CHAPTER NINETEEN #7
She peeks at me between her fingers, guilt plastered all over her face. "I wasn't supposed to—" She cuts herself off, groaning into her palms.
I throw my arms out. "Unbelievable. My best friend—Caroline—is back, in this school, under the same damn roof as my sister, and nobody thought to clue me in? What the hell, Sam?!"
She flops onto her back, kicking her legs like she can somehow wriggle out of this, muttering, "I'm so dead..."
I drag a hand down my face, still reeling, still trying to wrap my head around the fact that my sister's been living with Caroline and keeping it from me.
Roommates. Freaking roommates.
Sam keeps mumbling into her hands, "Oh my God... Care is gonna kill me. Idiot, idiot, idiot... I'm such an idiot."
I just stare at her, deadpan. Out of all the things she could be worried about right now, she's more freaked about slipping to Caroline than about keeping it from her own big brother.
"Unbelievable. You're more scared of her than me disowning you?"
"Well... duh. I made her a promise, Zach. Of course I didn't tell you. I like being on her good side. Unlike someone."
"So let me get this straight. My little sister—my own flesh and blood—chose loyalty to my best friend over me?"
Sam groans, flopping her arm over her eyes. "Caroline's scary when she's mad, okay? The last thing I want is to be the next person she ghosts. You? You'll get over it."
I throw my hands up. "Wow. Betrayal runs deep in this family."
Her lips twitch into a smirk. "Better than having her block my number."
I point at her, narrowing my eyes. "You little traitor."
She laughs, tossing a pillow at my head.
I clutch the pillow she just threw at me to my chest like I've been mortally wounded.
"You know what kills me? I've been such a good big brother. The best wingman. Who's the one slipping you Elijah updates? Who's the one telling you where he is, when he's free, sending you photos of him everyday?"
I jab a finger at my chest. "Me. Me. And this is the thanks I get? This is betrayal of the highest order, Sam."
Sam's doubled over laughing, barely managing a breathless, "I'm sorry, okay? I really am!"
"Right," I grumble, tossing the pillow back at her. "I'd believe that if I thought you actually meant it." My voice dips into a sulk as I slump back on the bed.
"Still can't believe you kept this from me... knowing how bad I wanted to talk to Caroline... find out why she ghosted me all these years."
"Sorry," she singsongs again, not even trying to hide the smirk on her face. Then she's climbing onto the bed, looping her arms around my neck from behind like a koala and hugging tight.
I shake my head, lips pressed into a line. "Next-level betrayal, Sam. And you know what? As punishment, I'm cutting you off. No more helping you get closer to Elijah. No more scouting reports, no more workout shots. Done."
That makes her gasp.
Truth is, I've been her dealer for years now. Other big brothers would tell their little sisters to stay the hell away from their best friend, shut down the crush, forbid it, whatever.
Me? Nah. I enable.
I've been snapping stealth pics of Elijah at practice, in the gym, even mid-drill when he's drenched and flexing. Feeding Sam's folder of thirst traps like the terrible sibling I am.
And yeah, Elijah acts like he hates it every time he catches me aiming my camera at him…
but sometimes — just sometimes — I swear he flexes harder. Or holds a pose a second longer.
Then again… I might be imagining it. Who knows.
Anyway, Sam's probably got more shirtless Elijah pics than half the puck bunnies on campus combined.
But that's our deal. We're partners in crime. I've never known how to tell her no, not when she's got me wrapped around her finger since day one.
Sam tightens her grip on me until it's not even a hug anymore, more like a chokehold. "You can't do that," she whines. "I'm really sorry, Zachyyy."
"Nope. Not forgiven."
"But I know how I can make it up to you, though..."
I side-eye her. "How?"
"Promise me first that you won't stop being my wingman. Because I know—I can feel it—Elijah's this close to falling in love with me. He just needs a little more push..."
Doubt it, I want to say.
Elijah isn't close to falling for her—not even a little. The guy's probably closer to detonating. His patience is hanging by a thread, thanks to Sam trailing him everywhere and cockblocking him at every turn. Practice? She's there. The bar? She's there. Locker room exit? Somehow—she's there.
Hell, I'm pretty sure if he tried to sneak a girl into his car, Sam would pop out of the backseat like the damn boogeyman. No wonder the poor bastard hasn't laid in over a month.
"Fine," I grumble. "I promise. Happy now? So... what's your plan?"
I cock my head, narrowing my eyes at her sideways. She's grinning, all mischievous and smug, and I know that look way too well. She's up to no good. Again.
