CHAPTER NINETEEN #8
So, I cross my arms tight over my chest, the makeshift shield I desperately need. Barrier up. Because Zach Westbrook is sitting there in my dorm room, flashing that boyish grin I know too damn well—the one he only ever pulled out when he'd screwed up and needed forgiveness.
God, how many times had that grin talked me down from being pissed? Too many.
Not tonight.
I smooth my face before he can see the ripple he caused and force the ice into my tone. "What are you doing in my dorm, Zach? And how the hell did you even know this was my room?"
His brows shoot up, mouth quirking like he can't believe I just asked that. His expression says it all: really, Caroline? Seriously? Like the answer should be stamped across my forehead.
I huff, dragging in an infuriated breath and flinging my arms out in the air. "Of course..." I mutter, rolling my eyes. "That little minx really can't keep a secret."
"To be fair, she did keep it. For over a month." His eyes dance with mischief as he chuckles low in his chest. "For Sam's character, that's practically a world record. Normally she cracks in, what? A day?"
My lips twitch—damn it.
He's right, and the laugh bubbles dangerously close to the surface. I bite the inside of my cheek, jaw clamping tight, refusing to let it out. Not giving him that satisfaction.
Not this time.
"Where is Sam, anyway?" My arms stay crossed, but my voice comes out sharp as a blade. "She sent me a 9-1-1 me—wait a minute." My eyes narrow, suspicion clicking into place.
I glare at him, heat rising in my chest. "Don't tell me she—oh my God. She did. Didn't she?"
Fury propels me across the room. I march back to the wall rack, yank my bag down, and dig for my phone like I'm ready to strangle someone through the screen. My fingers fly over the screen, stabbing the letters hard enough to put a dent in the glass.
I open Sam's messages, her name glowing at the top, and start typing like my thumbs have a personal vendetta.
Unbelievable. Absolutely unbelievable. I should've known. The little traitor.
I actually dropped everything—cut rehearsal short with Adam, ran lines at lightning speed, sprinted back here in full panic—because I thought she was bedridden, dying, or bawling her eyes out.
"Oh, I'm going to kill her," I mutter, thumbs still attacking the keyboard. "I'm going to tie her up with her own glittery scarves and drop her in the fountain in front of the Student Union."
"She used our sacred 9-1-1 code for this! For you. She knows it's only supposed to be used when it's life-or-death emergencies!"
One of his brows ticks up, and of course he knows—he was there when we came up with it. He knows how serious that code always was.
Before I can send the strongly worded essay I've been pounding out, Zach stands in one fluid motion and plucks the phone right out of my hands.
"Hey! What the hell do you think you're doing? Give me my phone back, jerk!"
I lunge for it, but he just laughs, arm shooting up high over his head where I can't reach.
"Zach!"
I hop, stretching on tiptoe, swatting at his arm. He only grins wider, holding the phone higher, like he's savoring every second of my flailing.
"Yeah, well... it kinda is life-or-death for Sam," Zach says. "Especially when Elijah's involved."
"What?"
That grin spreads wider, infuriatingly boyish, like he knows exactly how much it'll set me off. "I may or may not have used my best friend Elijah as leverage to make my sister help me find a way to talk to you."
I huff so hard it's a wonder steam doesn't shoot out of my ears. My pulse spikes, my whole chest buzzing like a kettle about to boil over.
"Seriously?!" The pitch of my voice cracks upward, sharp and jagged. My glare could melt steel, and he just stands there grinning like a guilty golden retriever.
The nerve. The audacity. My hands itch with the urge to strangle him—or at least smack that grin right off his face.
"And why would you even do that? This is unbelievable. You are unbelievable!"
I launch right back into trying to snatch my phone, swatting at his outstretched arm. He only tilts it higher, forcing me onto tiptoe. My breath comes hot, fast, furious, every failed grab only fueling my rage.
Underneath the rage—underneath the smoke I'm ready to breathe fire with—I was genuinely scared. That stupid 9-1-1 text twisted my stomach into knots the second I saw it.
Growing up, Sam was the kid who always seemed one bad sneeze away from another hospital stay. The one who'd catch every stomach bug in the book, throwing up until she was pale and shaky. The one who bruised too easily, got winded too fast, ran fevers out of nowhere.
I lost count of how many times she'd been rushed in and out of doctors' offices, how many nights I sat by her bed praying she'd bounce back like she always somehow did.
