"Wouldn't dream of it, sweetheart."
I make it three steps before reality hits me. None of those reasons were why I came back here. Not Hollis, not my spot on student council, none of them were even close. I came back because seeing him on the ground scared me in a way I can't afford to examine, which means I'm in serious trouble.
JUNIOR YEAR
TRIGGER
A muted ding has me groaning as I twist, forgetting my ribs, even though I've covered my torso in kinesiology tape, but it can't be helped. It's been almost a year since I last heard that specific tone, and the last time I heard it, the message was clear.
Academic Hostage: I HATE TRIGGER HALE.
We were done. I received that message after I'd left the dance; the writing was on the wall. If there was any question before, there wasn’t then. Asha was, in fact, who I thought she was: my pen pal. While she's never once brought it up or even hinted at the possibility, she didn't need to. Her silence was answer enough. So, why is she breaking it now?
I stare in the direction of my nightstand, where my school-issued phone has been sitting on the charger for months, untouched, and my mind flicks back to the charity ride. She came looking for me, and then she hugged me. Her gentle touch, the hug, her scent. All of it has consumed my every thought since she walked away, because it felt like something had finally flipped. But after the words I gave her in the truck, I couldn'timagine what. I was harsh, but the way she's been riding me since I arrived at school, the weight of that night, and then her comment about my manners, I couldn't help myself. The girl she's been toward me is not the girl I remember. It's not the one I've carelessly let myself fall for before I ever even saw her again.
Academic Hostage: My mother passed away when I was seven.
I stare at the message. Of all the words I thought I might see, these weren't it. It's no secret that Warrick Fairfield is widowed. Her mother's death made him one of the most eligible bachelors not only back home but in the country. His face has graced more than one headline. I don't know all the details surrounding her mother's death. All I know is she died young.
I could say I'm sorry, but I don't think that's what Asha wants to hear. She's not someone who seeks sympathy. She would never want someone to feel sorry for her.
Captive Audience: I'm here if you want to talk about it.
Academic Hostage: I never got to say goodbye.
I exhale a long breath I hadn't realized I was even holding as my chest aches for the little girl who went out of her way to stand up for me all those years ago. We didn't talk about her mother that day, but I'm sure her strength that day came from a strong woman who raised a strong girl.
I have questions I want to ask. Was her death sudden? How did she die? But none of that feels right. My thumbs hover over the keys. I want to support her through this, but I'm unsure how. I don't have a mom either.
Captive Audience: Why weren't you able to say goodbye?
Academic Hostage: There was an accident at school when I was younger, and my father sent me away.
"Fuck." I grip my phone so hard the case starts to come undone. The accident was my fault. I'm the reason she fell. The reason her father sent her away. The reason she lost time with her mother. ME.
I push off the mattress and start pacing. There are a million things I want to say to her, starting with I'm so fucking sorry. I never asked her to come to my aid. She was my savior that day, and I became her destroyer. No wonder she fucking hates me. I'd hate me too.
I rake a hand through my hair and stop to stare blankly out my window. Every fight we've had, every cutting remark, every time she's looked at me like I'm something she scraped off her boot…it all makes sense now. She’s still the same girl she was back then; the only difference is that it turns out she had a reason for hating me now. A damn good one. What the hell am I supposed to say now?
Captive Audience: Why are you telling me this?
Academic Hostage: I wanted you to know.
I stare at the screen, her words burning into my brain. She wanted me to know. Not to make me feel guilty, but because she needed me to understand. The weight of what she just gave me settles in my chest. She could've kept hating me from a distance and let me stay ignorant, but instead she gave me a hard truth.I’m sure of nothing except that wanting her has just become infinitely more complicated, and walking away has just become impossible. I don't know how to fix what I broke, but I'm sure as hell going to try, starting with figuring out how to turn my enemy into something more, even if she fights me every step of the way.
"What are you doing after the game tonight?" Layoni asks, rushing to my side as I get off the bus.
One of the reasons I agreed to play polo for Ridgewood, aside from the fact that Headmaster Trejo didn't offer me another option, was that sports allowed us to leave campus more frequently than the once-per-month free day non-athletes were afforded. It's been good to get away. The only downside has been Layoni. She's a nice girl, but I seem to be her new obsession, and that's been a thorn in my side, considering she's the coach's niece and I'm not interested. It's her title that affords her the luxury of attending these games.
"I have a lot of studying to catch up on. We put in extra hours this week, knowing we need to win tonight to clinch our seat at regionals."
"Well, maybe I can help you study," she offers in a suggestive tone as she brushes against my arm, and I awkwardly shrug away.
“Sorry, I’m a little sore,” I say, not wanting to hurt her feelings.
“I’m sure I can help with that too,” she offers as a ping from my duffel bag saves me from another uncomfortable response.
“I have to get this,” I say as I fumble through my bag.