Only this time... I get the feeling I might actually like whatever trouble she's about to stir up.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CAROLINE
Adam and I cross the quad toward my dorm. He's trailing half a step behind me, backpack slung over one shoulder like he's in no rush, while I'm speed-walking like there's a medal waiting for me at the finish line.
"Are you sure you don't want me to grab you dinner?" Adam asks.
"I told you, you don't need to walk me inside," I say, rifling through my bag like it just swallowed my entire life. "...and I'm not really hungry right now. So, I'm good."
"Care," he drawls, ignoring me completely, "you haven't eaten since lunch. At least let me run through a drive-thru or grab you a sandwich. Something."
"I'm fine," I mutter, still elbow-deep in my bag. Where the hell is my key? Gum wrappers, pens, a notebook... nope. Not the key. My pulse spikes, and I grit out, "Damn it, where is it?"
Adam lifts both brows, amused but also a little worried. "That sounds like someone who could use a cheeseburger."
I shoot him a quick smile, though it's tight. "Seriously, I'm good. Not hungry yet."
The truth? I couldn't sit still for food even if I wanted to. Not after Sam's text.
We'd been holed up in the rehearsal studio way past schedule, both of us laser-focused on nailing our lines for tomorrow's winter showcase audition. Supposed to stop at seven, but we pushed until nine because neither of us could leave without perfecting every beat.
That's the thing about Adam—we share the same curse. Passionate. Obsessive. Perfectionists when it comes to performance. It's like a switch we can't turn off.
And then my phone buzzed. A single text from Sam.
9-1-1.
My stomach dropped.
That code? We made it up as kids. We never use it unless it's serious—like, deathly-sick-in-bed serious or I-need-a-shoulder-or-I'll-crumble serious. No jokes. No exaggerations. Always urgent. Always real.
Which is why I bolted the second I read Sam's message, why Adam's still hovering with concern, and why I'm practically tearing through my bag outside my dorm room like a lunatic, praying I find the damn key so I can get inside and check on Sam.
A shaky breath of relief escapes me when my fingers finally brush the cool metal. "Got you," I mutter, yanking the key free and shoving it into the lock like it might vanish if I hesitate. The door clicks, swings open, and I push through in a rush.
I glance back at Adam lingering in the hallway.
My lips curve into a tired but grateful smile as I lift my hand in a small wave. "Thanks. For driving me back. For... walking me in. I'll see you tomorrow at the audition." My voice dips softer at the end, and my eyes hold his just long enough for him to see I mean it.
He nods, lingering a beat longer before heading down the corridor. I slip inside and close the door firmly behind me, the latch catching with a soft snap that seals me in.
My bag slides off my shoulder and lands heavy on the wall rack with a thud. The room is dim, shadows clinging to the corners, only the faint glow of the streetlamp outside filtering through the blinds.
"Sam?" My voice comes out hushed, careful, almost coaxing as I step down the short hallway toward our beds. "I'm back..."
Silence.
My throat tightens. Guilt pricks hot and sharp in my chest. She texted hours ago—three whole hours—and I'd been too wrapped up in lines and to notice.
What if she really needed me then? What if this is worse than I thought?
That code—9-1-1—is sacred. We never used it unless it was serious. Desperate.
I pad forward slowly, my steps soft, toes instinctively rolling heel-to-ball to keep the floorboards from creaking.
If she's sleeping, I don't want to wake her.
"Are you sleeping?" I whisper, leaning my head toward her side of the room.
Her bed is tucked in the right-hand corner. Mine's on the left. I cock my head, straining to see through the dim. "Sa—"
The word dies in my throat.
My eyes fly wide, a sharp jolt firing through me, like my heart skipped then slammed back into place too hard. Because someone is sitting there. Not Sam.
Him.
Even in the dim, I know. My body knows before my brain catches up. There's only one person who can make my pulse stumble like this.
A flick of movement, then the switch clicks, flooding the room in light.
And there he is. Zach.
Sitting back on Sam's bed like he owns the air in the room, elbows resting on his knees, big hands clasped loosely. His posture is lazy, casual, but the grin stretched across his mouth is sharp enough to slice through the oxygen. That grin I used to know too well.
His eyes catch mine, bright and unflinching. Like he's been waiting for me to walk through that door.
"Hey, Sugarplum."
The way he says it—it's maddening. Like he's been calling me that every single day for the last three years instead of zero. The nickname rolls off his tongue with so much ease, so much familiarity, that it practically sneaks under my skin. Warm. Dangerous. Like it never left.
My heart skips, traitor that it is.