CHAPTER TWENTY-seven #12
If I don't fix this—if I don't explain right now—I'm back at square one. Hell, probably worse than square one.
On reflex, I loosen my hold on Taylor, pulling back a little, but it's too late. Caroline's already walking toward her car, her strides quick and clipped.
Fuck.
My feet itch to follow her, to chase after her, to stop her before she drives off thinking... whatever she's thinking.
I should go to her.
I need to go to her.
But then Taylor shifts against me, still shaking, still wrecked. She needs me too. And I can't just leave her like this.
I bite down hard on my bottom lip, jaw tight enough to crack. I'm split clean in two—heart yanking me after Caroline, the other is locked here, knowing I can't just left Taylor in this state.
Next thing I know, she's already driving away... away from me.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
"Go, Zach."
I snap my head back to Taylor. She's still pale, eyes red and wet, but somehow she's smiling like she's reading my mind. Like she knows exactly where my head is.
"Go and follow her,"
"But... I told you I'd go with you to Campus Safety—"
She shakes her head, sniffling. "We can still do that later. After you talk to her. After you reassure her there's nothing going on between us." She lets out a shaky laugh, swiping at her cheeks.
"Trust me, if you wait too long, you're screwed. You know how girls are—we overthink a lot and I'm sure she's already spinning some worse scenario in her head. By tonight, you'll be starring as the asshole who ditched her for me. And once that story sticks? Good luck digging yourself out."
Despite myself, I huff out a reluctant smile.
She's not wrong. Still, the idea of just leaving her like this twists in my gut.
She looks so wrecked, so damn small right now. The last thing I want is for her to be alone if Kirk tries something again.
That's when I spot him — Kentaro trudging out of the rink, duffel slung over one shoulder, leg pads dangling from his hand like they weigh a hundred pounds each.
I glance at Taylor again, then call out, "Kent!" and wave him over.
Kentaro slows, brows knitting together. He stops in front of me, confused.
"Can you take Taylor back to the Pond with you? You're heading home, right?"
His brows pull even tighter, irritation written all over his face. "What? I mean, yeah, I'm heading home, but..." His eyes flick to Taylor, and he gives her a flat, annoyed once-over. "Why don't you take her instead?"
"I need to go somewhere." My hand lands on his shoulder, grip tight, pleading. "Please, man. Just... make sure she gets there and doesn't leave until I'm back."
Kentaro's face turns sour like I just asked him to babysit a rabid raccoon. His jaw ticks, his nostrils flare, and he lets out the slowest, longest sigh like this is the worst inconvenience he's ever endured.
I swear, if looks could kill, I'd be six feet under for even suggesting he spend more than thirty seconds in Taylor's presence.
"Come on, man," I press, desperation leaking into my voice. "Do me a solid here."
He grumbles something under his breath that sounds suspiciously like "kill me now," but finally mutters, "Fine."
"Thank you." Relief floods me as I clap him on the shoulder again. I turn back to Taylor. "You're safe with Kent. Just stay at the Pond and wait for me, okay? As soon as I'm back, we'll go to Campus Safety together."
"Okay."
That's all I need. Without another word, I'm in my car, engine roaring as I peel out of the lot. My pulse hammers with every turn, every red light I blow past, every second wasted.
I head straight for Caroline's dorm, praying she's there.
CHAPTER TWENTY-five
ZACH
Itry calling Caroline on the drive over, knuckles white on the wheel, but it goes straight to voicemail. Figures. We're not exactly on the calling-each-other level yet—and at this rate, I'll never make it there if I don't clear the Taylor mess up fast.
Now I'm outside her dorm, pulse drumming in my ears as I knock again, harder this time. Still no answer.
Just as I'm about to knock a third time, the door finally swings open.
And there she is.
Caroline.
Her face is a study in chill contempt — the look that says she'd rather eat glass than give me five minutes. Not quite slamming-the-door-in-my-face vibes, but dangerously close.
Then my gaze slides lower—just for a second, I swear.
Black sports bra. High-waist leggings hugging her legs like a damn second skin. White sneakers, crisp and clean. Hair pulled back in two neat braids that frame her face perfectly.
And... holy sweet Jesus.
My eyes dip—traitors.
Sports bra. Cleavage. Front row seat.
Abort! Abort!
Stop staring, Westbrook. For the love of God, head up. Eyes up.
My throat works overtime as I drag my gaze back up, but I couldn't tell you how long I'd been stuck there because her sharp throat-clear snaps me out of it.
Shit.
I jerk my head up like I've just been busted. "Huh? Did you say something?"
She gapes at me like I've lost my damn mind. "I said, what do you want?"
