9 Cassius #2
I’m dating Stacey because it’s easier to say I’m taken than to admit I’m in love with my best friend. I let Stacey take pictures of us, post them, tag me, because it looks normal. It looks like I moved on from being the angry kid with no control. And that’s fucked up.
She deserves someone who is actually all-in. Not a guy sitting on her couch thinking about another girl’s stupid laugh and how empty his Fridays would feel without her.
Then there’s the other side. Stacey doesn’t actually want me either. Not the real me. The guy who swears too much, wears shirts from bands she’s never heard of, and will drop anything if Zae texts that her brain’s eating her alive that day.
She wants the polished, campus-friendly version. The boyfriend who dresses right, smiles pretty, shows up to the right formals, and doesn’t bring ‘baggage.’ I stare at the shirt, still clutched in my hands.
This isn’t me.
And she’s not my person.
I set the shirt carefully on the coffee table before turning back to look at her.
“Stacey,” I say, and my voice sounds different. Calmer than I expect it to. “We need to talk.”
Kennedy looks over, suddenly interested. The other girl pretends not to listen while absolutely listening.
Stacey blinks. “Okay… about what?” Her eyes flick down to the shirt. “If it’s about the size, I can exchange—”
“It’s not about the shirt,” I cut in abruptly, tone serious. “It’s… us.”
She goes still, already piecing where I’m going with this.
“Oh. Um. Can we do this later?” She grabs her phone, glancing at the time. “We have to go to the philanthropy planning thing. I’m already kind of late.”
“I’d much rather do it now,” I tell her, knowing this can’t wait. “It’s not something I want to put off.”
Her gaze skims over my face, searching for something before she forces a small laugh that doesn’t reach her eyes. “You’re being dramatic. Let’s just talk tonight, okay? After your little game thing or whatever.”
“My little game thing,” I repeat, a corner of my mouth twitching despite everything.
Of course.
She stands, smoothing her skirt again, like ironing wrinkles out of the conversation. “Later,” she repeats, as if saying it twice will make it so. “Text me when you’re done. We’ll… figure it out.”
She leans in to kiss me goodbye. Normally, I’d let her, just going through the motions. Today, my body moves before my brain thinks it through—I turn slightly, and her mouth brushes my cheek instead of my lips.
We both freeze.
“Wow,” Kennedy mutters under her breath.
“Right,” Stacey says after a stunned second, her voice brittle. “I’ll… see you.”
She walks away in her little sorority girl strut, joining the cluster of sisters by the door. They laugh at something. Someone looks back at me and whispers.
I stare at the shirt on the table for a second longer before I decide to leave it and head out the side door without saying goodbye.
By the time I get back to my dorm, my head is pounding. I fish my phone out again, but there’s still no new messages from Zae. There is, however, one from Stacey.
Stacey:
can we not do the heavy talk thing before my event? ruins the vibe. later.
I stare at it for a second, then lock the screen, shoving the phone face down on the desk.
Later.
I’m not doing it over text. She deserves at least an in-person breakup. As I run my fingers through my hair, pushing it out of my eyes, my gaze lands on the plushie sitting on top of my dresser.
Calcifer.
I’d seen the plush Wednesday in one of those stupid campus pop-up stalls.
Bright orange, pointy little felt flames, grumpy embroidered eyes.
I’d bought it on impulse, thinking of the way Zae talks about Howl’s Moving Castle like it’s a religion.
Then I chickened out and left him in my dorm, staring at me from the dresser while I tried to figure out how to fix everything without making it worse.
I cross the room, picking him up. His little pissed-off face stares up at me.
“Same, dude,” I mutter.
I can’t fix three days in one afternoon, but I sure as hell am not about to let tonight pass without trying.
I shove Calcifer gently into my backpack, grab my keys and phone, and head out. The walk to her building feels longer than usual, my stomach knotting tighter with every step.
I keep imagining Zae curled up like a burrito with her headphones on, pretending she’s fine while her brain kicks the shit out of her.
I regret the way I put my fist in some dude’s face right in front of her, hurting her, embarrassing her, drawing attention to her when she was just trying to be okay.
I get to her floor and pause outside her door. For a second, I just stand there, listening, but I don’t hear anything. No music, no cackling laugh through the too-thin walls. Just quiet.
Before I can overthink it and bail like a coward, I knock. Three quick taps like always. There’s a few seconds of silence, then I hear footsteps. The door opens a crack with her one brown eye peering out.
When she sees it’s me, her mouth flattens. She looks… tired. There are shadows under her eyes, her hair’s in a messy bun that’s half fallen out, and she’s in an oversized T-shirt and flannel shorts.
