CHAPTER NINETEEN #5
I roll my eyes so hard it hurts and shake my head, forcing my gaze down to the cracked concrete. God. Why did I even open my mouth in the first place? Stupid. Should've kept walking. Should've kept my lips sealed.
Behind me, I hear him exhale, long and harsh, like he's been holding his breath for years and just realized it.
"Come on, Sugarplum," he says, softer now, almost pleading. "Talk to me. Please."
The nickname slices right through me. My spine stiffens, rage flaring hot and immediate. "Don't call me that," I hiss.
"Why not?" His voice catches, confused, almost boyish.
I don't answer. Can't.
My throat is locked up tight. Instead, I glance down at my phone, thumb swiping desperately at the Uber screen. Six minutes. Six freaking minutes. Only a minute's gone by? Are you kidding me? It feels like hours.
"Please, Caroline," he tries again, his voice breaking around the edges now. Sad. Desperate. "Please, just... tell me what I did. What did I do to make you hate me like this?"
The words slam into me, splintering through the armor I've been dragging around since the second I saw his face again.
Hate? God, if only it were that simple.
"And I need answers. I deserve answers," he continues, stumbling forward a step like he's scared I'll vanish if he doesn't close the gap. His hand drags through his hair, his jaw clenching, unclenching.
"Why did you change our plans without telling me? We were supposed to go to Ridgewater together. That was the plan since we were kids." His eyes are blazing now, frantic.
"Why did you cut me off so easily like our friendship doesn't mean anything? And why...why did you leave without saying goodbye?"
My chest is a cage of rattling bones, my heart hammering against it so hard it hurts.
I keep my face angled away, refusing to give him what he wants. Refusing to let him see the storm clawing at my insides.
But he doesn't let up.
"Damn it, look at me!" His voice cracks, sharp, strained, like every word is scraping his throat raw.
He steps closer, crowding me in the glow of a flickering streetlight, his fists clenched at his sides, then flexing open again, like he doesn't know what to do with his hands.
"For three years I've been asking myself what the hell happened. What went wrong. What I did to lose my best friend."
His chest heaves, and for the first time, I see it—real, unpolished pain shadowing his face. "I called you a million times. I called until my number stopped going through. I emailed. I messaged. And then I realized—" His mouth twists, broken and bitter.
"You blocked me. Everywhere. Phone. Facebook. Instagram. All of it."
His throat bobs as he swallows, eyes locked on me like I'm the only thing tethering him to the ground. "Do you know what it's like? To have my best friend—my person—erase me from her life?"
"It's been driving me insane. Every day, for three years, I've tried to figure it out. Tried to figure you out."
His shoulders sag, helpless. "Please. Just tell me what I did wrong. Tell me, so I can make it right."
My grip on my phone trembles, the Uber screen blurring from the sting in my eyes. Anger claws up my chest, burning, begging to lash out, to scream every cruel word I've held back. But beneath it—damn it, beneath it—something else stirs. Something softer.
Because his voice... his face... the rawness etched into every line of him—it's everything I used to know. And everything I swore I'd never let touch me again.
God, why does it still make me want to break?
I swallow hard, fists curling at my sides. One breath, two. Don't soften. Don't slip. Don't let him in.
He doesn't deserve it.
His hand shoots out and wraps around my wrist just as I try to step past him. Warm. Firm. Desperate.
"Please," Zach says, his voice low, rough like gravel dragged across pavement. His eyes lock onto mine again, pleading so hard it almost hurts to look at him. "Let's just... talk. Five minutes. That's all I'm asking. Don't you think you owe me that?"
His Adam's apple bobs as he swallows, jaw clenching like he's afraid the words will get stuck.
"I've missed you, you know. God, I've... missed you so... much." The last part comes out broken, raw—like he didn't mean to let it slip but couldn't hold it back.
I swallow hard, my throat tightening around a lump I don't want there.
He's right—maybe he does deserve to know. Maybe I owe him that much after leaving without a word. And hell, maybe I deserve my answers too—for those words he said about me, the ones that still echo like broken record in my head.
My resolve starts to wobble. I almost—almost—let myself relent.
But then the bar door swings open behind him.
"Hey, honey," a silky voice purrs.
My body goes still.
Taylor Lewis.
Her manicured fingers, nails painted a glossy nude, snake over Zach's arm like she's staking a claim. Her other hand slides brazenly across his chest, fingers tracing his pecs like she knows them by heart. "What's taking you so long?"
