Chapter 31
Chapter
Thirty-One
FRANKIE
M onday hit like a poorly timed pop quiz—unexpected, irritating, and laced with passive-aggressive energy.
People weren’t staring the same way they were at the party, but they were still watching.
Just quieter now. Slanted glances over locker doors.
A beat too long at the water fountain. And the whispers had evolved into speculation— what happened, who was involved, was it really her and Mathieu, did Jake punch someone, did Archie host a secret trial in his dad’s whiskey lounge?
That last one might’ve been true. But none of it mattered as much as it did Saturday. I’d already lived through the explosion. The aftershocks? I could handle them.
Especially with Rachel at my side.
“People keep staring,” I muttered as we made our way to third period.
Rachel didn’t even blink. “Let them. They’re just upset you had better drama than Netflix this weekend.”
“Pretty sure I was Netflix this weekend.”
She smirked. “Then start charging subscription fees.”
I rolled my eyes but didn’t argue. Mostly because a small part of me liked that she kept walking a step ahead—shoulders back, hair perfect, her aura set to do not cross unless you want your feelings rearranged.
Backup. That’s what she was. Not just snark and fashion. Real backup.
And today? I needed it.
Because somewhere between first bell and lunch, the roses showed up again.
Instead of being on my car, though, they were tucked into the grate of my locker. Same corner. Same folded white card with no name, just the same slanted writing and another simple sentence:
"Still rooting for you."
I stared at it longer than I meant to. For once, I was glad Coop got stuck talking to Mrs. Fajardo. Normally I would have waited, but I needed the break. Even for a couple of minutes, a breather.
Rachel popped up to lean over my shoulder. “Alright, at this point, it’s either a secret admirer or a very emotionally intelligent ghost.”
“Could be both,” I said, taking the card and sliding the rose into my bag. “Friendly poltergeist who follows teen melodrama.”
She narrowed her eyes. “Could also be Archie.”
“Too obvious,” I said automatically.
She raised a brow. “So, not obvious enough to not consider it?”
I ignored her.
I didn’t want to think about Archie right now. Not after the way he’d gone full Gatsby at his own party just to reset the narrative. Not after the way he handed me that drink in the study like it was an offering.
Not after the look on his face when I didn’t drink it.
Instead, I focused on the familiar warmth settling at my side—Mathieu, appearing like he always did, hands in his pockets, that soft, slightly crooked smile on his face like I was still a good thing in a very messy world.
“Hey,” he said, easily. He’d gotten a different ride into school this morning, because he had to be in earlier. I hadn’t told Coop that at the time, but he had asked about getting Mathieu coffee and that was big.
“Hey,” I said, trying not to smile too wide.
Rachel took that as her cue to wander toward the caf. Subtle like a wrecking ball.
Mathieu leaned in just slightly. “Can I walk you to lunch?”
“Sure,” I said, bumping my shoulder lightly against his. “Unless it means wading through more people asking who you are and why we made eye contact.”
“I don’t mind the attention,” he said. “As long as I’m standing next to you.”
Okay. That wasn’t fair. That should not have made my pulse skip like that. We walked down the hall, not quite holding hands, not quite not , and the looks didn’t matter so much anymore.
Until Archie appeared around the corner near the trophy case, flanked by Bubba.
Of course.
They both looked like they were trying very hard to be casual. Bubba had a protein bar. Archie had a coke.
“Frankie,” Archie said, slowing. “Got a minute?”
Mathieu glanced at me like you good?
I gave him a tiny nod, then turned to face the boys.
“What’s up?”
Archie shoved his hands in his pockets, eyes unusually soft. “Wanted to say I’m sorry. For the way things went down. For not stopping Jake sooner. For getting involved with the interrogation.”
Bubba added, “And for not telling him to shut up about it before he said anything. I was there. I could’ve… I should’ve said something.”
I looked between the two of them. Bubba, sincere and solid. Archie, unreadable but trying—really trying —to let the wall down for once.
“Thanks,” I said finally. “For saying that.”
Neither of them pushed it. No guilt-trip. No expectation of forgiveness. They just nodded and stepped aside as I kept walking.
But even then… I saw Jake, further down the hall.
