CHAPTER TWENTY-seven #11
Pathetic, I know. Like muscle memory, like high school Caroline all over again, grinning just from the chance to catch a glimpse.
But the smile dies fast.
Because there he is—tall frame angled toward a car that's definitely his—and right in front of him stands Taylor Lewis.
His hands are cupping her perfect, porcelain face, his thumbs brushing gently along her jaw.
Their bodies are close, closer than they should be, like the rest of the world doesn't even exist. He dips his head toward hers, their foreheads almost touching, like one small movement would seal it with a kiss.
Taylor's nodding at whatever he's murmuring, tears sliding down her perfect cheeks, and the sight twists in my chest so hard it's hard to breathe.
Zach swore there was nothing going on between them. He swore it was all an act, just a front for everyone else.
But from where I'm standing now?
It looks like the biggest lie I've ever been fed.
I bite down on my lip, hard, trying to stop the sound that claws at my throat when Taylor suddenly steps into him, wrapping her arms tight around his waist.
And Zach—God—he doesn't just stand there.
He hugs her back, chin tipping into her hair, his hand sliding up to the back of her head, fingers stroking slow and gentle, like he's trying to soothe her.
My chest stings, sharp and familiar, the kind of ache I thought I'd already burned out of myself.
This isn't for show. No way. Right?
No one holds someone like that if it's fake.
No one looks that close, that intimate, unless there's something real there.
From behind me, a voice cuts through the lump forming in my throat.
"Wow. Looks like Zach and Taylor are really a thing now."
Another girl chimes in, her tone edged with envy. "Yeah, I mean—look at them. I think they're more than fuck buddies now. Maybe they're dating already."
"I've been saying it for weeks," a third pipes up.
"I mean, come on—look at them. They're stupidly gorgeous together. Face card on face card. It just makes sense."
"Yeah. Like, it almost feels unfair? As if the universe handpicked them to match."
Another laughs. "Taylor taming Zach Westbrook. Who would've thought?"
"Please," someone else cuts in with a snort. "Taylor could tame literally any guy she wanted. With that face? That body? You'd have to be blind not to fall for her."
"Facts. If I were a guy, I'd be down on my knees too."
A ripple of laughter follows, and another voice adds, "Honestly, I'm shocked it didn't happen sooner. If anyone was gonna lock him down, it'd be her."
"Honestly? She's the only girl who even comes close to his league. The looks, the vibe, all of it—they just fit. Total perfect match."
My throat burns as I swallow, eyes locked on Zach's arms still wrapped around Taylor.
Of course. Should've known better.
Actually believing him when he swore there was nothing going on.
Maybe I made a mistake.
Maybe giving him another chance was just me signing myself up for round two of disappointment.
Because right now? This feels like déjà vu—like I've walked straight back into the same fire I once swore I'd never touch again.
*****
ZACH
"It's okay, T," I murmur, my voice low as I rub steady circles across her trembling back.
Her whole body's shaking in my arms, shoulders jerking with sobs she can't hold in. I tighten my hold, pulling her closer, trying to shield her from everything outside this moment.
"I've got you. We'll go to campus safety, file the report, push for a restraining order."
She only shakes harder, clutching the front of my hoodie like it's the only thing keeping her upright.
An hour ago, she showed up at the rink—disheveled, pale, her whole body rattling with fear. One look at her and I already knew. My chest had dropped straight to the floor.
I didn't even have to explain to Coach Hopper why I needed to leave practice. He and the guys saw the way she staggered in. No one asked questions when I led her straight into the locker room, away from the stares.
That's when she told me.
Taylor had been in the darkroom, developing film from her trip to the Everglades. Photography's her thing—wildlife, mountains, rivers, even a patch of sunlight on the grass. Stuff most people scroll past without a thought, she'll hike three miles just to catch it on film.
Everyone else her age is all about digital, but not Taylor.
She loves the old-school process—the hum of the enlarger, the smell of the chemicals, the patience it takes. Says there's something sacred about watching an image slowly appear on paper, like magic you made with your own hands.
I don't really get it the way she does—never will, probably. But then again, I don't have that kind of passion for photography. Not like she does.
Most days, she practically lives in the darkroom tucked away in the Fine Arts department building. It's like her second home. She's in there developing roll after roll—dozens of shots, sometimes hundreds—chasing that one perfect frame like it's oxygen.
