Off Book

11. Jade

11

JADE

“The King doth keep his revels here tonight.” Act II, Scene I

I can tell when someone wants me. I know the look. I got it for the first time when I was twelve. Between the summer of sixth and seventh grade, most girls my age were growing boobs—me included—and in addition to boobs, I lost a lot of baby fat on my face. Suddenly, I was pretty.

How did I know I was pretty? When I went back to school as a seventh-grader, for the first time ever, I had eyes on me. Boys who wouldn’t give me the time of day in sixth grade were suddenly fighting to sit next to me at lunch. I was up to my eyeballs in attention. But desire? I learned that from Stephen Mitchner.

Stephen Mitchner had the most beautiful sea-green eyes. He wore his hair in a buzz cut, he played football, and he was in orchestra in school. He played the cello, which I thought was really hot at that age. He was in my grade, and we had English class together. He was a new kid who came in halfway through the school year, and I had the biggest crush on him. One day, he passed me a note asking if I wanted to hang out with him after school. I obviously said yes and met up with him at a Starbucks that wasn’t too far from the school. I could tell he liked me. He’d leave his hands in the middle of the table instead of in his lap, and he’d lean in like he couldn’t hear me, but he was just trying to get closer. At school, we’d walk to some classes together, and he always walked close enough that our arms touched or he’d catch my pinkie in his since holding hands in the hallways wasn’t allowed at our school.

After two weeks, he asked me to be his girlfriend. After a month, he invited me over to his house to watch a movie one Friday night. His parents were home, but they let us hang out in the finished basement, which was very trusting of them. I was sure my mom would let me do the same, but I’d made a rule that I’d never bring anyone back to my house. My mom could be . . . unpredictable.

Stephen’s mom made us some snacks, and at first we watched the movie. Stephen chose National Treasure , but I don’t remember a single thing about that movie except that Nicholas Cage was in it, because eventually, Stephen made the first move, scooting close and putting his arm around me. I remember the moment right before we kissed. The room was pretty dark, except for a small lamp and the light of the TV screen. It was just enough light for me to see the look in Stephen’s eyes. I knew he wanted to kiss me, and I knew he wanted more. I also knew I had the power to give him exactly what he wanted—or to deny him.

It was my first taste of that kind of desire and that kind of power, and every time I encounter it, I stay high on it for as long as I can.

I could tell the night we were bowling that Ian wanted me too. His small touches, his not-so-subtle teaching me how to bowl—it was just like Stephen in that Starbucks. And a week later, when Ian came over and let me do the makeup on him, I saw in his eyes the same look I saw in that basement when I was thirteen, with National Treasure on in the background.

I’d expected Ian and I would kiss again. I’d hoped we would. The only reason I didn’t jump his bones the night we ran lines at my apartment was because he was covered in makeup. What I didn’t expect was for Ian to make the first move, and I definitely didn’t expect what he’d just done in the stairwell of the theater.

The taste of him haunts me every step back to my apartment. My car still won’t start, so I’m walking again, and I’m sure I meant to ask Ian for a ride back—but after a kiss like that, I can barely remember my name.

By the time I get back to my apartment, the reality of what just happened has sunk in, and although I go through the motions of changing clothes and touching up my makeup, I replay on a loop in my head the moment he grabbed my wrist, pinned me against the wall, and kissed me like it was the last chance he’d ever get.

I wish Jessie were here for me to process all this with her, but she’s at the library, probably, and this isn’t something I want to talk about in a text. Plus, I need to get to the party.

The party where Ian is waiting for me.

He told me he was going to go right after rehearsal, and I told him if there were too many people there for his taste to just wait outside for me and I’d go in with him. The thought of it has my stomach in an absolute riot. Which is ridiculous, because while that kiss was enough to make my legs weak, it’s not like I have feelings for the green bean.

I don’t do feelings.

I have long lived by the motto that under no circumstances should I catch a wedding bouquet, an STI, or feelings.

