“I was proving a point.”
I don’t even know what point he thinks he proved, but I’m pretty sure the only conclusion anyone could draw is that he’s stubborn enough to poison himself out of spite.
I shake my head, walking into the kitchen to grab a trash bag. “Seriously, what did he even do this time?”
“Breathed, he’s a walking chew can with a superiority complex the size of Antarctica”
“You’re literally almost describing yourself.”
Tate spins, pointing the cleaning spray at me like a loaded gun. “I have depth, Carter.”
He does, unfortunately. That’s the problem. If he were just an asshole, life would be simpler. But no—he’s layered. I bite my cheek to keep from smiling as I gather the scattered takeout containers and crumpled soda cans, stuffing them into the trash bag. But as I bend to tie off the bag, the lightness in my chest cracks again because underneath the jokes and the cleaning and the sniping about Hunter, I’m still thinking about last night.
About Haven’s voice, the way it cracked when she said his name. I’ve heard her laugh through a bad game, talk shit through a loss, brush things off like they don’t stick. That wasn’t that, that wasn’t her being fine.
I should wait. I told her I would, that I’d give her time to tell Tate herself. But she won’t, and I know exactly how that conversation would go if she did. But there’s a difference between giving someone space and letting them walk into something alone.
So I stand up, throw the bag to the side, and brace my hands against the counter. “Tate.”
He doesn’t look at me, still wiping the inside of the microwave with grim focus. “What.”
“There’s something you need to know.”
“Is it about how you let your best friend wear my hoodie and then gaslight me about it?”
“No,” I mutter, breath catching. “It’s about Haven.” Everything always shifts when her name comes up. Doesn’t matter what we’re doing, what we’re arguing about—she’s the center of it whether we admit it or not.
He stops moving and turns to look at me. “What about her?”
I swallow, forcing my voice to stay even. “She signed up for the Aim High tournament.”
“The Aim High? You’re serious, since when?”
“Couple weeks ago. She didn’t tell me until last night.”
His arms cross. “Why?”
“Because she needed something that wasn’t… us.”
That visibly stings, but he doesn’t flinch. Just nods once, sharp and tense.
“She got placed on a team. Random bracket.”
“And?”
I hesitate. “Dylan’s on it.”
Tate doesn’t blink. I think maybe he didn’t hear me. “Who’s Dylan..?”
Shit, of course Haven hasn’t opened up to Tate about him yet.
“Her ex.” I say
“She told me once that he used to log into her account just to mess with her overlay settings,” I say, my voice tight. “That he’d mute her mic mid-stream and then blame it on her, he made her feel like she was lucky anyone even watched her.”
Tate’s posture shifts, slightly. Enough for me to notice the guilt to clearly start growing behind his eyes.
“She said he hated when she won. Said it made him feel emasculated, so she started losing on purpose.” I hate saying itout loud. Hate putting those words back into the air like they belong anywhere near her again.
