CHAPTER NINETEEN #15
By the first chorus, I was a mess. Full-on crying, ugly sniffles, sleeve-and-steering-wheel multitasking. I must've looked insane to everyone driving past me, but whatever.
That song hit something—something stupid and buried and three years old—that I've spent way too long pretending doesn't matter anymore.
Because the whole song is basically one giant what-if.
What if you say nothing?
What if you never confront the truth?
What if you let something that once meant everything fade because you never asked the hard questions?
And as I'm sitting there, belting out lyrics like my life depends on it, it just...clicked.
I don't want to be seventy one day, lying in some fancy retirement home, wondering why I never asked him what happened.
Why I never let him explain.
Why I walked away without giving him a chance to speak—even if whatever came out of his mouth turned out to be absolute garbage.
I don't want to regret not knowing.
So somewhere between verse two and my third emotional breakdown, I made a decision—a stupid, brave, probably-ill-advised decision.
I'm done running.
If closure is the finish line, then hearing him out is the first step. Even if his explanation is nonsense. Even if it changes nothing. Even if it hurts.
I owe that to the girl I used to be.
The one who loved him like an idiot.
The one who stopped sleeping for a week after everything fell apart.
So yeah. Blame Sam.
Blame Taylor Swift.
Blame Track 6 for emotionally waterboarding me on I-75.
Which is how I ended up here—outside The Pond—heart pounding, eyes still a little puffy, pretending this is what mature adults do.
Standing in front of the hockey house, listening to the house practically shake from the noise inside, my hand hovering near the door like I might knock.
Or I might just run.
My heart's hammering so hard. My palm's clammy against the wood, but I finally force myself to knock. Once. Twice.
Nothing.
Of course nothing. With all that noise? I'd need a damn megaphone to be heard.
I knock again, harder this time, but it's pointless. The bass is rattling the windows, the kind of chest-thumping boom that makes conversation impossible unless you're yelling.
Then a group comes up the walkway—two guys in jerseys, a girl tottering in heels with a beer already in her hand. They don't even pause. One of them just yanks the door open without knocking first, like that's the most normal thing in the world, and the rest trail right in behind him.
I shuffle out of the way, cheeks burning, then slide in behind them, trying not to look like the awkward outsider who doesn't belong.
The foyer hits me like a wall of noise and beer fumes.
People are crammed shoulder to shoulder, cups sloshing, conversations overlapping in shouts.
A guy in a backwards cap is yelling over the music about who's "next for beer pong," while two girls squeal over a spilled drink like it's the funniest thing in the world.
I move slow, careful, threading my way through the chaos. Every step makes me hyper-aware—of how out of place I feel, of how long it's been since I set foot in a house party like this.
As I edge deeper inside, the space opens up into a massive living room. The middle's been cleared for a dance floor, bodies packed tight and grinding to the pounding beat.
In the corner, a group of guys lean over a pool table, sticks clacking as they shout bets across the room.
Everywhere I look, there's something—two people making out against the wall like they'll suffocate if they come up for air, a girl practically dry-humping one of the hockey players on the sofa while he just grins and lets her.
Wow. So classy.
The staircase is packed too, people stumbling up with bottles, others tumbling back down red-faced and laughing.
It's chaos. Pure, unfiltered, college-house-party chaos. And somehow I'm smack in the middle of it.
I crane my neck, scanning the crowd. Part of me's already regretting not texting Sam that I was coming.
Luckily, I don't have to look long.
She's exactly where I should've guessed: parked at the pool table, eyes glued to none other than team captain Elijah Deveraux.
He's bent low over the felt, pool cue in hand, his dark brows pinched in concentration.
The overhead light catches the sharp lines of his face as he squints down the stick, and with one smooth motion, he cracks the cue ball.
Two stripes and a solid sink like it's nothing, and the third drops right after.
Sam cheers for him, practically bouncing on her toes. At the same time, she cuts a death glare at the two girls leaning on the rail, very obviously ogling Elijah too.
It's ridiculous—Sam's barely five-foot-nothing, but she radiates pure menace when she wants to. The second she notices the girls ogling Elijah, her whole face shifts: eyes narrowing into sharp little slits, lips pressed so tight it's a miracle they don't disappear completely.
And those poor girls? They freeze like deer in headlights. One even fumbles her cup, nearly spilling beer down her shirt. The other tries to play it off with a laugh but ends up staring at the floor like Sam's glare might actually set her hair on fire.