On my way out, I take a shot of bourbon and hope it will keep me warm on the walk up to The Row. It’s fall, but it’s chilly enough that I almost regret my miniskirt.

About seven people scream my name when I walk in the door of the frat house. They all run up to me, sloshing beer, throwing their sticky arms around me for hugs. There are compliments thrown out for my outfit, my makeup, my shoes, my hair. As usual, I’m the best dressed. And as usual, I’m the most dressed up. Most girls are wearing jeans and a nice top—there’s practically a sea of cardigans in this house. I stick out like a rose in a junkyard.

I love it. I love being the best and most dressed up in every room I walk into. Who can touch me when I look this fucking good? Words burn up as they enter my atmosphere. Glares wither and die before they can touch me.

I remember the first day I went to school in a full face of makeup and an outfit my mother never would have approved of. But she was on a low from a recent breakup, so I knew I could get away with it. That new body I grew by seventh grade made me feel vulnerable in a way I couldn’t really control. So I found what I could control: what I wore.

My clothes and my makeup became my armor, and the first day I donned them, the stares at school were a little different. I was untouchable; the balance of power had swayed in my direction. After that, I started practicing makeup techniques in the evenings and on weekends. It became my superpower. At sleepovers, all the girls wanted makeovers from me. In high school, my first paid gig came from doing makeup for the girls in the school beauty pageant.

Even now, if I’m feeling the creeping tendrils of self-doubt, I put on a face of makeup, and it brings me the kind of confidence I don’t have to fake.

As much as I enjoy the enthusiastic greeting, I’ve got my eyes out for one person, and one person only.

He wasn’t waiting for me outside, so either he bailed or he’s somewhere inside. After the way he kissed me, I’m not surprised he was feeling confident enough to navigate a party. That kind of confidence could get him elected as president.

I walk through the party, searching the crowd. Two people are fighting, but I’m pretty sure it’s just a script they’re rehearsing. Multiple people are singing not too far away—something from Rent , I think. It’s not a party full of theater kids if someone isn’t singing.

Ian’s not in the living room or the study, so I make my way to the kitchen, because I need a drink.

“Jade!” a British accent calls from somewhere behind me.

Oh god.

I spin around, plastering a smile on my face. I didn’t expect Anastasia to be at the party. She called the rehearsal—I assumed she didn’t want to come. But here she is, dressed in a short floral dress with long, loose sleeves, clutching a red Solo cup and drinking out of a straw that already has a lipstick stain on it.

“Anastasia!” I match her energy, taking my voice up an octave with all the fake enthusiasm I can muster.

“Is Ian here with you?” she asks, looking around me.

“I assume so,” I say. “I haven’t seen him yet.”

She’s still looking for him. I narrow my eyes at her. What is she doing? She gives me her attention again, but her eyes dart away every so often, scanning the room.

I seriously need a drink.

“Come on.” I nod my head toward the kitchen, and she follows me. I pour an inch of bourbon into a cup, fill the rest with Diet Coke, and sip at it as I lean against the counter, trying to get a read on Anastasia. She’s acting weird, searching the room like she’s some kind of spy.

“So our chemistry was good, huh?” I nudge.

“Oh, yeah, it’s better for sure. Whatever you’re doing is working. That stage kiss was . . .” She trails off, raising her eyebrows at me.

She’s dropped the accent, thank god. I can tolerate Anastasia without the accents.

I’ve been so consumed by our post-rehearsal kiss that I haven’t even thought about our stage kiss. But now that I’m thinking about it, it was . . . different. I’ve kissed a number of people onstage and I never think anything of it. And besides, Ian’s first attempt was exactly like I expected it to be: an awkward tech theater kid attempting a stage kiss. But the second one . . . the second one felt real. Like it wasn’t his character kissing mine; it was Ian kissing me. In retrospect, it made our post-rehearsal kiss seem . . . inevitable.