Alone. Sitting on the bench near the counselor’s office, pretending to scroll his phone, looking like someone had kicked him in the chest and he still hadn’t recovered.
He didn’t look up.
Didn’t say a word.
And maybe that was the most honest thing he’d done all week.
If Monday had been about testing the waters, Tuesday felt like wading directly into the current. Stronger. Colder. But not impossible.
Especially not with Coop waiting at my car just like the day before. It was normal . But it still didn’t feel normal. The look he gave me said “I’m here,” and I could accept that for now.
We walked into school together. Not quite shoulder to shoulder, but close. A few people noticed. More than a few whispered. But I kept my head up.
Coop stayed with me all the way to the cafeteria. I wasn’t sure if I was really ready to be back at the table. But I also knew if I didn’t show up now, the narrative would keep writing itself without me.
So I walked in.
And stopped short.
Mathieu was already there.
Sitting at our usual table like it was his usual table, an iced tea in hand, posture relaxed but not cocky.
Bubba sat beside him, tapping something out on his phone.
Rachel was mid-rant about Mrs. Kline’s “butchered syllabus and toxic energy,” and Archie had apparently decided to be normal today—well, normal for him , which meant classic rock band t-shirt, faded out jeans, and a tray of coffees.
He caught my eye as I approached and held out one like a peace offering.
“Morning, Frankie.”
I raised a brow. “Am I allowed to sit, or do I need a vetting process again?”
Archie smirked, already pulling out the seat beside him. “You passed.”
I took the drink without comment, but my lips twitched.
I slid into the chair between Rachel and Mathieu, and for a second, it was… good. Easy.
Mathieu leaned in. “I saved your spot.”
That did things to my heart I wasn’t proud of.
Coop dropped into the seat across from me and gave me a look—part protective big brother, part dude-still-holding-emotional-glue. “You good?”
“For now,” I said. “Maybe until last period.”
Bubba added without looking up, “Try to avoid punching anyone before noon. That’s all I ask.”
I would’ve laughed, except that’s when it happened.
From the table just behind us, I heard it—half-sneeze, half-sneer.
“Achoo… slut.”
I went still.
No one laughed. Not really. Just the kind of breathy, gross chuckles that always follow guys who peak at seventeen and don’t know it yet.
Then came the second hit—louder, this time. Clearer.
“Careful, Frankie. Start charging for it and you could afford better shoes.”
That voice.
Derek. Again.
Same Derek who tried it at the party. Same Derek who apparently hadn’t learned what happened when you mouth off.
I didn’t move yet.
Didn’t have to.
Because out of nowhere— literally nowhere —Jake appeared.
I don’t know where he’d been. Didn’t even know he could move that fast.
All I saw was the moment he launched forward like something inside him had finally snapped.
A chair flew. Someone screamed. Derek barely had time to open his mouth before Jake plowed into him, shoulder-first, knocking both of them into the next table. Trays crashed to the floor. Juice cartons exploded.
Gasps rippled through the room.
And then chaos.
“Jake!” Bubba was already up, trying to drag him back by the collar. “Jesus, man— stop !”
Jake didn’t answer. He wasn’t even swinging anymore—just had Derek pinned, teeth gritted, face twisted into something raw and cracked open.
“I told you to shut your mouth about her.”
Archie was on his feet. Coop, too. Rachel was already in front of me, shielding like a reflex.
But all I could do was stare.
Jake.
It wasn’t the punch that hit me the hardest. It was the look in his eyes when he said it. Fury, yeah. But also… shame.
Like he couldn’t take back what he’d done before, but this—this was him trying.
Trying too late , maybe.
But trying.
Teachers burst into the cafeteria seconds later with a school resource officer coming in from the other side. Someone blew a whistle like we were in gym class, which was impressively useless.
Bubba finally wrestled Jake off Derek. Derek was swearing, bleeding from the mouth, and already blaming everyone but himself. But no one was listening.
Especially not me. Jake looked around the room, breathing hard, eyes landing on me as they dragged him away.
“I’m sorry,” he said hoarsely. Then they were gone.
And the cafeteria buzzed like a kicked hornet’s nest.
I sat there, heart thudding in my chest like it was trying to escape, and slowly reached for my coffee.
