CHAPTER TEN #15
I drag a hand down my face, jaw tight. "Of course it wasn't her, dumbass," I mutter.
But it doesn't stop the burn in my chest.
The ache doesn't budge. But I force my hands off the rail, shove it all down where it belongs, and head back inside.
Because that's what I do.
Keep moving. Pretend it doesn't hurt.
Even when it does.
*****
CAROLINE
"Oh no."
"Shit. Shit!"
"Did he see me? Did he?"
My heart is jackhammering like I just got caught shoplifting, which—for the record—I did not.
I'm plastered against the thick yellow curtains of my balcony door, hands clamped over my chest like I can physically hold my heart in before it explodes.
One second I'm humming Taylor Swift, tossing half my wardrobe across my bed, and the next—bam.
Reflection in the vanity mirror. Zach. On his balcony. Looking this way.
I swear I've never moved so fast in my life.
Forget spy movies—somebody give me a black catsuit because the way I dropped, crawled, and dove for cover was Oscar-worthy. Duck. Crawl. Roll. Straight into the curtain like my life depended on it.
Slowly—so slowly—I peel back a sliver of fabric.
He's still there.
Shit.
Zach's craning his neck, stretching like a damn giraffe, trying to see past the glass. His brows tight, eyes narrowed like if he stares long enough, the door might dissolve.
I snatch my phone off the nightstand and jab pause. Taylor's voice cuts mid-verse. Then I flick the light's switch off so fast. Darkness swallows the room whole.
Darkness. Blessed, beautiful darkness.
And I think that did the trick because just a moment later, Zach steps back, glances over his shoulder, and disappears inside his room. The sliding door clicks shut behind him.
I sag to the floor like a deflated balloon, one hand clutching my chest, the other still gripping the curtain.
And then I freeze. Frown.
Really, Caroline? Hiding in the dark like some raccoon caught in the trash?
My inner sass monster is already crossing her arms, giving me that are you kidding me? look.
What the hell am I doing? Ducking like he still owns some piece of me. Which he doesn't. Absolutely not.
I didn't spend three years away—sweating through brutal workouts, choking down kale salads, counting macros like a math-obsessed lunatic—just to fold at the sight of him.
I didn't burn through all that anger, that heartbreak, just to build a stronger, healthier version of myself.
.. only to end up trembling behind a curtain like the same fat, insecure girl I used to be.
No. Hell no.
Because yeah, I lost the weight. But it wasn't just pounds I shed—it was the doubt. The self-hate. The constant begging for his attention. And every mile I ran, every salad I forced down, every muscle ache that made me want to quit—it all reminded me I didn't need him.
That whatever I felt for him? It's gone.
I'm not that pathetic girl anymore.
And thanks to his cruel words that day—the ones that ripped me open—I finally woke up from my stupid delusions.
He knocked me down, sure. But I got back up. Different. Stronger. Changed. Fueled by him. By that pain. By the reminder that I will never, ever let him break me again.
My inner sass monster leans back with a smirk. So... thanks for the character development, dumbass.
I push off the floor and I flop onto my bed. My suitcase is still sitting there, wide open, clothes spilling out like it's mocking me. Right. Packing. And remembering why I'm even doing it.
The truth is, I've been living in New York these past three years—studying at NYU. One of the best schools in the country. I built something there. New friends. New routines. A new version of me. And best of all—no Zach-shaped heartbreak lurking around every corner.
But two months ago? Everything flipped. One phone call, and suddenly none of that mattered.
A drunk driver plowed into Mom's car on her way back from the grocery store. The second Dad's voice cracked, I thought I lost her.
I was on the next flight home. Finals had just ended. And when I saw her—bruised, casted, broken but alive—I knew I had to move back. Be here. Take care of her.
Because if I stayed in New York, even with just one year left to finish my degree, I wouldn't have been able to focus.
Not when I'd be worrying myself sick every day, wondering how she was doing.
I couldn't spend my life refreshing my phone, booking last-minute flights every time the panic gnawed at me.
So yeah, I went back to New York for a week.
Packed up my apartment. Signed the paperwork.
NYU's curriculum lined up well enough with Ridgewater's, credits transferred clean, and thanks to my parents' long ties with the university, the transition was.
.. surprisingly smooth. I won't lose any time—I'll still graduate on schedule.
Which means: I'm officially back in Florida.
Even if it means risking the one thing I swore I'd never do—cross paths with Zach Westbrook again.
Ugh. Just the thought makes me queasy.