“Was it as good as it looked?” Anastasia asks.

“Was what?—?”

“The kiss. Was it as good as it looked?”

Better.

But the way her eyes are darting around the room and the fact that she asked that question set off alarm bells in my mind. Heat burns in my sternum, spreading up into my throat.

“Do you . . . have a crush on Ian?” I ask Anastasia, taking a swig of my drink.

“No!” she answers too quickly, chewing on her straw and scanning the room again.

Why does the thought of this make me sick? We’re not dating. We’re not together in any sense of the word.

But that kiss . . .

“He’s single. And he’s not bad to look at,” I say more casually than I feel.

“Oh my god, he is so cute,” she says with the sudden enthusiasm of a girl who’s found a confidant.

She hasn’t. I want this conversation to end. I’ve got a stabbing feeling in my side that I’m hoping is just gas.

“I’ve had a crush on him for ages. We were on a light crew together sophomore year, and, ugh, I kept hoping we’d get cast together in something, but obviously he’s not auditioning for a lot of things, so when I saw that he was auditioning for the one-acts, I was like, ‘Well, close enough!’” She laughs nervously and slurps up her drink through her straw.

Anastasia looks like she’s about to continue, but I cut in, a realization settling in my stomach like sour milk.

“Did you . . . cast him because you have a crush on him?”

Blood rushes in my ears. I’ve gotten over the fact that I’m doing this one-act with a non-actor. It’s worked out just fine, and I like Ian and getting to know him, but also . . . what the fuck?

“No! I just think he’s cute.” She answers too quickly again. “Okay, maybe a little, but?—”

I roll my eyes and groan audibly. “Are you kidding me, Anastasia?”

“I’m sorry! You would do it too if you were me.”

I wouldn’t, but it doesn’t matter now. We’re in too deep for me to actually be mad about this. I sigh deeply and decide to let it go once and for all. I didn’t get the experience I was looking for—the chance to lose myself in an affair with my acting partner—but I can’t complain about what I did get. Ian is . . . pretty great.

I scan the room again, but I still don’t see him.

“Do you guys spend a lot of time together outside of rehearsal?” Anastasia asks.

“You told us to build chemistry, so yeah, kinda,” I say. “We probably won’t as much now that he’s off book and, ya know, our chemistry is good.”

Ian and I haven’t talked about that, but it only makes sense, right?

So why does it feel like someone is pinching my intestines?

“I know this is, like . . . so dumb, but since you know him a little better than I do, do you know, like, what his type is? Do you think he could be into me?”

He absolutely is not into you. He’s into me.

“You know . . . I don’t know,” I say. And it’s true. I don’t know his type, but wondering about it brings back that stabbing feeling in my side.

I scan the room again, nursing my drink. I don’t have any desire to be drunk right now—not while I’m still drunk on that kiss. While Anastasia goes on about something, I stop listening, only really catching snippets like “swear he was flirting” and “find out for me?” that make me start to question whether I should have come to this party. Normally I love it, but normally I party a little harder. Maybe I should try to convince Jessie to meet me at a different party . . .

I glance at my phone. I’ve been here ten minutes, and I already want to leave.

I sigh, finally looking up from my drink, and there he is. Talking with a small group of people, clutching a red Solo cup as if his life depends on it. Ian looks about as comfortable as any introvert does at a party. My arms ache with the desire to hug him, and I tell myself it’s because I just want rescuing from this conversation with Anastasia.

Our kiss flashes through my mind. His hips against mine, the hunger in his hands, the way my heart raced in my chest. A shiver runs down my spine.

I don’t know if he feels my eyes on him, but he looks around, and when his eyes meet mine, I feel a little bit like throwing up. Something in my stomach flies up to my throat, and I swallow to try to get around the lump that’s formed.

He holds up a hand to wave at me, and I let him see me smirk before giving my attention back to Anastasia, who’s still talking.

