No one wants the kid who won't let them in. Who flinches at kindness and hoards secrets like they're currency. Who looks at you like you're the enemy even when you're trying to help.
I unlock my door and step into my room. Close it behind me. Lean against it.
Tomorrow. I'll deal with this tomorrow.
But for now, I'm too tired to care.
Chapter 11
Two days after Zero pinned me to the pool table, I finally leave my room for more than a few minutes.
Not by choice.
Margot corners me.
I'm in the kitchen, filling a glass of water—the tap runs too cold, makes my teeth ache—with shaking hands, when she appears in the doorway.
My fingers are still tender where the scars pull tight across my knuckles. The glass nearly slips from my grip twice before I get it to my mouth.
"Max." Her voice is gentle. Careful. Like she's talking to something wounded. Something that might bolt. "Do you have a minute?"
I want to say no.
"Sure."
She leads me to the living room—the formal one with the cream-colored sofas and the fireplace that probably cost more than a year of my tuition. Everything in here is pristine. Untouched. The kind of room that exists to be looked at, not lived in. I've never sat in here. It feels wrong. Like I'm contaminating it just by being present.
The air smells like expensive candles and furniture polish. Clean. Cold. Uninviting.
Margot sits and pats the cushion beside her.
I sit.
The cushion barely dips under my weight. I've lost more than I thought.
The headache that's been building behind my eyes for the past day sharpens. I ignore it.
"I'm worried about you," Margot says.
"I'm fine."
"Max." She takes my hand. Her palm is warm. Steady. "You're not fine. You've barely left your room in two weeks. You're not eating. You won't talk to me."
"I've been busy. Schoolwork."
"Don't lie to me."
The words are soft. Not accusatory. Just... sad.
It makes something twist in my chest. Sharp. Painful.
My chest tightens.
"I'm not lying," I say. "I have two papers due and a midterm next week. I'm just stressed."
She studies me. Those kind eyes that see too much. They track over my face like she's cataloging every change. The shadows under my eyes. The hollow of my cheeks. The way my clothes hang looser than they should.
"Is it the boys? Did something happen?"
