Chapter 17
seventeen
BEN
I watch Joel start after her, his bass still slung across his shoulder like he’s forgotten it exists.
“Cass, wait—”
But for once in my damn life, I move. I don’t try to be the guy blending into the crowd or trying to fit in, because Cass’s words a moment ago shot right to my gut. So if I’m being honest, when my hand shoots out, palm connecting with Joel’s chest, the impact that jolts up my arm feels good.
“Back off,” I say. The command comes out steady—no stammer, no panic—like the voice of someone who’s making a demand and isn’t interested in debating it.
Joel blinks, genuine shock washing over his face. He’s looking at me like I’m a stranger, and maybe I am. It occurs to me then that I’ve got no idea if Cass told her bandmates about ‘us’, but whatever or whoever Joel thinks I am, it’s clear he’s intimidated.
“She told you to back off,” I say, holding his stare. “So back off.”
His jaw tightens. For a second, I think he’s going to escalate and make this a thing, which would be a pretty terrible idea given the size disparity.
His weight shifts forward, shoulders squaring, and I can feel the tension coiling between us.
Then he blinks, realizes he’s squaring up to a hockey player, and raises his hands.
“Fine.” He steps back, his tone dismissive. “Your funeral, jockstrap.”
He turns toward the stage, muttering something, but I don’t care. I don’t wait for him to change his mind or rustle up reinforcements. Instead I just turn and push through the stragglers toward the door and within seconds I’m outside, the cool night air slapping me in the face.
There. Small figure. Leather jacket. It’s got to be her.
“Cass!” I call out, breaking into a jog.
She doesn’t stop. Hell, she picks up the pace, her shoulders hunched and her hands shoved deep in her pockets. She’s moving like she’s trying to outrun something—me, herself, the whole night, her whole life—and I’m genuinely worried about what she’ll do if I leave her alone right now.
“Cass, wait—”
“Go away, Ben!”
Her voice cracks on my name, raw and broken, and the sound punches straight into my chest. She doesn’t turn as she speaks it, just keeps walking, even faster now, her boots hitting harder on the sidewalk, the rhythm fraying at the edges like a drum fill falling apart.
I catch up in a few long strides, my hand reaching out instinctively to touch her shoulder.
I’m not even thinking, honestly. I just want her to slow down and breathe and look at me.
But the moment my fingers brush the worn leather of her jacket, she whirls, and the full force of her fury crashes into me.
Her face is a wreck. Mascara runs in uneven black rivers down her cheeks, smudged where she tried to wipe them away. Her eyes are swollen, red-rimmed, the delicate skin beneath them almost bruised. But it’s the rage blazing in those blue eyes—fierce, wild, utterly unguarded—that stops me cold.
“I told you to go away!” She hisses. “What the fuck do you want?”
I open my mouth, but nothing comes out. My throat closes up completely, every instinct screaming to retreat, to put distance between myself and this volcanic eruption.
It’s my usual playbook around girls, or around any situation outside a hockey game that involves the spotlight being squarely on me.
But I don’t move.
“Where were you?” she says, her voice sharpening. “I was scanning the crowd between every song, thinking maybe you gave a shit.”
“Cass—”
“I wore your jersey!” Her hands fly out of her pockets, gesturing wildly, fingers shaking. “I kissed you in front of your whole damn team! I made you look good, Kellerman! I helped you become one of the guys, and you couldn’t even show up on time!”
The guilt is immediate and suffocating. She’s right. Devastatingly, completely right. “I was in the lab,” I start, hating how pathetic it sounds even as the words leave my mouth. “We were debugging the sensor calibration, and I lost track of time. I’m sorry, I swear I didn’t mean—”
“The lab? Your robot?” Her laugh is sharp, bitter.
“Of course. Because that’s what mattered.
Not me. Not keeping your word. Just circuits and voltage problems and whatever else you do when you’re too busy to remember people exist. Jesus Christ, Ben, no wonder your team laughs at you and girls scare you… ”
Each word lands like a blade. I want to defend myself, to explain it wasn’t like that, to tell her she’s being mean and unfair. I want to tell her that I ran here, that I showed up, that I stopped Joel from chasing after her, but I don’t get the chance, because she’s not stopping.
“Every guy in my whole goddamn life bails when they see the real me.” Her voice breaks. “And you couldn’t even be bothered to show up. You got what you needed from me, and when it’s my turn, when I need you to just be there, you’re in a fucking lab.”
“I’m here now,” I say. “Cass, I’m here. I’m sorry I was late, but I’m here—”
“Too late! It’s too late!”