“Anyway, I hope you’re not mad,” she says.

“No, of course not,” I say, as cool as a cucumber cooking in a skillet.

“Ladies,” Ian says, approaching me and Anastasia.

“Oh my god, hey, Ian!” Anastasia throws her arms around him in a hug.

His face reads something like “What the fuck?”

“So great to see you here,” she says.

“Yeah, I’ve never been. Thought I’d check it out since it’s my senior year.”

“Oh, this party is the best. One year, I?—”

“ANASTASIA,” a girl yells from the living room.

Anastasia whips her head in the girl’s direction. Her face transforms into pure joy, and she excuses herself and runs off.

“Saved by a screaming woman,” I say. “What’s your drink of choice?” I gesture to his cup.

“A Negroni,” he says.

“Really?” I ask, surprised on multiple levels.

“No. I was making a reference.”

“I know the reference, but I’m a little surprised you do too, Mr. No Social Media.”

“I don’t totally live under a rock,” he says. “I don’t really have a favorite drink. How about you make me something that won’t send me into convulsions?” He stares into his drink.

I take his cup from him and sniff. “Rum and coke?” I ask.

He shrugs. “Someone else made it for me.”

“That’s a good way to get roofied.”

“Oh no. Do you think Jordan Belford drugged me?” His voice drips with sarcastic fear.

Jordan Belford is a musical theater major. A junior, if I remember correctly.

“Yes, definitely,” I say, returning the attitude.

I pour a fresh drink for Ian and hold up the drink I’m still nursing. “To building chemistry,” I say, and tap my red Solo cup against his.

His smirk cues a familiar tugging sensation in my lower belly.

Our eyes linger as we lift our cups to drink. Even after we set them back down, we don’t take our eyes off each other. My gaze flicks to his lips—I can’t help myself—and when my eyes meet his again, I watch as they dip to my lips too. The tension is delicious, and it’s everything I can do to stop myself from clearing this kitchen island and making his mouth mine again.

Instead, I take a sip of my drink. Ian mirrors me but takes a longer pull, practically chugging his drink.

“What number drink is that for you?” I try not to parent people when it comes to their drinking, but Ian doesn’t seem like the kind of person who drinks a lot, and it fires a particular signal in my brain, kicking my instincts into gear. “Did you eat today?” I ask.

“I had pizza rolls.”

“How old are you?”

His grin is goofy as he holds up all five fingers and two on the other.

“Checks out,” I say.

He holds out his cup to me. “Another, please?”

He doesn’t sound slurry yet, so I snatch his cup from him. “What do I look like—your drink bitch?”

“You could be.” He winks at me.

I roll my eyes but don’t fight the grin that sneaks up on me.

As I pour him another drink, I fight the urge to control how much alcohol I put in there. He can handle himself. He is a grown-ass man.

“Should we make the rounds?” I ask and tilt my head toward the living room.

“What if we just sat on the couch and talked shit about people?” he asks.

“Oh, I like that way better,” I say.

Normally, I’d like to walk around the room, say hey to people, and be the social butterfly I am, but tonight, hanging out with Ian sounds way better.

“You look fucking amazing, by the way,” Ian says, practically a whisper, as I walk past him and into the living room.

I glance over my shoulder at him and flash a small smile. “Why, thank you,” I say. My cheeks warm. I tell myself it’s just the alcohol and not his words, but even I don’t really believe me. I’ve had barely one drink, for fuck’s sake. There’s no way it’s the alcohol.

We find an open couch and sit next to each other. Even though the entire couch is open, we sit close enough that our legs touch. Ian sits all the way back, his head against the back of the couch, just inches from me. I almost scoot closer so he can tip his head onto my shoulder, but we don’t need any rumors about us circulating. Not for my sake but Ian’s.

“When did you get here?” I ask.

“I just came up here right after I left the theater.” He looks up at me meaningfully, a silent acknowledgment of the moment that split our relationship into the Before and After.

