Captive Audience: Do you want the truth?
My finger hovers over the screen as my mind races to Trigger's knowing look, to the ponytail comment, to the way he called me "sweetheart" like he's said it a thousand times before in the privacy of his own thoughts. To the timing of every message I've ever received.
Academic Hostage: No.
I shove my phone into my pocket and let Penn guide me toward the dorms, but my mind is spiraling. It can't be Trigger. It can't be. Because if the boy who infuriates me and the boywho understands me are the same person, then I've been lying to myself about more than just how much space he takes up in my thoughts. I've been lying about the real reason my heart races when he's near, the real reason I can't stop myself from rising to every challenge he throws at me, the real reason that, even now, walking away from him, all I want to do is turn around and demand the truth I just told him I don't want. God help me, I think I already know it. And if I'm right, then everything, absolutely everything, is about to get infinitely more complicated.
SOPHOMORE YEAR
TRIGGER
"Where is she?" I ask Hollis for what easily feels like the millionth time tonight as I peer out over the dimly lit dance hall.
The homecoming dance has been going on for almost two hours. After last night’s fight at the polo match, I thought Asha would show up just to make my life difficult. Being late could be another way she’s choosing to stick it to me. There’s no doubt in my mind she knows her tardiness is getting under my skin. She’s smart, but she still hasn’t realized I actually enjoy getting a reaction out of her. I like a challenge, but I also need her to be present to accept one.
"Dude, you need to chill," Hollis says, adjusting his tie as his date spins away from him to grab a punch. "You're acting like a stalker."
"I'm not—" I start, but he cuts me off with a knowing look.
"You've checked your phone, like, fifty times. You're wearing a path into the floor. And you keep whipping your head around like you're following a play every time the door opens."
I force myself to lean back against the wall, trying for casual. He's right. I look like a crazy stalker or, worse, like I’m planningfor my own counterattack. While both of those things are true, I don't need the world to know—at least not before she knows it. "I just want to know if she's coming. She said she'd be here."
"She said, and I quote, 'I'll see you at the dance tomorrow night or I won't. I really hope the latter is true.'" Hollis grins. "Let's be honest, she has you permanently benched."
"Who said I was trying to play her games?"
My phone buzzes. I have it out before Hollis can even smirk at me.
Not her.
I shove it back in my pocket and scan the entrance again. The thing is, she’s never late. Ever. She always shows up early to every meeting we have, just so she can make some comment about my time management.
"Look, I get some guys are into that whole girls-playing-hard-to-get thing, and you can lie to me all you want, pretend you aren't interested in her, that this obsession stems from her throwing a milkshake on you and your bruised ego needing payback. But she's not just some girl; she's mycousin. And I can promise you that's not what's happening with Asha. She genuinely hates you. There's no game. No secret interest. She looks at you the way most people look at gum on their shoe."
I tap my thumb against my thigh. Hollis has become my closest friend at Ridgewood, and I still haven’t told him about my history with his cousin. I haven’t told him about the one time we met when we were six, or how our families are enemies, or that the fascination I have with Asha Fairfield doesn't border on obsession—it is obsession. I could tell him now; this could be a segue, but I don’t because my reasons for keeping it to myself center around her doing the same. Hollis hasn’t ever mentioned that she’s talked about me, which means Asha must have her reasons for not bringing me up too.
Asha and Hollis might be family, but he doesn't know her the way I do. He's not in our AP class. He doesn't see the way she steals glances when she thinks I'm not looking, or how, in our student council meetings, the hairs on her arms stand at attention when I'm near. He doesn't see the way her pulse quickens or how her eyes dilate the second all my attention is pinned directly on her. Hollis doesn't know what it's like to hate the fact that youmore than likesomeone. But I don't need him to.
"If I were to make a bet, I bet she decided you weren't worth the effort tonight," Hollis offers unhelpfully.
"Nah, that's the thing about girls who play hard to get…" I say, my tone laced with more confidence than I feel. "They don't back down from confrontation."
He shakes his head with a smirk, and the double doors behind him swing open. My pulse kicks up before I even register why. Then I see her.
"Never gamble, Hollis. You're shit at it," I say as my eyes trace over every inch of her.
She's wearing a dark-green satin dress that catches the light as she moves, and her hair is down, flowing in thick, wavy locks. She looks...different. Still her, but softer somehow, as she pauses in the doorway, scanning the crowd.
Our eyes meet across the room, and hers narrow immediately, that familiar fire sparking to life. She squares her shoulders and starts walking, her steps quickly turning to a march as she makes a beeline straight toward me, and despite the murderous look on her face, I can't help the stupid grin spreading across mine.
"Here we go," Hollis mutters, melting away into the crowd.
She stops in front of me, close enough that I catch a hint of something floral in her perfume. Close enough to see the slightflush in her cheeks that might be from rushing, or anger, but confident there's a good chance it's from something else.
"You're late," I say, because apparently, I have a death wish.
"I wasn't aware I owed you a timely arrival." Her tone could cut glass, but she's here. She came.