It's absurd. Sam's tiny, but she's terrifying. Like some pint-sized mafia boss who could snap her fingers and make you vanish if you so much as breathe in Elijah's direction.
I shoot my hand up and wave. "Sam!"
Her head snaps up, and just like that, scary mafia boss Sam disappears. Sunshine explodes across her face.
"You came! You came! I knew it!" she shrieks, already sprinting at me.
Out of the corner of my eye, I catch Elijah looking over. He spots me, squints for half a second, then gives me this casual little nod when he recognizes me... and goes right back to playing pool with the other guys.
Then Sam slams into me. Literally. Arms locked around my waist, squealing in my ear. "Oh my God, you're here." Squeeze. Squeeze.
Girl is tiny but she hugs like a boa constrictor.
She pulls back just enough to grin at me, all smug. "Zach is gonna lose his mind when he sees you. He's gonna be so happy."
Cue my stomach doing the world's most unnecessary backflip.
"Where is he?" I ask, my voice already tight.
"Oh, uh... I think..." Sam's on her tiptoes, stretching her neck like a meerkat trying to spot him in the crowd. "He was just here a minute ago. Wait—hold up."
Right then, one of the Archer twins strolls past. Jackpot. Sam grabs his arm. "Hey, Archer!"
He turns, grinning, his cheeks flushed pink from way too much booze. "'Sup, little devil?" His voice drips amusement as his eyes flick to me. And then he gives me the kind of once-over that feels like he's stripping me bare with his eyes.
"Hey, gorgeous," he says, winking like it's his signature move.
I press my lips into a tight line and manage a strained, "Hi."
"Have you seen my brother?"
He crosses his arms, biceps practically flexing just from existing, lips curling into this cocky half-smirk. "Maybe. But I'll only tell you if you use my actual name. Can't just keep calling me 'Archer,' Sammy. Total disrespect."
Sam rolls her eyes so hard I'm surprised they don't fall out. She gives him a once-over, eyes narrowing at his very obvious guns on display.
"Fine. You're Luke."
He barks out a laugh and shakes his head. "Nah. Try again next time, little devil. I'm Liam."
Sam groans, tossing up her hands. "Whatever. Just tell me where Zach is." She jerks a thumb at me. "She needs to talk to him."
Liam's grin widens, wicked and knowing, and when his eyes flick back to me, it's obvious he thinks he's got the whole story figured out. That look makes my skin prickle.
"Pretty sure I saw him heading upstairs a few minutes ago with—"
"Great, thanks!" Sam cuts him off before he can finish, already latching onto my arm and dragging me toward the stairs like I might bolt if she doesn't.
By the time we hit the bottom of the stairs, Sam glances at me. "You want me to come with you?"
For half a second, I consider saying yes. I want to say yes. But then I shake my head, quick and firm. "No... no, I should do it alone. Just... get this over with."
I blow out a breath, cheeks puffing like that's gonna help calm the nerves rattling my insides.
Spoiler: it doesn't. My palms are already sweaty again. "Just—tell me where his room is."
Sam nods, pointing up. "Go upstairs, turn left, and it's all the way at the end of the hall. Can't miss it."
I heave a long sigh, then square my shoulders and start marching up the stairs like I'm going into battle. My legs feel heavy, but my brain? Oh no, my brain's doing cartwheels.
Why the hell am I acting like such a nervous freak? It's not like I'm about to confess undying love to the guy.
Right. Because that ship sailed. Years ago. Totally sunk. Titanic-style.
Damn it, calm down.
My heart's still beating like it's on a triple espresso. This is exactly why you should cut back on coffee. Or maybe switch to tea. Or decaf. Or therapy.
I grip the railing tighter, dragging in another breath, trying to keep it together. And before I know it, I'm there—standing right in front of Zach's door.
My hand hovers in the air, ready to finally knock after, oh, I don't know, the hundredth false start. Just do it, Caroline. It's a door. It won't bite.
And then—bam. The door swings open.
I jerk back, startled—and there he is.
Zach.
His eyes go wide, just as shocked to see me as I am to see him. One arm is frozen mid-motion, T-shirt bunched in his fist, like I've just interrupted him pulling it on.
His chest is bare, all golden skin and hard muscle on full display, and the pause only makes it worse—like the universe is giving me front-row seats to something I should not be looking at.
"Caroline..." Zach's voice rumbles out, low and startled.
My throat goes dry. Say something, idiot.
"Uh—hey... sorry, I ju—just came to...uh..."
The words fall apart, tripping over each other like drunks. I swallow hard, the lump in my throat almost painful.