I look away in an effort to keep from kissing him—an unsurprisingly strong desire given what happened between us not a full hour ago. Of course I want to do that again. Of course I want more. How did he expect me to just go about my life like that kiss didn’t just happen?

Ian and I both cringe at the sudden screech that silences the room. Only the dance music blasting up from the basement plays on.

“BIIIIIIITCHHHHH!” Dallas yells through the near-silence.

I throw my head back and laugh loudly, launching myself off the couch and into their arms. People resume their conversations once they realize it’s not a fight starting and it’s just me and Dallas acting up. Dallas holds me up for all of half a second before dropping my legs back to the ground. They slap my ass.

“Girl, what are you doing looking like the hottest little thing on this side of the train tracks?” Dallas gestures to my outfit. “Fucking slay, queen.”

I do a little spin, throwing my arm up and my head back. I run a hand over my neck and down my body in a sexy gesture.

Dallas and I do a few weird dance moves before Ian interrupts.

“Hey, I’m Ian. I don’t know if we know each other,” he says, scooting to the edge of the couch, his hand extended to shake.

Dallas offers him their hand like a princess, fingers down, awaiting a royal hand-kiss. Ian takes the bait and kisses their fingers. He is definitely not sober anymore.

“I know everyone,” Dallas says. “But what a pleasure to put a face to a name.” They look at me when they say this, their eyebrows raised, mischief written all over their face.

I roll my eyes at them, and all of us have a sip of our drinks.

Ian slides back to rest his head against the back of the couch again.

“How’s it going with the techie?” Dallas asks me quietly, half-murmuring into their drink.

“Better. Although I think Anastasia only cast him because she has a crush on him,” I say.

“What a little bitch.”

I roll my eyes in agreement.

“But he’s not so bad,” I say, sliding my eyes over to Ian pinching the bridge of his nose with his face all scrunched. “He works hard, and that counts for something.”

“Should have been us,” Dallas says.

“Should have been us,” I agree, but I don’t think I totally mean it. “But also, thank god it isn’t, because, um, hello, Puck?”

Dallas blushes, tucking their hand under their chin like they’re posing. “Um, yes, c’est moi ,” they sing. “It’s probably for the best that I didn’t get cast in the one-acts. Gives me more time to work on auditions for a few Shakespeare companies I’ve got my eye on.”

“Any auditions coming up?” I ask and take a larger sip of my drink. It’s almost gone by now.

“Most of them are in the spring, but it’ll be back-to-back. Atlanta Shakespeare Tavern, Baltimore Shakespeare Factory, Chicago Shakespeare Theater. Lots of options, so we’ll see. What about you, queen? I bet you’ve got opportunities coming out of your fucking ears.”

I finish my drink, not really wanting to answer. Here we go again with everyone wanting to talk about graduation all the time . . .

“I’ve got my eye on some options, but I’m waiting until the winter break to really do some research and make decisions,” I say, hoping that will quell any extra questions Dallas might have.

I love Dallas, but I won’t even tell Jessie the whole reason I won’t commit to grad school plans. And if I’m not telling Jessie, I’m probably not telling anyone.

“Oop,” Dallas says suddenly, “douchebag at twelve o’clock. That’s my cue.” They slide away dramatically.

Part of me is relieved the conversation ended so quickly, and yet the sinking feeling in my stomach tells me it wasn’t for a good reason.

“Well, well, well, if it isn’t the village slut,” says a voice from across the room before I have time to register what Dallas meant.

I’d recognize that voice blindfolded.

Nicholas fucking Clarks.

“Well, well, well, if it isn’t the department disappointment,” I say, not bothering to look at him as I sit down next to Ian again.

“Why did he just call you that?” Ian asks, quiet enough that only I can hear it. I don’t have to look at him to know his brow is furrowed. The level of concern in his voice is practically parental.

“Everyone calls me that.”