That's why we came up with the code—9-1-1. Sacred. Serious. Only for the moments when she was really sick, or really breaking. The kind of moments where she needed someone right now. No questions asked. The code they never, ever threw around lightly.
So yeah, when I saw that message tonight, my brain went straight to the worst. I pictured her lying in a ditch, or crying in pain somewhere, or fighting through another episode all alone while I wasted time rehearsing lines. The guilt chewed at me the whole way back.
And now to find out it was just... this? I feel like ripping my hair out.
"Why would I do that? Let me think..." He lets out a humorless laugh. His jaw tightens, shoulders stiffening.
His voice drops, low and raw, threaded with an edge of frustration. "My best friend—the one person I trusted most—suddenly ghosted me. For. Three. Fucking. Years. No warning. No explanation. Nothing. You just... cut me off."
His throat bobs as his gaze holds mine, unblinking. "And then, when I finally see you again—right there at the bar, like some kind of answered prayer—you act like I don't exist. Like I'm a stranger. Instead of talking to me, instead of figuring out what the hell happened three years ago, you ran."
The words scrape out of him, rough and unsteady, like they've been lodged in his chest, festering. "Do you even know what that felt like? To go three years with nothing but questions and then... get that?"
He drags a hand through his hair, exhaling hard.
"And then I find out you've been rooming with my sister this whole time—since classes started—without me even knowing?"
His throat works again, eyes flashing as he drags in a breath. "So yeah. I blackmailed my own sister. I know it's screwed up, but forgive me—I'm desperate. Because three years of silence, Caroline? It's been driving me insane. I want answers. I need answers."
And just like that, my own chest constricts.
The way he's looking at me—serious, frustrated, longing, like I'm the missing piece he's been clawing for—it tangles me up in knots I don't want to feel. Emotions slam into me all at once, suffocating.
Why does he get to act like I'm the villain here?
Like I owe him something? He's the one who broke my heart. He's the one who made me leave.
My eyes sting, like they're seconds from spilling over, and it's not just him. It's everything.
The anger clawing at me because of him. The worry gnawing at me ever since Sam dropped that 9-1-1. Because my worry had been real. My fear had been real. I thought she was sick or hurting and all alone.
And now this—this stupid confrontation I never wanted, shoved in my face whether I'm ready or not. It all crashes together inside me until I can't separate one feeling from the next.
And because the universe hates me, my body does what it always does when I'm this overwhelmed, this furious—I cry.
Or at least, I almost do. My throat locks up, my eyes blur, my chest feels like it's caving in.
And God, that just makes me angrier. Because the last thing I want right now is for Zach freaking Westbrook to see me cry.
He doesn't get to do this to me. He doesn't.
His face changes the second he sees it —that gloss building in my eyes I can't blink away. The hard lines ease. His brows twitch, then pull together just slightly, like the sight of me blinking back tears cuts deeper than he's ready for.
His eyes—silver and searching—wobble in the quietest way, like they're caught between panic and something unbearably soft.
Before I can look away, his hand comes up. Slow. Almost hesitant, but not enough to stop him. His palm fits against my cheek, thumb brushing the corner of my eye with maddening gentleness—catching a tear before it can even fall.
"Hey..." His voice dips, low and coaxing, threaded with a kind of affection that knocks the air out of my lungs. "Why are you crying?"
The world shrinks to that single touch. His skin on mine. His breath close enough I can almost feel it.
My heart thrashes like it's trying to escape, like it wants to leap straight into his hand and give itself up.
And my stupid body—traitor that it is—leans the tiniest fraction into him. Like it remembers what it feels like to belong there. Like it doesn't care that he's the reason I built walls in the first place.
It's too much. His eyes hold mine, unblinking, pulling me under. Every second stretches until it's unbearable, until I swear if he doesn't look away, I'll combust right here in front of him.
And right then—like a bucket of ice water—my inner sass monster shrieks in my head.
Move, idiot. Unless you want to melt into a pathetic puddle at the feet of the guy who broke your heart. Snap the hell out of it.
And just like that, it's as if a switch flicks. The trance of his stupid, beautiful eyes shatters.
I jerk my head away, breaking his touch like it burns, and take a quick step back. My hand shoots up, snatching my phone from his grip with more force than necessary. I don't even look at him as I turn, spine stiff, every ounce of me screaming for distance.