But whatever. I'll deal. I'll avoid him. I'll map out the entire campus if I have to. He lives in the rink, I'll live in the Performing Arts department. Easy. Minimal chance of collision.
Besides... he doesn't even know I'm back.
The only person who does is his sister, Sam. She saw me with my parents when Mom finally got discharged two weeks ago. And for the past two weeks, she's been blowing up my phone, begging me to room with her this fall.
I tried to say no—believe me, I did.
But then she pulled out her secret weapon. Those big puppy-dog eyes and that wobbly little pout. Ugh. Fatal combo. Westbrook siblings are going to be the death of me.
So yeah, I caved. We're going to be roommates. And Sam promised she wouldn't breathe a word to Zach about it.
Not that I trust her. If there's one thing Sam Westbrook cannot do, it's keep her mouth shut.
I shake my head. "Whatever. If he sees me, he sees me. If we cross paths, I'll just act like I don't know him. Pretend he doesn't exist. Easy."
...Right?
I groan, drag a pillow over my face, and flop harder.
Who am I kidding?
Senior year at Ridgewater U is about to start. And I can already tell—it's going to be hell.
CHAPTER NINE
CAROLINE
Iplant myself in front of the full-length mirror, hands on my hips, and just... stare.
White off-shoulder top, fitted black ripped jeans, strappy heels. Cute, right? Cute-cute. Not just "passing grade, she tried" cute. Actual, I'd-wear-this-on-purpose cute.
High school me could never. Not because I didn't want to. God knows I drooled over outfits like this every time I scrolled online. But stores don't exactly design for girls with my old size. Everything either fit like a circus tent or threatened to cut off circulation.
So yeah, I stuck to baggy hoodies and oversized T-shirts, and let's just say mirrors weren't my besties. Looking at my reflection always meant picking myself apart—too big here, too wide there.
Honestly? The mean names people threw at me—pig, sugar plump, whale, fat cow—didn't sting half as much as my own voice in my head did. I was my own worst enemy, handing out insults like free samples every time I looked at myself.
But now?
Now I catch my reflection and... I don't flinch. I don't cringe. I actually kind of... like what I see.
I lean closer, fiddling with my hair—up? Down? Ponytail? Bun? No. Down. Definitely down.
The waves frame my face just right, catching the light like moonlight spun into strands. It takes stupid amounts of maintenance (toner, masks, the whole nine yards), but damn if it isn't worth it. I actually love my new hair color.
My makeup's done too. And miracle of miracles—it doesn't look like a toddler finger-painted my face. Progress.
In high school, I couldn't blend to save my life. My foundation line could've doubled as a crime scene tape. But then my NYU roommate (whose mom was a beauty stylist, of course) took pity on me and introduced me to the sacred rule of beauty: blend, blend, and for the love of God, blend.
Now? I can hide my freckles.
Yeah. The freckles. I hate them. Always have. They're from my mom's side—her Mediterranean roots gave her these soft, sun-kissed freckles that make her look effortlessly pretty.
Mine? They just made me feel blotchy and uneven. Like someone sprinkled dirt across my nose and cheeks and called it a day.
Zach loved your freckles, the annoying little voice in my head whispers.
I blink.
Excuse me, what? Where the hell did that come from? Delete. Backspace. Absolutely not. How did he just invade my brain like that?
My inner sass monster rolls her eyes. Uh, maybe because his name and face are plastered all over campus?
Right. The banners. The giant, smug, stupidly photogenic banners of him and the rest of the hockey team, hanging like Ridgewater's personal shrine to its obsession.
Their opening game is this Friday, and apparently that calls for wallpapering every square inch of the school with their faces.
Damn it. Damn those banners. Damn this school's unhealthy hockey worship. And damn Zach Westbrook for being impossible to escape—even inside my own head.
Because the thing is—I'd been doing so good. Gold star level good. School's been in session for almost a month now and I've managed to avoid him completely. Not a single bump-in at the dining hall. Not a passing glance in the quad.
And yeah, I was proud of that. Like, proud proud. Almost started to believe it myself—this fantasy that maybe Zach Westbrook didn't actually go here. Maybe he graduated early, joined the circus, moved to Europe—who cares?
As long as it meant I could breathe without his shadow stomping all over my oxygen.
But then. Two weeks ago.
Boom.
The banners.
Suddenly Zach's face is everywhere. Ten feet tall, glaring down at me in high-definition. In the student union. In the library. Next to the vending machine where I just wanted a damn cracker. I swear even the bathroom stall door has been eyeing me with his stupid smirk.