“That doesn’t make it okay,” he says. He doesn’t sound tipsy like he did when Dallas was here. His voice is deadly serious and low enough that it borders on a growl.

I wave him off.

“Who’s this poor sucker you’ve got with you, Jade?” Nick approaches us with Tyler and Jackson—beefy meatheads who never get cast as anything but ensemble and the most minor of speaking roles—flanking him.

Ian shifts next to me, and in my peripheral I see him straighten a little, sitting taller.

“Nick, meet Ian. Ian, this is Nicholas Sparks, writer of mediocre love stories and general dickhead.”

“Nicholas Clarks, you dumb bitch. No wonder you’re in theater—you’re not smart enough to make it doing anything else.”

“How was that not insulting to you? You’re literally— Whatever. Fuck off, Nick,” I say, rolling my eyes and waving my hand at him as if he’s a fly I can swat away. I should get up and walk away, but I was here first, and I want him to leave.

“Why does he keep talking to you like that?” Ian asks, again only for me to hear.

“You got something to say to me, twig boy?” Nick asks, a little too loud. He sways, his eyes glazed. He’s had way too much to drink.

Under different circumstances, I might stand my ground with Nick, but it’s not worth arguing with him while he’s drunk.

“Come on—let’s go,” I say to Ian quietly. I stand and grab his arm, hauling him to his feet. But apparently, getting on his feet was the courage he needed.

“Why are you being such an asshole to Jade?” Ian asks, stepping closer to Nick.

Nick laughs. At least, there’s a burst of noise from his mouth that sounds something like a laugh. It’s more like the bray of a donkey if the donkey had a sore throat.

“Why don’t you ask your little slut why we’ve got beef?”

There’s a nearly imperceptible twitch in Ian’s jaw.

“Just ignore him,” I say to Ian. “It happened years ago, Nick. Let it go.”

“You know, I’d be happy to stop if Jade would stop being such a slut.”

“Seriously, call her a slut one more time . . .” Ian says, and there’s an edge in his voice, something dangerous I’ve never heard before. I don’t want him to do anything stupid, so I place a hand lightly on his arm. It won’t restrain him, but it might bring him back down to Earth.

“Listen, he’s mad because I hooked up with his girlfriend at the theater party freshman year.”

Ian turns his head to look at me. There’s a hurt look in his eyes that feels like someone is pinching my intestines. “Did you know? That she was his girlfriend?”

I nod. “I just thought they had an arrangement or something.”

It was my first theater party, and I’d gone to the bathroom. I was washing my hands when the door suddenly opened. Apparently, I’d forgotten to lock it. Nick’s girlfriend at the time, a girl named Santana, walked in. I apologized and tried to leave, but she stopped me with a hand on my arm and told me I was beautiful and that she’d been admiring me from afar. When she leaned in to kiss me, I wasn’t thinking of the consequences. I figured if she was kissing me, it was because she and Nick had broken up or opened up their relationship. We made out in the bathroom, and then she led me to one of the bedrooms in the frat house. The kissing turned into more, and by the time my head was between her legs, we weren’t thinking about the door neither of us had locked behind us—but Nick had come looking for his girlfriend, and he caught us.

“You did it on purpose. Like the slut you are,” Nick says and finally turns to leave.

But Nick hasn’t taken one step by the time Ian’s taken two, grabbed Nick by the arm, and slugged him right across the face. Before I can blink, Nick is sprawled out on the floor, clutching his jaw. There is a chorus of gasps. Someone screams.

“Holy shit, Ian.” I clutch his shoulders and move him away from the crowd gathering around Nick.

Ian is still doubled over, clutching the wrist of his punching hand.

“Why did you do that?” I ask, reaching for his injured hand. Gingerly, I hold it in my own, careful of his knuckles, which are red but not swelling yet.

“He kept calling you a slut,” he says through gritted teeth.

