I push the memories aside and keep shifting my books around, pretending none of it exists.
“I call bullshit,” Aubrey says softly, but her tone makes it clear she knows.
I don’t lift my eyes, because if I do, I might admit that it used to matter, and even worse, that some foolish part of me is still afraid it does.
I don’t answer.I just sit there, straightening my books on the desk for the third time, even though it’s already neat.I can feel their eyes on me.Watching.Waiting.Like if they stare hard enough, I’ll crack.
When I still don’t look up, Aubrey’s voice softens.“Are you okay?”
“Peachy.”I exhale and finally lift my head, forcing a half-smile.“This is exactly why I don’t get involved in shit like this.Boys.Feelings.Drama.”I shake my head.“It’s all pointless.”
Lola hums next to me.“Yeah,” she says.“But it’s also kind of fun.”
“Fun?”I bark out a laugh, sharp and disbelieving.“You call being manhandled against your locker fun?”
She doesn’t even hesitate, just grins.“Depends who’s doing the manhandling.”
Aubrey snorts, then bursts out laughing, covering her mouth as if she’s trying to behave but failing miserably.
I groan and roll my eyes.“You two are no help.”
They’re still smiling when the bell rings, cutting through the moment.Chairs scrape against the floor.Voices rise in excitement.The classroom begins to fill with bodies, noise, and the familiar chaos of first period.People push past desks, bags hit the floor, and laughter echoes off the walls.
The English teacher walks in a second later, heels clicking, with a stack of papers tucked under her arm.“Alright,” she says, clapping once for attention.“Settle down.Books out.We’re continuing with poetry analysis today.”
Poetry.Of all things.
I open my notebook and try to lose myself in it.I highlight headings that don’t need it.I rewrite the date even though it’s already there.I tell myself to focus on the assessment—on anything that isn’t the cocky, chaotic mess of a boy who has somehow invaded every unguarded thought I have.
I try.
But all I can think about is him.
His breath in my ear.That heat pressing into mine.The rough edge in his voice when he said what he wanted to do.
My thighs tense up under the desk.I shift in my seat, rage sparking because the aftereffects of it linger against me.My body remembers something my brain is trying to reject.
It makes me furious.
This isn’t me.
I don’t daydream about boys.I don’t fixate on someone who only cares about getting off and causing trouble.And I sure as hell don’t obsess over pretty boys with good hands and bad intentions.Boys who smile like trouble and talk as if they already own you.
I don’t.
Except I do.
I stare at the board as the teacher begins talking about metaphors and symbolism, her voice drifting across the room.I nod at the right moments.I even jot down a few words.But it all sounds like white noise.Background static.Because my mind is still pinned against those lockers.
Still trapped in that narrow space with him.
I tighten my grip on the pen, knuckles turning white, as I struggle to stay still.
English blurs.The classroom fades.
He’s not worth my time, I tell myself.I repeat it in my head, like a mantra.Reece is not worth the spiral.Not worth the tight chest or the restless energy buzzing under my skin.But when the second class ends, and I step into the hallway; my resolve shatters.My eyes betray me instantly.
I search for him.
