And no one—not Reed, not Kieran, not Isabelle, not the entire campus—gets to tell me who I am and what my worth is.
I press my palms flat against the floor, feeling the grain of the wood beneath my skin.
Solid. Real. Mine.
33
THE COST OF BEING A NAME (KIERAN)
The drive up to Tarrytown feels like punishment I volunteered for. Rain slicks the highway into a ribbon of smeared headlights and brake lights. My knee throbs every time I move it from gas to brake. The split in my lip keeps catching when I swallow. Copper. Regret. Stale heat from the vents.
I keep seeing her on the quad.
Not the accusation.
The confession.
I love you.
And it still doesn’t save me.
That should have meant something. Proof I mattered. Instead it’s proof I broke something real with my own hands.
I pull into Liam’s building garage and sit with the engine running, hands locked on the wheel, trying not to float apart. A Defenders decal is stenciled onto a concrete pillar near the reserved spots. Clean lines. Corporate. Untouchable.
That logo was supposed to be waiting for me.
Now it feels like a door that might not open anymore.
I kill the engine and climb out. My body is stiff from not skating, and I welcome the discomfort. Pain doesn’t ask questions. Doesn’t look at you and wonder how you made a bet about a girl, and still had the nerve to call it love.
The elevator ride is silent. I catch my reflection in the steel panel. Bruised. Empty.
I deserve both.
The front door opens before I knock. Liam’s apartment is washed in warm light from floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the Hudson. Clean lines. Quietly expensive. Food simmering on the stove. Garlic, butter, something steady.
Home.
It tightens my chest because I know this feeling. I grew up with it. I was trusted with it. And I still set fire to it.
Liam fills the doorway in sweats and a Defenders hoodie. He takes one look at me and his expression goes flat—captain face. The one he wears when he’s trying not to explode on national television.
“Kieran.”
“Hey.”
He doesn’t step aside right away. Just looks me over. The lip. The knee. The way I’m barely holding myself upright.
Finally, “Come in.”
I step inside. The warmth wraps around me. Silence stretches.
Then a small voice chirps from down the hall. “Uncle Kieran!”
Footsteps. Pajamas. A blur of curls launches into the room.
Dmitri’s daughter, Amneris, skids to a stop in front of me, arms already wide.
