Wind rattles the shutters of the gazebo as I sit on the bench—the white paint peeling, the wood ice cold—and draw my letterman tighter. Ian follows suit, eyeing me carefully as he takes the spot opposite me. He’s waiting to see if I’ll lie. He’s estimating something, in real time, by the way I react. I’m fucking freezing, though, the hot coffee clasped between my hands barely enough to warm me as stick seasonthreatens to wipe out any semblance of cheer. And I’m tired—of lying, of pretending. Ironically enough, this secret brother of mine is the only person who knows most of my truth.
“Yeah,” I say softly. “Yeah, he did.”
Ian’s eyes narrow, understanding somehow softening the usually predatory gleam they hold. “And you don’t want to?”
“Of course not.” It’s harsher than I mean it to be, the implication more grating than it should be. I’ve been informing on my friends for years.
“Sorry, it’s just…shocking.” A slight smile playing at the corners of his mouth.
“Shocking? You don’t know me.” I let out a bitter laugh. “Spying on people isn’t the same as knowing them, Ian.” His scoff sears against my pride, its target glaringly obvious, and it spurs me further. “I don’t have achoice, asshole. You choose to spend your time writing hit pieces on kids you’re what—jealous of?” His eyes flare, and I know I’ve hit something. “It’s actually fucking pathetic.”
He rises, eerily calm as he squares his shoulder, shoving his hands in his pockets. “Not as pathetic as selling your friends out for connections. What would they say if they knew?”
I swallow hard, heart racing. “They’d understand.”
“Would they? You think they care about you that much?” He shakes his head, his jaw grinding. “Olivia all but stomped on me when I tried to tell her the truth, despite years of friendship. They seem to have a lot of trouble with nuance. With notions of morality or suffering.”
“And you do?” I laugh, watching my breath puff out before me. “You’re just like them. We’re all screwing each other over, but at least some of us have a reason.” I step forward, anger roiling in my bones. “You think I want connections? I want my mom to have food on her fucking table. I want my sister tohave hot water. I want them to live a normal fucking life. What couldyoupossibly want?”
He balks, looks like he’s on the verge of saying something, before his face pulls tight.
“Forget it,” he says, storming out of the gazebo as I sit there, wondering what the hell just happened.
Will’s building glows with lit windows, students beginning to pack bags for the impending fall break. I stopped in with a container of food Mom made him, the closest I could get to offering him care. He promised me he wouldn’t do anything stupid, but I’ve been checking on him everyday regardless, pulling his curtains back, throwing away the liquor bottles he’s managing to keep full stock of.
I told Coach and I told Ben. They said they were handling it, but the details of that handling feel hollow and dangerous because they include his parents and—maybe I’m cynical, but Will didn’t become a shell of himself in a loving, balanced home. I shrug it off, sending him an aspirational quote about climbing mountains as I brace the cold, and head home.
The long walk to frat housing, with the wind rasping against my cheeks and nose, leads me right by the row of new builds that try their best to mimic the historic homes that’ve rested here for over a century—the ones where Ian lives. The bricks are too red, the grout too stark in contrast, especially when you consider the way the stones on the old buildings have been weathered by sun and rain. The lamp lights on this part of campus are crisp and dark, the black paint not having had enough time to chip. Even my frat house, built sometime between the beginning and now, has this inherent charm that seems to be missing from the row of buildings here. They feelovereager, like they desperately want to prove they’re just like the rest despite all the evidence.
Guilt trickles down my awareness when I think about what I said to Ian.
I told him that he’s just like them, but I know he’s not. He’s an outsider with money. I’m an outsider without. I should’ve listened, instead of acting on impulse. More importantly, I should’ve wondered why he was coming to me about Sloane to begin with.
He answers the knocking sequence almost immediately. Ian doesn’t seem surprised to be seeing me; he just ushers me in, popping his head out the door like he’s checking for someone.
His laptop sits on a stack of books in his living room, the glow of the screen illuminating the wall to wall bookcase behind it. Papers are strewn across the coffee table, and a fresh cup of black brew rests there, the family crest on the side of it sending a jolt of resentment down my chest.
“Want it?” Ian says flatly, and I glance away, ignoring him.
“I wanted to apologize for being shitty earlier.”
One of his brows arches, his eyes lazily assessing me. “So do it?”
Thank god I wasn’t actually raised with him.“Sorry,” I tell him, almost swallowing the word. “I’ve had a lot on my mind but I shouldn’t have spoken to you like that.
He adjusts the collar on his maroon cable knit sweater, clearing his throat. “I could’ve approached things differently.” His version of an apology, I guess. “But you’re here because, unlike what you’d like the masses to believe, you’renotan idiot.”
Teeth grating against each other, I try to control the slight twitch happening in my jaw. “It was pretty fucking dumb to take his deal.”
Ian nods to the couch he’s refused to claim, opting for thefloor where he can access his laptop, and I sink into the expensive cushions and wait. His attention cuts, and I realize it’s this attention that’s made him the nationally recognized student journalist he is today. Without his relentless observation, the gossip column, the sports column, the politics column, would be carbon copies of what every other collegiate press is doing.
“What if I told you,” he suddenly says, my gaze snapping to his, “I could help you get out.”
“Why would you do that?” Hope takes root, and I willfully keep it in the shadows where it can’t bloom.
“Because our father is a piece of shit dirtbag who helps other pieces of shit dirtbags hide from the consequences of their actions.” The air in the room shifts and my heart beats loudly in my ears as a light automatically warms from a harsh white to a warm yellow.
“I agree. This isn’t news to me,” I scoff, shaking my head as I release a heavy breath.