But anyway, Taylor said that when she walked out of the darkroom, he was there. Her ex-boyfriend, Kirk. Waiting for her.
Her voice cracked when she said his name, and I swear my blood ran ice cold.
He didn't just corner her. He lunged at her.
Grabbed her by the arm, tried dragging her toward an empty classroom. She fought, but he's twice her size. He wrapped an arm around her throat so tight she couldn't breathe, slapped a hand over her mouth when she tried to scream.
He threatened her and thought she was done for.
The only reason she got away was because a group of students passed down the hall, their voices carrying close enough to spook him.
In that split second, she slammed her elbow into his ribs, and she bolted when his grip loosened—ran faster than she ever had in her life. Straight to me.
My jaw clenches so hard it hurts just remembering her voice breaking as she told me.
And when I caught sight of the red marks around her neck—his fingerprints burned into her skin—something inside me snapped. My fists are itching, blood pounding in my ears.
If I'd had him in front of me then, I swear I would've put him through a wall.
But right now, she doesn't need my rage. She needs me calm and steady.
Her body jerks against mine, and she leans back just enough for me to see her face. Tears streak down her cheeks, her eyes red and swollen, shame carved deep into every line of her expression.
"Zach..." Her voice cracks, barely above a whisper. "You know what happened last time. They didn't believe me. They never do. What if they throw it out again? What if they laugh in my face?" She bites down on her lip hard, shaking her head as fresh tears spill.
"Nobody believes a girl like me. To them, I'm just... a slut crying wolf."
The words hang there, thick with pain and humiliation.
Her voice is shaking, but it's her eyes that pains me. The look of someone who's been screaming for help and keeps getting brushed off, written off, and judged just because she has a reputation.
Taylor's got a reputation — everyone knows it. She sleeps around, she doesn't hide it, and for some reason that's treated like a damn scarlet letter.
God forbid a woman actually enjoys sex, enjoys meeting her own needs, has a higher libido than most — suddenly that's the worst thing in the world.
Suddenly it's all she is.
That's the box they shove her in: Taylor the slut. Taylor the easy one. Taylor the girl who'll say yes to anyone who asks.
And because of that, people think the absolute worst of her by default. Every time a guy glances her way, they assume she wants it. That she's eating up the attention. That she must be leading him on somehow.
And if she pushes back? If she dares to say no? They flip it on her. She's dramatic. She's a tease. She's crying wolf.
And just because she dresses a certain way — short skirts, tight tops, heels that click down the hallway — that's enough for them to paint her guilty.
She could walk across campus in a goddamn parka and they'd still say she was "asking for it."
Because to them, what she wears isn't clothing. It's "proof."
Proof that she wants every stare. Proof that she must want every grope, every asshole who thinks he's entitled to a piece of her. Proof that if something happens to her — if some prick crosses a line — she was practically begging for it.
And that's the bullshit that makes my blood boil.
And when she finally tries to speak up — tries to report Kirk for stalking her, for being violent — they shrug her off, tell her she doesn't have enough evidence. Even when she showed them his threatening texts, they said it wasn't enough to warrant a restraining order. Absolute bullshit.
Because how the hell are women supposed to feel safe when the system won't even take them seriously?
I brush away the wet tracks on her cheeks with my thumb and tighten my hold on her.
"This time's different," I murmur. "He came at you right outside the darkroom. Security cameras had to have caught it. The odds are in your favor this time."
And that's the thing — Kirk's always been careful before. Every time he's tried to corner her, he's made sure it was in blind spots, places with no cameras. That's why her complaints never stuck. But this time? He made a mistake.
My eyes flick up, just for a second, and that's when my body goes still.
Caroline.
She's standing across the lot, keys in hand, her face a perfect mask of nothing. Blank. But her eyes—God, her eyes are locked right on me.
And in an instant, all that boiling rage I had for Kirk? Gone.
It's like someone pulled the plug and drained me hollow. Because I know that look. I don't even need her to say anything—I can tell exactly what's running through her head.
Her gaze shifts, just once, flicking from Taylor curled into me back to my face.
And yeah, it doesn't take a genius to connect those dots. Not when I've already fucked up so many times before. Not when I've given her every reason to think the worst.
My stomach drops, cold and sharp. Shit.