CHAPTER TEN #5
But tonight? Silence. No Taylor. No me screeching like a banshee. Just... quiet.
I've got my eyes squeezed shut, pretending I'm exhausted—like I'm the one who just played three brutal hockey periods and scored a hat trick.
Spoiler: I'm not tired. I'm just avoiding him. Because if I look at Zach right now, all I'm going to see is the hot tub. Her hands. His mouth. The whole Cici nightmare reel on repeat.
And no, thank you.
I ball my fist on my lap. Stupid. Stupid. Why did I think about it again? Now it's stuck in my brain like a cursed TikTok sound. Shit. Shit. Shit.
Meanwhile, I can feel him glancing at me. Every few seconds, those silver eyes flick over like he's checking if I'm really asleep. Maybe he wants to talk about it. Maybe he's gearing up to apologize. Maybe he's panicking because he knows he got caught lying to me.
Well, too bad.
I am so not in the mood to play Confessional Best Friend right now. He doesn't get my forgiveness.
Not tonight. Not when the only thing I can think about is him pressed up against Cici in chlorine water, doing things I wish he was doing with me instead.
Ugh. I hate him.
I hate her.
I hate myself for being affected this much.
So I continue faking it.
Head leaned against the window, eyes shut, breathing all exaggerated like I'm auditioning for Sleeping Beauty.
Problem is, I suck at faking. Like, Oscar-worthy? No. More like high school drama club extra who gets cut after rehearsal. My deep, even breaths sound like I'm running a marathon, and when we hit a bump in the road, my head jerks so hard it nearly knocks against the glass.
Smooth, Caroline. Real subtle.
And of course, Zach notices. Because of course he does.
I hear his low chuckle, the one that always sends shivers down my spine, and then, "You know I can tell you're faking, right?"
My fingers curl tighter into a fist on my lap. Nope. Not reacting. Not giving him the satisfaction. He doesn't get a response from me tonight.
I hear him shift in the driver's seat, his voice light and teasing.
He hums under his breath, like he's thinking. "Maybe I should sing you a lullaby. That'd help, right?" His voice dips lower, mock-serious. "Hush, little Caroline, don't say a word..."
My lips twitch. Damn you, Westbrook.
He knows nursery rhymes are my kryptonite. But I clamp my mouth shut tighter, forcing my breathing into that fake steady rhythm.
"Nothing? Not even a smile?" he keeps going, chuckling again. "You must really be tired. Or mad at me."
There's a beat, like he's waiting for me to snap, then he adds with a smirk I can hear, "Probably both."
I swear he lives to get a rise out of me. Usually, he wins.
Tonight? No chance.
He could pull a full comedy set, juggle hockey pucks with his teeth, and I'd still keep my eyes shut.
He chuckles again, softer this time, like he finds me cute instead of bitter and seething. Typical.
But I stay still, committing to my fake-sleep act like it's a hostage situation. Because I already started this, and bailing halfway would be humiliating.
So, fine. I'll die on this hill. I'll be 'asleep' until we pull into my driveway if I have to.
Luckily, my driveway finally appears, glowing under the porch light like salvation. Zach eases the RAV4 to a stop, and the second the tires crunch against the cement, I breathe the biggest sigh of relief.
And then I bolt.
No stretching, no lazy fake-yawn, no "thanks for the ride, Zach." Just full-on door fling, seatbelt snap, escape mission activated.
So, what if I just outed myself as a fraud-level sleeper? Don't care. I just need out.
I slam the door behind me and practically sprint for my front steps. If I can just make it to my room, I can drown myself in my Screw Men, Screw Life, Long Live Taylor playlist. (Yes, that's what I named it. Yes, it slaps. Featuring only angry, bitter Taylor tracks—prime scream therapy material.)
I'm one key-jiggle away from blessed solitude when—
"Caroline, wait up."
Of course.
I ignore him. Key in the lock, eyes forward.
"...hey, please talk to me."
His voice is closer now, too close.
I freeze, turn—and there he is. No teasing grin. No smug chuckle. Just Zach, standing in front of me, all earnest eyes and furrowed brows.
My chest squeezes. I force a smile anyway. "About what, Zach?"
He swallows hard, his Adam's apple bobbing like he's choking on the words. "About... uh..." His gaze drops to the cement, studying it like it holds the answers, before tilting up again. "About what Cici said earlier. I just want you to know that—"
I laugh. Sharp. Hollow. The kind of laugh that tastes bitter on the way out. I wave a hand like I'm swatting away a fly. He's the fly.
