Page 62 of The Wright Man

I stood frozen for a second, blinking fast. Then turned, gift in hand, and climbed the stairs on shaking legs. Every step louder than the last. I made it to the bedroom, shut the door, and locked it behind me.

The first sob escaped before I hit the bed.

I curled around the gift like it might shield me from everything—his words, the shame, the rage at him for doing this again... and the deeper, crueler rage at myself for letting him.

I'd let myself believe tonight could just be good. That Gavin could be kind. That I could have one perfect, untouched day.

Stupid, stupid girl.

No.

No—I was stupid for choosing him. Not for having one good night. Not for laughing. Not for being happy. He didn't get to take that. I wasn't going to let him take that.

The anger came quick and hot, surprising me. It didn't stay. It never did yet. But it was there, and that was new.

I lay there in the dark, angry tears streaking into the comforter, clutching the only piece of joy I had left.

And thinking about how easy things used to be.

* * *

Angelica

When They Were 16…

"Gavin Riddle."

The name dropped like a hammer behind me.

Sharp and judgmental and full of Maleek's trademark disdain.

I paused in the middle of flipping through my SAT prep book, my eyes flicking to the mirror above Miss Dana's old fireplace mantel. There he was—my best friend—standing in front of the mirror like he was preparing for a funeral instead of a job interview. Shoulders squared, jaw clenched, hands fumbling with that stubborn satin tie like it was fighting back.

"Really Angelica? The fucking Riddler?" he muttered, yanking at the knot again. I'd always thought that nickname was funny until I understood what it actually meant. He'd given it to Gavin first, back in kindergarten — before Boyd got "Pee Pants" and long before Theo got anything at all. Maleek said it was because Gavin never said anything outright mean. He just stood there smiling while the other two did the work, like a villain who thought riddles were cleaner than getting his hands dirty. Even at five, Maleek knew the difference between a bully and a strategist.

I sighed.

I got up from the couch and walked over, brushing his hands away from the knot he was mangling. "Don't call him that," I added, trying to sound firm but mostly sounding tired. "And let me fix this before you choke yourself to death and make your poor mama cry."

He let me take over, his hands falling to his sides as I started untying the mess he'd made. His shirt was a little wrinkled—he didn't own an iron, and Ms. Dana hadn't had the energy to do much lately—but I tried to smooth it down anyway. I didn't want him going into that interview looking like nobody loved him.

It had been three months since Ms. Dana's diagnosis, and she was already too weak to braid hair or take makeup gigs anymore.

Maleek was trying to pick up the slack. First by trying to grow up fast, taking care of her however he could. Then by applying to every job within walking—or busing—distance, desperate to help. I knew he was scared. He didn't say it, because he never did, but I saw it in the way his jaw stayed clenched all the time now, in the sleepless bags under his eyes, and in how quiet he'd gotten when he used to be the only person who could out-talk me.

And Kareem... Kareem had gone somewhere else entirely. Still loud, still cracking jokes—but they didn't land the same. His laugh didn't carry like it used to. He was gone more nights than he was home. Spent more time with Leon than with us. And every time we asked, we got the same dry smile and tired lie: "I'm good, sis. Don't worry about me." But I did worry. I saw the bags. Maleek heard the door creak at two in the morning. We saw the duffel bags and burner phones and the lies in his eyes.

None of us told Ms. Dana.

I'd already started doing my own hair. My parts were crooked, and my twists puffed up by morning, but Ms. Dana beamed like I'd walked off a runway or something.

"Ooooh, come on, Covergirl," she'd whispered, voice thin but proud, eyes shining as she took me in. That smile stayed with me for days—right before I went home and cried my eyes out.

And Gavin... he showed up right around then.

So, in the middle of all that—grief and chaos and dread—I went and agreed to go to junior prom with him. Not because I was in love. But because he wasn't part of the pain.

He didn't ask about Miss Dana's meds or Kareem's silence or why Maleek stopped smiling. He just called me beautiful. Sent flirty texts. Called me his girl in front of people.