The silence in my room is a high-pitched whine sitting right behind my eyes. I pace the length of the floor, three steps one way, pivot, three steps back. My skin feels too tight, like I'm wearing a suit that's two sizes too small.
I grab the bottle of whiskey from the desk. The glass clanks against the wood, too loud in the empty space. I pour. My hand shakes. It's a fine tremor, a vibration I can't stop. I stare at my fingers, willing them to still. They don't. The amber liquid splashes over the rim of the glass, pooling on the desk.
"Fuck it."
I knock it back in one swallow. The burn is instant, a fireball down the throat that settles in the gut. I pour another. This one goes down just as fast.
My body needs to get out of here. Noise is needed. Bodies. Warm ones. Elm House is the destination. Getting shitfaced is the plan.
The plan is to find a girl with a pulse and a nice ass and I'm going to forget Zoë Barnes exists.
She was a body. A tight little body with a smart mouth and a spine made of steel, sure, but just a body in the end. Replaceable. There are hundreds of girls at Briarcliff who would kill to be on my arm. I don't need the one who looks at me like I'm a problem to be solved.
I screw the cap back on the flask. My hand slips. The metal threads grind together, slipping again. I slam the flask down on the desk, hard enough to crack the plastic. The sound echoes.
I'm lying to myself. I know it. If she was just a body, I wouldn't feel like I'm bleeding out internally. If she was just a body, the silence would feel like a physical weight crushing my chest.
My phone buzzes on the nightstand. Her name flashes on the screen.
A desperate, pathetic surge of hope shoots through me. I snatch it up, my thumb hovering over the accept button. Maybe she's calling to take it back. Maybe she realized what a mistake she made.
But she's calling because she refuses to lose. Because walking away clean matters more to her than me ever did.
A wave of self-loathing so violent it makes me sick crashes over me. I'm a liar; a coward. I'm a pathetic piece of shit who thought he could buy his way into her world and then got his feelings hurt when she called him on it.
With a roar, I hurl the phone across the room. It smacks against the cinderblock wall, the screen spiderwebbing into a thousand shards of black glass before clattering to the floor. The screen goes dark.
The violence isn't enough. The rage is a living thing under my skin, clawing to get out. I need to hit something, to feel anything other than this hollow, gnawing emptiness.
My hand balls into a fist and swings, connecting with the wall beside my door. The impact is a sickening crunch. Pain explodes up my arm, sharp and immediate. My knuckles split, blood welling up instantly.
But it's good. It's real.
I pull my hand back, staring at the crater I've just made in the drywall. A perfect, fist-sized hole. I stand there, panting, my bloody knuckles throbbing in time with my heartbeat.
The room is a mess. Whiskey stains the desk. Cracked phone on the floor, screen ruined but still faintly pulsing as notifications queue. A hole in the wall. A perfect reflection of what's inside me.
I grab my jacket and the flask. I scoop the phone up on instinct and shove it into my pocket without looking at it. My body needs a hit. A distraction is needed. I need to stop feeling like I'm the one who got erased.
The bass at Elm House is a physical blow, a heavy, thudding fist against my sternum. I push through the front door, and the air hits me—stale beer, cheap perfume, and the suffocating heat of too many bodies packed into a space designed for half the number.
Usually, I thrive in this shit. It's white noise. It drowns out the static. Tonight, it just grates.
I shoulder past a freshman who doesn't know to get out of the way, ignoring the spill of red solo cups against my jacket. A drink is needed. Anything to stop thinking.
I scan the room, tactical assessment kicking in before I can stop it.
Adrian and Clara are in the corner, her hand on his arm, looking like the fucking power couple of the century. Declan andTalia are near the DJ booth, Declan laughing at something that isn't funny. Dante and Cole are posted up by the kegs, playing bouncer like they own the tap.
Then I see Maya and Genny near the stairs, huddled like they're plotting a coup.
And then I see her.
Zoë.
Everything in me reorients. My chest tightens first. Then my shoulders angle without permission, my weight shifting in her direction like gravity has teeth.
She's standing near the wall, a drink in her hand that she isn't drinking, eyes scanning the room like she's counting exits. Closed off. Angry. Untouchable.