"Don't worry about it, Zach. I get it, really. She's hot and—" I gag a little, but push through, “I'm sure it was hard to resist someone like her."
His eyes widen. "But—"
"Really, it's fine." I cut him off again, too fast, too fake. "No biggie."
No biggie?! my brain screams.
My inner sass-monster wants to slap me.
Yeah, it's no big deal that you hooked up with the meanest girl alive, who lives to ruin me. And it's totally fine that you lied straight to my face about it. Sure. No biggie.
My jaw aches from holding the smile plastered across my face. My lips feel like they're stapled in place, my throat glued shut. The words I actually want to say get stuck somewhere deep, where they can't escape.
Zach studies me, eyes narrowing slightly like he can see every crack in my armor. He opens his stupid, beautiful mouth—probably to defend himself, probably to spin another denial.
"It's getting late," I cut in quickly, juggling my keys like a nervous tic. "I should head in. And you should too. Sam might still be awake, you should go check on her."
I step back, gesture toward the door with my thumb. Wave my hand like this is nothing, like the ache in my chest is nothing.
And before he can say a word, I shove the key into the lock, twist, and slip inside.
The door slams. Lock clicks. And the second it's closed, my back hits it, my head follows, and I let out the heaviest sigh of my life.
My hand presses hard against my chest, like I can hold all the broken pieces together. Tonight was supposed to be good—great, even. I was all giddy at the rink, floating when he scored that hat trick and pointed at me like I was the only person who mattered.
It wasn't just a hat trick. It was a heart trick.
And I fell for it. Again.
Now I'm here, slumped against the door, replaying Cici's smug little face and wanting to scream into a pillow.
God, why is she so despicable? Why does she always win?
I crack one eye open, glance out the window. Zach's still outside for a second, just standing there. Then finally, he turns, shoulders slumped and walks across the yard to his house next door.
The porch light glows faintly on his back before he disappears inside.
I peel myself off the door and glance around the house. Quiet. Dim. Mom probably left the kitchen light on again—it always hums softly until morning. Otherwise, the place is asleep.
I climb the stairs, dragging my feet like lead, until I make it to my room. My safe place. My battlefield. My Taylor Swift shrine of doom.
And tonight? Oh, we're going full blast.
I don't even bother with the lights. The second my bedroom door shuts, I fling myself onto my bed like I'm auditioning for a crime scene outline. Arms and legs stretched wide across the mattress, staring at the ceiling like it personally betrayed me.
My Bluetooth speaker connects with a cheerful ding that feels offensively upbeat for my current mood, and then my playlist of doom kicks in: Die, Chad, Die—aka my carefully curated collection of Taylor Swift's most bitter, soul-crushing anthems. Picture to Burn, Better Than Revenge, All You Had to Do Was Stay.
Basically the musical equivalent of salting the earth and torching the remains.
And oh, I crank that sucker up. Full blast. Vibrating-the-walls, sorry-neighbors level.
I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to erase the image of Zach and Cici in that stupid hot tub.
Instead, I try to picture something more therapeutic—like taking Cici's smug little Barbie face and scrubbing that grin off with a cheese grater.
Or maybe feeding her glitter lip gloss to raccoons and letting them do the work.
Either way, the mental image is chef's kiss.
But of course, the hot tub reel comes back. Again. Her hands on him. His mouth on her.
My stomach twists like I swallowed glass.
I groan loudly, dragging a pillow over my face. "God, why am I like this?"
The ceiling doesn't answer. Taylor just gets louder.
I don't know how long my eyes are shut. Maybe I actually doze off. Maybe I just pass out from overdosing on angry Taylor.
Either way, my eyes snap open when I hear the shhhk of my balcony sliding door.
Shit.
I curse myself instantly. Forgot to lock it—too busy nursing my stupid, aching heart and plotting Cici's demise by cheese grater.
And there's only one person in this universe who opens that door this late. Every night, actually.
Zach Westbrook.
The one human who has permanent, no-questions-asked access to my room. No knocking. No asking. Just... waltzes in like he owns the place.
It started when we were seven. Back then, our bedrooms faced each other across the side yard. We'd drag a ladder over, climbing in and out like two little criminals sneaking past bedtime.
Sometimes it was for sleepovers. Sometimes it was to trade Pokémon cards. Most nights, it was because thunderstorms freaked me out and Zach would show up, crawl into my bed, and let me cling to his arm until I fell asleep.
One night, though, the ladder slipped. Zach fell. Broke his arm. Screamed bloody murder. (I nursed him through it, by the way. Sat with him, signed his cast, brought him snacks. Loved every pathetic second. Stupid, I know.)