Her voice breaks entirely.
She chokes on the words, trying to swallow them back down.
Then she turns away, shoulders shaking, and something inside me fractures.
This isn’t performance.
This is the real her.
Stripped. Drowning.
And this—right here—is the moment.
If I run now, I’m the guy she thinks I am. I’ll be every guy who liked the facade of her but ran when she got real. She hasn’t told me the full story, but I’ve pieced enough together to know that she’s afraid of being vulnerable in front of anyone, especially guys.
But it’s worse than that.
If I run now, I’ll be the coward I was with Mia.
Taking the easy way out.
Staying in the crowd—staying quiet—while someone I care about suffers.
Choosing safety over courage.
Not this time.
Not again.
I don’t let myself think. I just step forward and wrap my arms around her from behind, pulling her back against my chest.
She goes rigid instantly. “Let go of me—”
“No.”
She struggles, elbows jamming back into my ribs. “I’m serious, Kellerman, let me go—”
“No.” My voice stays calm, and I don’t loosen my grip.
“You don’t get to do this!” She thrashes harder, voice rising. “You don’t get to show up late and then act like a fucking hero! You don’t—”
“I’m not leaving.” I rest my chin on top of her head, feeling the damp choppy strands against my face.
She fights harder, breath coming in sharp gasps, nails digging into my forearms through my hoodie. I can feel the small crescents of pressure, each one a tiny point of contact that says I’m here and I’m not going anywhere, but I don’t let go.
Let her rage. Just don’t let go.
Then, all at once, she goes limp. She sags back against me, and the sobs come harder. Ugly, choking sounds that shake her entire frame. I can feel each shudder move through her, starting deep in her chest and radiating outward. I don’t speak or offer hollow reassurances. I just hold her.
“You’re a fucking idiot,” she gasps between sobs. “You don’t even know what a fucking mess you’re signing up for.”
I stay silent.
She pulls back and turns, looking up at me. I force myself not to flinch. Her face is streaked with tears and ruined makeup, black smudges framing her eyes. Her pupils are blown wide, the blue reduced to thin rings, and she’s searching my face with desperate, raw vulnerability.
“This is the real me,” she says, voice barely a whisper. “The mess. The fraud. The crying. The spiraling. The disaster.”
I don’t look away. Don’t flinch. I just hold her gaze.
“I’m not leaving, Cass,” I say. “I’m not leaving tonight. You need someone to stay with you and make sure you’re OK.”
The words land between us, quiet and solid.
She stares at me, breathing raggedly, and I can see her trying to process it. Trying to find the angle, the lie, the moment when I’ll prove I’m just like the rest. Her eyes search my face, looking for the crack in my resolve. But I don’t move. I just stand there, holding her.
Her sobs slow. The violent shaking subsides into trembling exhaustion. She wipes at her face with the heel of her hand, smearing the mascara into abstract war paint, then pulls away as she lets out a broken laugh that sounds more like a sob.
“I need to get drunk,” she says finally, voice raw. “I’m going to get annihilated tonight, Kellerman, and if you’re coming with me, you’re getting annihilated as well. And I don’t know what that means for tomorrow. For me, for you if you follow, or for us.”
It’s an offer. A warning. A choice.
She turns and starts walking toward the North Campus dorms, combat boots echoing against pavement, not looking back. And as I watch her walk, her small figure swallowed by darkness between streetlamps, I realize she’s giving me the chance to retreat into safety like I always do.
Every rational part of my brain screams to let her go.
This isn’t your job.
This isn’t what you signed up for.
You showed up. You’ve done enough.
This isn’t what you do, Ben, because you’re order and she’s chaos.
But I think of Mia. Standing silent in that hallway. My mouth shut. My cowardice is a brand I’ll carry forever. I thought you were the one good one. And I know that if I walk away now, I don’t just lose Cass, I lose the version of myself I’ve been trying to become.
The guy who might actually be one of the good ones after all.
So I follow her into the dark, my long strides catching up to her hunched form.
She doesn’t acknowledge me when I fall into step beside her, but she also doesn’t tell me to leave. We just walk together to her dorm in silence, the only sound the rhythmic thud of her boots and the softer pad of my sneakers against pavement.
When we reach Hughes Hall, she pulls a key from her jacket and unlocks the heavy front door. The metallic click echoes in the quiet, sharp and final. She holds it open, expression unreadable. It’s an invitation, once again, but also a threshold to be crossed.
I step inside, then stop.