cobbled together. That's how he started connecting with other organizations, offering his services."
"He never told me any of this."
"James doesn't talk much about his past." Marcus closes the supply closet. "Not because he's ashamed, but because he's always looking forward. Always planning the next step."
"Why are you telling me this?"
Marcus levels me with a measured look. "Because I see how you look at him. And I see how he's trying not to look at you." He pauses. "James doesn't let people in easily. When he does, it means something."
The weight of what I've lost is heavy on my shoulders. "I made a mistake." The pain behind my ribs hurts so much. "I thought something awful about him without letting him explain himself."
"We all make mistakes," Marcus says. "The question is what you do next."
Before I can respond, a cheer erupts from the common room. Marcus grins. "Sounds like judging time. You ready to see some truly hideous gingerbread architecture?"
The judging is chaotic and hilarious. Each team presents its creation with exaggerated pride, explaining its "artistic vision" to increasingly loud laughter and applause.
One gingerbread house that looks like it's been hit by a meteor, another transformed into what the creators call ‘Santa's Underground Fight Club,’ and one that appears to be mid-exorcism, complete with frosting projectile vomit.
Our alien autopsy house earns appreciative groans, especially when Alex demonstrates how the licorice tentaclescan be manipulated to "grab" tiny gingerbread men. When they describe our concept, they give me credit for some ideas that were entirely theirs. It’s a small thing that feels good to me.
James and Haru's team has created a gingerbread house that appears to be collapsing into a sinkhole they've created on their board, with tiny candy people fleeing in terror. It's clever and genuinely funny, and I find myself laughing along with everyone else when they present it.
For a moment, James's eyes meet mine across the room, and we share a smile before he catches himself and looks away.
The winners are Tyler and Ethan's haunted house team, whose creation includes a working drawbridge made of cookie sticks and string. As prizes are distributed and pizza boxes begin arriving, I see Alex standing off to the side, watching the celebration with carefully concealed longing.
"You should join them," My head nods toward the pizza line.
"I'm good here," they reply with forced nonchalance.
"Your house was better than theirs, you know. The tentacles were inspired."
A ghost of a smile flickers across their face. "Yeah, well. Judge must be blind."
"Next year we'll win for sure." The words tumble out before their implication hits. "If you want a partner again, that is."
Alex studies me for a moment. "You planning to come back?"
"Yes. This place is important. And not because of James."
They nod slowly. "Cool. Maybe bring better candy next time, though. The selection was weak."
Laughing, I put my hand out towards them. "Deal."
Alex thinks for a long second, then ever so casually shakes my hand.
As the event winds down and frat guys begin gathering their things, I search the room for James again. He's deep in conversation with Marcus near the front entrance, their headsbent together over a laptop. Whatever they're discussing looks serious, and I decide not to interrupt.