“I hate Tuesdays,” I muttered.
Rachel handed me half her muffin without asking.
By noon, the story had already mutated into three different versions.
In one, Jake broke Derek’s nose with a single punch. In another, he slammed him into the vending machine and shattered the glass. In the last and most dramatic retelling, he whispered “You deserve this” before delivering a flying kick like some vigilante from a CW reboot.
None of those were true.
The truth was quieter. He’d snapped. Lost it. Let it all out in one sharp, irreversible moment.
And now he was gone.
Suspended.
Coop grabbed my arm on our way out of fourth period. His expression was unreadable, but his eyes were tired in that way only people caught in the middle ever really know.
“Hey,” he said, voice low, already scanning the hallway like he didn’t want to make a scene. “You hear?”
“Yeah,” I said. “Suspension?”
“Three days,” he confirmed. “Maybe more. Depends on how Derek’s parents push it.”
I pressed my fingers into my temple. “Of course.”
Coop shifted awkwardly. “Bubba’s dad showed up. He’s advocating for Jake. Said he’d talk to the school board, make sure they keep it internal.”
That surprised me. “Bubba’s dad ?” Maybe it shouldn’t have, I knew Jake’s dad and Bubba’s were friends and Jake’s dad was still on a base in Germany.
“Yeah,” Coop said, a little amazed himself. “Said no one should be punished for protecting someone who’s been through enough already. I think he meant you.”
I didn’t know what to say to that.
The idea of grown-ups stepping into this mess was already foreign enough. The idea that they might be on my side ?
It just made the knot in my chest pull tighter.
“Thanks for telling me,” I said, already backing away. “I have to get to lunch.”
“Frankie—” Coop hesitated. “If you want to talk. Or yell. Or, like, rage-eat pudding cups again…”
I managed half a smile. “I’ll find you.”
Lunch was a blur. Rachel had claimed us a table near the courtyard windows. Bubba sat beside her, unusually quiet. Mathieu had an arm draped casually across the back of my chair, trying to make me feel grounded, present. It almost worked.
Until Archie appeared, perfectly pressed and slightly rumpled, as if he’d just stepped out of a courtroom or a Calvin Klein ad. Probably both.
He set a plastic coffee cup down in front of me. “Iced mocha. Your Tuesday order.”
I blinked at him. “You’re bribing me with caffeine now?”
“Not bribing,” he said. “Strategically fortifying. You’re about to hate the rest of your day.”
I stared at him. “Thanks for the pep talk.”
Archie sat across from me, elbows resting lightly on the table, all mock-casual confidence. But his eyes were sharp. Watching.
“Don’t worry about Jake,” he said, voice quiet but sure. “If Derek’s family tries to press charges, I’ll get a lawyer.”
I blinked again. “What?”
“Just in case,” he said, sipping his espresso like we were discussing weekend plans and not actual legal consequences .
I didn’t have the energy to thank him or tell him he was insane. All I could feel was the slowly mounting pressure behind my ribs—like I was being squeezed from the inside out by things that hadn’t even happened yet.
By the time the bell rang, I could barely taste the mocha anymore.
AP European History was tucked away in one of the quiet upstairs classrooms—windowed, vaulted ceilings, the kind of space that always smelled like old paper and stressed-out dreams.
It was also empty.
Just me.
Jake wasn’t there.
His chair sat pushed back, one leg uneven on the floor. His notebook wasn’t in its usual spot. The desk was too clean, too still.
He was gone .
Suddenly the silence felt brutal.
This class had always been our weird neutral zone. The place where we didn’t have to perform for anyone else. We just read, scribbled in margins, argued about revolutions and dead kings, passed notes like no one was watching. Because Mr. G trusted us.
Now it felt hollow.
Like every unspoken thing between us had followed him out the door, and I was left behind in the echo.
I sat down anyway.
Opened my book and stared at the same paragraph about the Habsburg dynasty for twenty minutes without reading a single word.
When the bell rang, I jumped.
I hadn’t written anything. I hadn’t moved.
I just sat there in the ghost of what we used to be, feeling the weight of it settle deeper into my stomach.
We were gone.
And I wasn’t sure how we were ever going to get us back.