Her gaze flicks to my face, down to my bruised knuckles, then back up.
“Hey,” she greets me slowly, her voice rougher than usual. “You lost?”
My chest kicks, because even now, she’s trying to joke.
“Nah,” I say, shoving my free hand into my pocket. “GPS said Disaster Zone was this way.”
Her mouth almost twitches. We stand there for a second, both waiting for the other to make it easy.
I swallow, deciding it’s on me. “Can I come in?”
She hesitates, and that hurts more than I want to admit. Finally, she exhales and steps back.
“Yeah.”
I slip inside carefully, feeling as though any big movement could have this whole thing explode in my face.
Her room looks the same, but it feels different.
The only light on is her desk lamp, casting a weak circle onto a pile of notes.
There’s a nest of blankets on her bed where she’s clearly spent a lot of time.
Her headphones sit on the pillow. The sight of them makes my stomach twist. I know they mean full-avoidance mode for her.
“So,” she starts, shutting the door behind me. Her arms fold over her chest, holding herself together. “What’s up?”
I turn to face her and force myself not to fidget.
“I’m sorry,” I utter, straight up, no detour.
She blinks, clearly not the opening she was expecting from me. “For what, specifically?” she asks, one brow lifting.
“A couple things,” I admit, letting out a humorless laugh. “For losing it and hitting that guy. For scaring you. For tanking your night. For the silence after. All of it.”
Her throat works as she looks away for a second.
“I didn’t mean to go that far,” I continue, words coming faster the more I talk.
“I felt it coming, but I just… couldn’t think long enough to breathe, to walk away instead.
I know that doesn’t excuse it. I know ‘my anger took over’ isn’t a free pass.
I just…” I blow out a breath. “I’m not okay with the way I acted. ”
She stays quiet, eyes fixed on the floor between us.
“I’m working on it. I swear. Group, everything. I’ve been better for a long time. The party was… a setback. A bad one. And I’m sorry you got front-row seats.”
The silence stretches and I think I might actually die, but I let it. She deserves the time to be pissed. Finally, she uncrosses her arms, rubbing her hands down the sides of her shorts instead.
“I know you’re trying.” Her voice has lost that sharp edge from that night. It’s quieter now, heavier. “I know it’s not like you woke up and chose to start swinging for fun.”
The fact that she can say that while still looking this hurt is… a lot.
"You don’t get to lose your shit over me dancing with a guy when you have an entire girlfriend. That’s…” She searches for the word. “Hypocritical. At best.”
Fair.
“I know,” I agree, staring into her eyes, ready to take whatever shit she needs me to for us to be okay again. “You’re right.”
She blinks, clearly thrown by that.
“I’ve realized a lot of things this week,” I admit. “Most of them not flattering.”
Her mouth quirks despite herself. “Wow. Miracles do happen.”
I deserve that.
“I’m not going to stand here and say ‘I had a right’ or some bullshit. I didn’t. You’re allowed to dance with whoever. You’re allowed to hook up with whoever. You don’t need my permission.”
“But?” she asks, hearing it in my tone.
“But my brain decided to go full caveman and forgot that part. Still not an excuse. Just… where I fucked up.”
She studies me for a long moment. The anger in her eyes softens into something worse—disappointment. It digs deeper than yelling ever could.
“I hate that you went there, because you know better now. I expected more from you than some random frat guy with no impulse control.”
That one stings.
“I did too,” I admit. “I expected more from me.”
She sighs, shoulders slumping a little. “I’m not like furious anymore. I’m just… tired. And I don’t want you to beat yourself up forever about it, but I also don’t want you to pretend it’s not a big deal.”
“I’m not pretending,” I reassure her immediately. “It was a big deal. I get that. I’m going to talk about it in group. Probably more than they want me to.”
Her lips twitch again. “Good. They can be on my side too.”
I let out a soft laugh and some of the tightness in my chest eases. We stand there in the weird, fragile peace for a moment. Then I remember the thing in my bag.
“Also, I, uh… brought you something.”
Her eyes narrow. “Whatever it is, I reserve the right to chuck it at your head.”
“That’s a risk I’m willing to take.” I smirk as I swing my backpack off my shoulder, unzipping it and pulling out Calcifer.
His little angry felt face peeks out between my fingers, and Zae just freezes.
“Oh my God,” she breathes. Her whole expression changes in an instant. The tiredness, the disappointment, all get shoved to the side by pure, unfiltered joy. She steps closer without even seeming to realize it.