Zach's whole body goes stiff, his grip on me falling away like he's been caught. "T...Taylor—uh—"
Her gaze drifts over him lazily before landing on me, and she smiles. Sweet. Sultry. Those lips—painted a sinful, perfect red—curl in a way that's equal parts warm and warning.
"Hi," she says, stretching out her hand like a queen granting an audience. "I'm Taylor Lewis. And you are?"
I stare at her hand, unmoving. Yeah, I know it's rude, but screw it. Her long nails glint under the streetlight, her arm locked possessively through Zach's like she's dangling a trophy for me to admire.
Her smile doesn't fool me. This isn't about being nice—it's about sending a message.
And God help me, up close she's even more stunning. Porcelain skin flawless as porcelain doll, hair cascading in perfect waves, a rack so big it's downright intimidating. Her waist is tiny, hips curving into jeans that hug her ass like a second skin. And those legs—endless, toned, sculpted.
Standing next to her, I feel... average. Forgettable. Replaceable.
The softness I felt a second ago—the part of me that almost gave Zach a chance—vanishes. Burned out in a single breath.
I turn on my heel, my pulse roaring in my ears.
"Caroline, wait. Let's talk—" Zach's voice cracks behind me, frantic, but I don't look back.
Thank God for timing. A black sedan rolls up to the curb, window sliding down. "Caroline?" the driver calls. "Uber?"
"Yes," I breathe, my voice tight. I nod quickly, yank open the back door, and slide inside before Zach can say another word.
The door slams shut, a barrier between me and him. Between me and them.
Finally, finally, I let out the breath I've been strangling down—shaky, heavy, the kind that leaves my chest aching.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
ZACH
I'm back at the Pond, sprawled on my king-size bed like a damn starfish. Perks of being alternate captain — I get one of the only private rooms in this palace.
Most nights, I don't take it for granted. Shut the door, block out the noise, don't have to hear the twins wrestling half-naked down the hall or rookies blasting shitty EDM. Privacy's a luxury here.
The Pond's not your average dorm.
Yeah, it's basically a frat house for hockey. Fourteen rooms, two floors. Seven up, seven down. Six busted-up shared bathrooms for the guys, but me and Elijah? We've got the only private suites with our own showers. King beds, desks, flat screens. Spoiled rotten.
The school doesn't even try to hide it. Ridgewater's donors dump money on us like we're their favorite kids, and the university spoils us worse than my grandma spoiled me with cookies when I was twelve. It's insane, but it makes sense.
Hockey and football win championships. Championships keep the rich alumni happy. Happy alumni cut big checks. And so the cycle continues.
Point is — this house is ridiculous. And usually? I love it. Having my own space. My own quiet. A place to shut the door when the team's too loud and my brain's already fried.
But tonight? Tonight the quiet sucks.
I can't get her out of my head.
Caroline.
One second I'm downing tequila, the next — she's just there. Sitting in one of the tables in La Playa like some fever dream I've been chasing for years.
You ever get hit so hard in the chest you forget how to breathe? Yeah. That was me. Heart doing overtime like it was trying out for cardio Olympics. Stomach somewhere on the floor.
I'd spent the last few years convincing myself she was gone for good. That hoping I'd see her again was just wasting brain cells. Every time a Taylor Swift song came on, I'd do that dumb thing — glance around, half-expecting her to magically appear. Always ended up disappointed.
So when her eyes actually met mine? Yeah, it scrambled my whole damn system.
She looked the same… and somehow not.
The second I saw her, it was like the floor tilted under me, gravity yanking me straight at her. Time didn't just slow down — it stalled, like the whole bar froze just to make room for her.
She looks so fucking beautiful. The kind of beautiful that caves my chest in on impact, knocks the wind out of me before I even know what hit. The air itself shifts—thicker, heavier—like the whole place bends around her. She's always had that effect on me.
Only now? It's worse. It's different. It's much stronger.
But then again… she's always been beautiful.
It's just that now there's this new glow to her — something in the way she stands, in the way she fills a room without even trying.
Like life carved a little more confidence into her, lit a little more fire behind her eyes… and it hits me straight in the chest.
Now I'm lying here in the dark, replaying it over and over like some sad highlight reel. Every detail — the way her hair fell, the way her pink, luscious lips moved... and the way my heart sank when her eyes finally hit mine.
Cold. Hard. Packed with nothing but animosity. One look and I knew — she wanted nothing to do with me.