“Did you just defend my honor?” A smile creeps over my face, and Ian’s smile mirrors mine.

“Maybe,” he says, and through the pain, he manages to grin at me.

“I could kiss you,” I say, almost a whisper.

“You should,” he says. His eyes flick to my mouth, but suddenly he’s wrenched out of my grasp by two beefy hands.

“Ian!” I scream, right before the awful sound of flesh hitting flesh cracks in my ears as Jackson smashes his forehead into Ian’s face.

Ian lets out a vicious grunt and crumples like a doll, straight to the ground. More awful noises ensue: a skull against the ground, grunts of pain, screams from around the room—one of which is mine as I drop to the floor, searching Ian for obvious bleeding on his face or body. Nothing. I run my hand along the back of his head and don’t find any blood there either. My shoulders actually drop an inch from my ears. No bleeding is good. I prop his head in my lap, brushing his hair away from his face.

“Ian, are you okay?” I ask, unable to hide the edge of panic in my voice.

“Did he break my nose?” He reaches up and examines his face, dancing his fingers along the bridge of his nose. He winces and drops his hand.

“I’m not a doctor, but I don’t think it’s broken.”

“I like your confidence. What about my skull?”

“No broken skull. Probably. But we should get some ice. Your nose is already starting to swell.” I run my fingers featherlight across where his nose meets his forehead, and he winces again.

“Okay, yeah, let’s . . . let’s do that. You have to help me up, though.”

“Of course,” I say, and help him into a sitting position.

No one offers a hand or comes over to see if Ian is okay. People watch us from a distance like we’ve got some kind of communicable disease. Jackson, Nick, and Tyler are nowhere to be seen.

It’s no easy feat in heels and a miniskirt, but I get Ian to his feet and help him out of the house.

“Did you drive or walk?” I ask.

“Drive.”

I silently thank the Fates, because it is too cold and too far of a walk for me to support this half-sober, beaten-up boy back to the apartments.

He hands me his keys and points to the parking lot. I would not normally drive after even one drink, but the drive to the apartments is barely three minutes and the speed limit is 10 mph.

I drive Ian back to his apartment and get him situated in bed with an ice pack. After setting him up with painkillers and a glass of water, I offer to stay, but he waves me off.

Hesitant to leave him alone, I stand in the doorway to his room. He looks so vulnerable propped up in bed with an ice pack on his face.

I’ve always considered myself fiercely independent. I take care of myself and proudly tell anyone who’ll listen that I don’t need anyone. People who pay for things for me get paid back. People who do favors for me get a favor in return. I don’t ask for help and rarely accept it when it’s offered. But I cannot deny that having someone stand up for me like that feels . . . nice. It feels like maybe I’m not quite as alone in this world as I’ve always bragged about being.

“I’ve never punched anyone before,” he admits.

“Thank you,” I say, walking back to stand beside his bed. I brush his hair back, away from his face, careful not to touch any developing bruises. “You don’t think less of me?” I ask, trying to erase the look on his face when I told him the truth.

“Nah. If you say you thought they had an open relationship, I believe you.”

For years, people have believed Nick. My reputation is what it is because of that moment. No one before Ian has asked for my side of the story and I don’t think anyone would have believed me anyway.

But Ian believes me.

“How does it feel, being so heroic?” I ask, shifting my tone so I can talk around the lump that’s formed in my throat.

“Painful.”

He gives me a weak smile, and I give him one back. My heart squeezes. I take one of his hands in mine.

“You didn’t have to do that, you know.”

“I know. But I’m glad I did.”

“No one’s ever done anything like that for me. Not even close.”

“I’d punch a thousand Nicks for you,” he says, his eyes drifting closed.

Inside, I am cracking and splintering. If I were to open my chest and examine the walls I built around my heart, they would be fractured and crumbling. I squeeze my eyes shut, imagining myself patching them back up, convincing myself they’re as strong as ever, but even I’m not sure how much longer they’ll hold.