"Oh. Right." A sheepish laugh tumbles out, and I rub the back of my neck, feeling like the world's biggest idiot. "Uh... are you heading to the gym?"
She gives me a look that could peel paint. You know, the isn't it obvious, dumbass? look.
"I'm busy, Zach," she says, folding her arms. "What do you need?"
"Well, I came because I know you saw me earlier with Taylor—"
Her face shifts instantly, a flicker of irritation sparking like gasoline to flame. Fuck.
"I was worried you might've misunderstood the situation earlier. I know we were—"
"What's there to misunderstand?"
I glance left, then right. A couple girls pass by in the hallway, throwing not-so-subtle glances our way. Great. Just what I need—a public audience.
"Uh... can I come in? Please?" I ask. Fully bracing for her to slam the door shut.
Instead—miracle of miracles—she steps back, brows tight, but gestures me in. Like I've already burned through my last chance, but she's letting me hang myself anyway.
I step inside, scanning the room like it's my first time here.
And then I spot it.
The smart speaker on the desk. Screen glowing.
Current playlist: DIE, CHAD, DIE. On pause.
I fight back a grin, but nope—too late. My lips twitch, and it's a losing battle. Because I know this playlist. Oh, I know this one.
Every bitter, vengeful Taylor Swift anthem ever written, stitched together into one raging playlist of heartbreak and fury.
Yeah. I've heard it before. More than once.
Which means Caroline's mood right now? Not great. Not hopeful. Not even neutral.
We're talking DEFCON 1. Red alert. Pray-for-your-life territory.
I drag a hand over my mouth, trying to smother a giggle. A freaking giggle. What am I, a middle-schooler at a boy-band concert?
Apparently, yeah. Because she's glaring at me and all I can think is how stupidly gorgeous she is even when she's mad. Even furious, she's radiant. A thunderstorm in yoga leggings.
I blow out a breath. Great. Another full-blown episode of Sir Simps-A-Lot over here.
God, I'm hopeless.
I clear my throat, trying to fight back the grin still tugging at my mouth. "So, uh... I see we're in the 'Die, Chad, Die' phase of the afternoon. Poor Chad."
"Bold of you to assume you're not Chad."
Oof. Right in the jugular.
I lift my hands in surrender, trying to look harmless. "Okay, fair. But for the record, I'd like to officially request removal from the Chad category."
Her arms fold tighter across her chest, braids swishing as she tilts her head. "Request denied."
Double oof.
"Harsh." I clutch at my chest like she's just shot me, letting the grin slip anyway.
Her glare sharpens, but I catch the faintest twitch at the corner of her mouth before she smothers it.
"Look," I say, stepping closer before she decides to actually throw me out. "What you saw earlier with Taylor... it's not what you think."
"Oh, isn't that a little cliché? 'It's not what you think,'" she says, doing air quotes with both hands.
"But I don't really care, Zach. Whatever you do in your life, whoever you do it with — it's none of my business. We're not... a thing."
I wince.
"But I want us to be a thing," I murmur, voice half-smile, half-plea.
She just rolls her eyes. Of course she does.
Caroline's jaw set, all business. She's playing it cool, stone-faced, the exact picture of nonchalant.
I let out a long breath, scrubbing a hand over my jaw. "Look, I get it. What you saw earlier—it probably looked like me and Taylor are... whatever. Together. But we're not. There's nothing going on between us. I already told you that before."
"Oh, sure. 'Nothing going on.'" She throws up mocking air quotes again, her voice dripping with sarcasm. "That's funny, because it didn't look like nothing. You two were pretty cozy. People out there were already saying you look like a real couple—that you're getting serious."
Her mouth twists, bitter. "Apparently, you two are the perfect match. You sure looked like it."
"Who? What 'everyone'?"
She shrugs, "The same people who saw exactly what I saw—your arms around her, her face in your chest. You can't stand there and tell me I imagined that."
"Caro—"
"No." She cuts me off sharp, her voice tight. "You said there was nothing between you two. But from where I was standing? It looked like the exact opposite. And you know what? I don't even care if you're with her. That's not what pisses me off. What pisses me off is you lying straight to my face."
She shakes her head, grabbing her bag. "Seriously, Zach. Whatever game you're playing? Leave me out of it."
She turns for the door, and panic spikes through me. Instinct takes over—I catch her wrist and spin her back around.
"I didn't lie." My voice comes out harsher than I meant. "I swear I didn't."
She's still staring daggers at me, but I don't flinch. "What you saw earlier was me comforting a friend. I told you—the only reason Taylor even agreed to have this fake thing is to keep her ex off her back."