“Wait, what happened?”
“Yeah, holy shit—that sounded painful.”
“Look at her. She’s shaking.”
“Should we call an ambulance?”
Maybe my acting’s too convincing. I quickly dial it down just a notch, restrict the trembling to just my lower lip, but make a mental note that I should really look into more acting opportunities, leverage my existing platform the way Rainie Lam has. I already know a number of up-and-coming C-drama actors, and some of them have so clearly only landed their roles because their parents are funding the drama or friendly with the director....
“Chanel.” The teacher’s voice. “Chanel, can you sit?”
“I—I can try,” I mumble, wincing as if in brave effort.
“Here. Hold on to me.” Rainie grabs my elbow to help pull me up into a sitting position. I’m careful not to rise too fast, to make small noises of protest like it hurts just to move. Someone else—Bobby, I think—starts fanning me with his arms, which isn’t super helpful from either a medical or an emotional standpoint, but the guy’s heart is in the right place.
As I pretend to catch my breath from a nonexistent injury, clutching at my right ankle, more classmates gather around me like a funeral mass, their faces grave, their whispers somber.
“Don’t worry, guys. I’m fine,” I say in my softest voice, forcing myself to stare straight up at the fluorescent lights without blinking until tears form at the back of my eyes. Learning howto fake cry has been one of the most critical skills I’ve picked up over the years, perfect for occasions like these. The only time people are allowed to pity me is when I’m deliberately inviting their pity. When their pity is useful to me.
Ares steps forward through the crowd, his jaw tight. He stares down at me for a beat, looking torn between genuine concern and suspicion. “How bad is it?” The second he speaks, all the other voices drop away, everyone stopping to watch the exchange between us.
“Not that bad,” I whisper. “I probably just need some ice from the nurse’s office. I’ll go there now—” I make a visible show of attempting to stand up, my face strained, my knees wobbling underneath me.
“Ares, can you please go with her?” the teacher asks.
He doesn’t seem nearly as enthusiastic about this idea as most guys would. But he nods, and gestures for me to get on his back.
“I... don’t think I can climb on like this,” I murmur, glancing helplessly at my ankle.
He pauses. Appears to make up his mind about something. Then, without another word, he bends down toward me, sliding one hand under my waist, the other just beneath my knees, and lifts me up to his chest in a single movement until he’s carrying me, bridal style, in the center of the basketball court.
The gasp that leaves my lips is exaggerated, but not entirely fake. His hands are hot and firm around my legs, and with my ear pressed against the thin cotton fabric of his shirt, I can hear his heart, its strong, insistent thudding, just a few beats too fast.
“This okay?” he asks, his voice reverberating into me. It sounds deeper from this position, raspier.
I shift a little, grabbing his neck to balance myself. “Yeah. It’s okay,” I say distractedly. This close, I can see just how fresh the bruise on his cheek is, the color still a bright reddish-pink. Had someone punched him? But who would have the nerve to?
I try to picture all the possibilities as he carries me across campus. I expect him to tire or at least slow down halfway, but his grip around me remains as steady as ever, all the way past the koi ponds and pagodas, across the running track and around the auditorium.
“So is there a reason you’re suddenly everywhere I look?” Ares asks.
I glance up at his face, but he’s staring straight ahead, his features giving nothing away. “Are you admitting that you’ve been paying attention to me?”
“Hard not to, when you keep popping up,” he says. “What are you trying to do?”
My pulse skips. Is he on to me already? Does he suspect my plans? But I reply smoothly, “Nothing. I just think maybe we got off on the wrong foot, and I really feel like witnessing a freak supernatural event together was a great bonding experience—”
“I don’t bond with people,” he says flatly.
“Is that, like, your attachment style? Avoidant attachment?”
“No.”
“Okay, right. Sure. Then whatwould you sayyour attachment style is—”
“Have you remembered any more details?” he cuts in.
“Details? About what?”
