There’s a flicker—genuine surprise, then caution, like she’s waiting for the punchline. “You remember? When I hid behind the vending machine?”
I nod, recalling the hierarchy of Westlake High like it was tattooed on my frontal lobe. The jocks at the top of the food chain, me among them—not because I was friendly (I wasn’t) or smart (debatable), but because I could body slam someone intonext Tuesday. Jenna existed in a different orbit entirely. She was all oversized sweaters with holes in the cuffs and glasses that magnified those big green eyes. I’d catch myself watching her sometimes, the way she’d push her glasses up with her middle finger when she thought no one was looking. A silent ‘fuck you’ to us. Even then, I respected that about her. But I never spoke up in her defense. Never. It has taken me all these years to understand just how wrong that was. I shouldn’t have laughed at her expense, shouldn’t have called her Blueface and definitely should have helped her when she got cornered or her books thrown through the room. I just ignored it, just thinking about my own problems.
She leans on her elbows, looking at me. “Why do you think they kept going? I mean, they—you—could’ve picked on anyone.”
I’m not good at explaining feelings.
Hockey taught me to channel everything into action, not talk. And all the times I tried to explain myself with the lack of words I had back then… I just stopped. But I’ve changed. It’s not high school or college anymore. I’ve read hundreds of books by now. I knew more words than many people I’ve met all because I was afraid of still being seen as the dumb Russian with the thick accent.
“Because you never broke,” I say, softer now, like the words might bruise her again if I press too hard. “I think they were waiting for it. Wanted it even. To see you cry.”
“Well, I did. They got what they wanted,” she murmurs. It’s so quiet I almost miss it.
Something twists in my chest. “No, I never told them.”
Her brows knit. “You didn’t? I always thought you had. It felt like things got worse after that.”
I shake my head, hating how late this is—how useless I was. “No. I saw it, but I didn’t say anything. And I’m… I’m reallysorry. I was—” I exhale, driving a hand over my face. “—a mess of a kid. Which doesn’t make any of it okay. Not what you went through.”
She closes her eyes, and for a second, I’m certain I’ve ruined whatever fragile truce we had. But then she lets out a small laugh.
“You know what’s ridiculous?” she says. “I cared. Like, an embarrassing amount. I went home and wrote your name in my diary over and over again, as if I could hex you into being less of an asshole.”
The words land somewhere between my ribs. I wince internally. God, I had no idea. Too wrapped up in myself to notice anything that didn’t revolve around me. Back in high school, all I cared about was hockey, getting drafted, and passing for American someday—spending nights with dictionaries, practicing until my tongue ached, terrified someone would notice the words I stumbled over when reading aloud.
“Did it work?” I ask.
“Not even a little.”
There’s nothing left to hide. I touch her wrist—just a tap, but she doesn’t pull away. Then I quickly draw my hand away again. Damn it. Overstepped again. “You’re the best person I know,” I say. “And I know maybe five good people.”
She laughs again, but this time it’s sharper. Alive. “That’s a low bar, Colton.”
I look at her, really look: the exhaustion, the stubbornness, the steel. “I mean it. You did more for Livy in three days than anyone else in my life.”
She frowns. God, she’s so cute.
Jenna’s not used to compliments. It’s like watching someone try to hold a hot coal.
“You’re welcome,” she says, suddenly all formal. Then: “Thank you for trusting me.”
“I didn’t have a choice,” I say. “You’re the only one who scared me more than the system.”
Jenna’s eyes narrow. “I’m not scary.”
“You are terrifying,” I say, deadpan. “I’m a grown man and you make me want to eat my vegetables.”
She smirks, and there’s color back in her cheeks now. “That’s probably the nicest thing anyone’s said to me all year.”
We just sit there, letting the dumb banter build a bridge over the wreckage of our childhoods. It shouldn’t work. It does though, and I’m thankful for it. But there’s a quiet understanding humming beneath it. That this is temporary. That I’m supposed to leave. That Iwillleave.
I just… don’t.
Instead, I sit there and pretend the clock isn’t moving, like if I ignore it hard enough, I can also convince myself she doesn’t want me to go. Which is—objectively—idiocy. At some point I manage to push to my feet, because staying any longer starts to feel less like choice and more like desperation.
I rub a hand over my neck. Is it because she’s pretty?
No. No, I’m not that shallow. Not anymore.
