And then she's running down the hall. Not my enemy. Not my rival. Asha. The girl I've been messaging for months, the one who has been pouring her heart out to me in the safety of anonymity. The girl whose father I know has been her entire world since her mother passed. The girl who just fell apart in my arms and is now racing toward what might be the worst night of her life.
I stand there, frozen, for a heartbeat, watching her sprint away from me, her heels clicking frantically against the floor. Hollis has already disappeared around the corner, and she's about to do the same without knowing for certain it was me. She said she knows who I am. But does she? Or was that just hope speaking, a desperate need to believe the person behind the mask was the one she wanted it to be? We never got to finish. Never got to that moment where the masks come off and all doubt is erased.
My hand, the one that was just inside her, the one that still trembles with the memory of her coming undone, flies to my mask. I need her to see my face. Need her toknowwith absolute certainty that it was me. That I'm the one she's been falling for. That every message, every confession, every promise was real.
I break into a run.
"Wait!" The word tears from my throat, breaking my silence, but she's too far ahead, too focused on getting to the car, on getting to her father.
I round the corner and see the main entrance ahead, the doors already swinging shut behind her. Through the glass, I can make out her silhouette descending the front steps, Hollis's hand on her back, guiding her toward the waiting car. When I finally burst through the doors and the cool night air hits my face, I stumble onto the top step, my hand reaching up to rip off my mask, but I'm too late.
The car door is already slamming shut, and through the tinted window, I can barely make out her profile. I have no idea if she's even looking back for me. The vehicle pulls away from the curb, red taillights growing smaller as it speeds down the tree-lined drive, and I'm left standing there on the steps, mask clutched in my hand, chest heaving, watching the car disappear into the darkness. My skin still burns where she touched me. I can still taste her on my lips, still feel the phantom sensation ofher wrapped around me, still hear the way she gasped my name, or tried to, before Hollis interrupted.
Students mill around me, laughing and talking as they come and go from the masquerade, completely oblivious to the fact that my entire world just drove away without knowing for certain who I am. She said she knew. But what if she was wrong? What if she goes to the hospital, sits by her father's bedside, and convinces herself it couldn't have been me? What if the doubt creeps in during those long, terrible hours of waiting, and she decides it was someone else entirely?
I sink down onto the stone steps, the mask dangling from my fingers. Music and laughter drift from the ballroom behind me, but all I can hear is her voice.
"Don't you dare back out now."
"I know who you are."
"I'm sorry. I have to go."
Three sentences that changed everything and resolved nothing. Three sentences that felt like a door slamming in slow motion, and I just stood there, frozen, watching her slip away.
The taillights disappear through the gate far in the distance, and something in my chest tears. I should've run faster. Should've grabbed her hand before she got in the car. Should've ripped this whole charade apart the second she stepped foot in the hallway. But I didn't. And now she's gone, and I don't know what she knows.
Maybe she's already connected the dots: the sickly boy next door who she defended on the monkey bars, and the stranger she held tightly to moments ago, her pen pal, and the boy she's been determined to forget, the one that's part of a past she tried to bury, are one and the same. Or she hasn't.
Either way, the truth won't stay buried long. Not after tonight. Not after she looked at me like I was both the answer she'd been searching for and the question that terrified her. Iwon't allow it. Ican't. Not when I finally saw the recognition flickering in her eyes, even if she drove away before it could catch fire. Tomorrow, she'll wake up and replay every word, every touch, every breath between us tonight. She'll remember things she tried to forget. And when she does, when the pieces finally lock into place, everything will either fall apart or fall together. I just don't know which will destroy me more.
The mask slips from my fingers and hits the stone with a crack that sounds too much like a starting gun.
Whatever comes next, there's no more hiding.
ONE MONTH LATER
TRIGGER
I waited after her father's accident, but she never returned to school. When it was time to go home, I let hope build in my chest. Bardstown was small, and my property butted right up against hers. I'd see her again.
I should have known better.
Walking into my house for the first time in four years, I found a kid my age standing in the living room. Same eyes. Same dark hair. My father wasted no time: "This is your brother."
The words seemed as much news to the kid as they were to me. The grandfather clock ticked five full seconds before I broke the silence. "Where are you from?"
"Texas."
"Welcome to the family, Dallas." I instantly gave him a nickname like we were old friends. We weren't, but it didn't change the fact that I wanted him to be.
I’d always wanted a brother. Only, when I thought of having one, the schematics worked out differently. My mother hid her pregnancy from my father, then she put me up for adoptionwithout his knowledge and ran off to marry his brother only to turn around and leave them too.
I never knew my father had a brother. But that day, years of silence ended with a police escort and a broken boy in my living room. My uncle's son. My blood. My brother.
He needed me, so I stayed. Weeks passed, and I kept hoping I'd run into Asha in town, but it never happened. Which is why I'm now standing on her porch, staring at the door knocker, trying to recall the words I'd planned on giving her. I've thought about what I would say countless times, but now that I'm standing here, I can’t remember any of them.
"Fuck it," I say as I ring the doorbell.
