25. Chapter 25
Chapter twenty-five
Bexley
"W hat the fuck is this?" I hiss, storming into Rylan's bedroom without knocking, waving the receipt in the air.
If he's surprised to see me breaking into his house, he doesn't show it.
Looking up from his desk, he raises a perfectly shaped eyebrow. "How the hell would I know?"
"Don't treat me like I'm stupid," I snap, slamming the paper down in front of him.
Rylan casually leans forward to inspect the receipt, staring at it with disinterest. "That would be a receipt, Bexley. Businesses give them out after making a sale."
"Get up," I demand, kicking the side of his chair.
He pushes back with a little too much force, which tells me he's not as unbothered as he's pretending to be.
"Cool it, Spencer. It's not that fucking deep."
"Not that deep?" I repeat, astonished. "It's everything, Astor. I don't want your goddamn charity."
When I went back for my follow up meeting with Mr. Morrison, still completely lost at having to organize everything, the last thing I expected was for him to say that Mom's funeral services had been paid for in full.
I had spent days trying to figure out what to do. I had a plan walking into that meeting—it wasn't much, but it was something at least. Even though it meant no public service, cremation, and the basic, cheapest options possible, it was a step in the direction of handling this. After days of self-pity and drowning in my demons, I was ready to face everything and deal with the cards that had been given to me.
I would have been still up for a large sum of money, but after brainstorming with Arch and working on the résumé, I had come to the conclusion I would need to borrow the funds from the bank and start working to pay it back or enter into some type of payment plan with Mr. Morrison. Even if it meant eating nothing but raw pasta and canned vegetables for the next two years of my life. I was ready. To anyone else, it probably seemed insignificant. But I was damn proud of myself for not staying in the pity party and hiding from the new responsibilities that had been thrown upon me.
So, imagine my surprise when I found out an anonymous donor had gone to Mr. Morrison and offered to cover the costs. I could confidently rule out Archie as the culprit, especially when he looked just as shocked as I was. After getting the description from Mr. Morrison and putting two and two together, it was easy to figure out. Though I'm still stuck on the why . And it haunts me.
"It's not charity, Spencer."
"It sure looks like it from where I'm standing," I breathe out angrily. "You had no right to interfere with my mom's death."
Rylan crosses his arms, giving me a hard, expressionless glance over. "Then just consider it as payment for your services."
I move so fast that he has no time to react, my open palm slapping his cheek with a loud smack. I didn't even realize I was going to hit him until I felt the sting vibrate through my palm.
Something snaps in Rylan, his face twisting in red, blinded anger, and for a brief second, I wonder if he's going to hit me back. To be fair, I'd deserve it. I had no right using his code to enter his house and storm into his room, yelling at him—even if it feels totally justified.
Crash.
Shit flies everywhere as Rylan flips his desk over, laptop bouncing on the carpet along with a mug full of coffee. It stains the floor, but I barely have time to assess the damage as he steps into me, our chests connecting.
Rylan's chest heaves angrily as he presses his forehead to mine. For a brief moment, I catch his eyes darting to my lips, my breath stalling at the sight.
"Get out," he growls, pointing toward the door. "Just get the fuck out, Bexley. What gives you the right to come into my house and fucking hit me? So what? I did something nice for you. No wonder you are alone. You can't even stand your own company. Why would anyone else want to deal with you?"
All my pent-up rage vanishes in a mere instant at his words. It feels like I've had a bucket of ice water poured over my body, his words hitting places I had fought hard to protect and hide from.
He's right.
I am alone.
Shame and guilt overwhelm me. I'm better than this. I'm not this person.
Still, every fiber of my existence has fought against situations like this. It's engrained in me. I don't let people in, don't allow them to do something nice for me out of fear that it will be a favor, expecting repayment.
I purposely hide my personal life from everyone around me so I wouldn't have to deal with conversations like this. But I was so mad when Mr. Morrison said it had been taken care of. It felt like there was a price attached—like he'd own me. And it exacerbated the guilt that lingered from the night Mom died. It was already bad enough that I hadn't been there, and now, someone I didn't even like had stepped in to pay so I could say goodbye to her properly.
I hated it. I've never felt so weak and pathetic—so out of control.
Never in my life had I been unable to find a solution to a problem. Then she died. And it was beyond even me. It was a cold reminder that I had nothing in comparison to others, and for the first time, I was scared.
But I was also mad at Rylan. He was a huge part of my guilt, even if he didn't know it. I should never have been with him that night, never let myself give in to impulses and desires that made zero sense. And then he went snooping where he didn't belong.
How did he even know? He hasn't denied it.
"How?" I ask, voice cracking. "How did you find out?"
"Does it matter?" he challenges, taking a step back. His eyes are dark, locked on mine.
Shaking my head, I swallow the lump in my throat. "I'm going to make them refund it. I can't take your money, Rylan."
"Whatever," he responds monotonously. "Maybe you can do a funeral at your shitty little beach. Fire is free. Use the leftover material from the cage. It's been replaced now anyway."
He walks over to the bed, leaning down to pull something out from underneath. I watch, puzzled, when he stalks back over, thrusting the plastic bag into my arms.
Glancing down, it takes me a few seconds to realize I'm holding Mom's stuff. My mouth falls open as tears well in my eyes, and it takes every bit of fight in me not to let them fall. But I quickly fail, feeling the hot streaks glide down my cheeks.
"How did you get this?"
"I went looking," he snaps. "Because I was worried. But I was wrong to think you'd actually have the decency to be my friend."
A million words threaten to come out, but at the same time, I'm physically incapable of speaking. My eyes scan the floor, taking in the ruins of our argument, and I carefully put Mom's stuff on the floor, walking over to the tipped-up desk.
I pick it up, standing it back upright before reaching for his laptop. Dusting it off, I'm relieved to find it working as I place it back on the desk.
As I continue to collect the belongings off the floor, Rylan stands there wordlessly, just watching as his body remains tense and rigid with silent anger.
When there's nothing left but the coffee spill, I glance around for a rag or something, but Rylan's cracked voice stops me.
"I need you to go, Spencer. Now. Just go."
"Alright," I concede softly, pausing as I once again spot my handprint on his face. Something tries to compel me to apologize, but I choke on the words—they mean nothing right now. We've said all that we can, and it's not enough.
It will never be enough.
Not in this lifetime.
I'm the villain today. I let my sadness become my downfall. I've become everything I always hated.
Rylan refuses to look at me now, and the tension in the room is so thick, I feel like I could suffocate. And if I'm being honest, part of me wishes I could just die right now. It's a small part, still somewhat insignificant to the rest of the overwhelming feelings choking me… but it's there. Another moment of self-pity as his words cut deep like a knife.
I'm alone… because I made it that way.
Finally, I relent, turning on my heel and making my way toward the door. When I reach the doorway, I dare a glance over my shoulder at him, heart breaking as he leans over the desk, palms flat with his head hung low.
He looks just as broken as I feel, and I despise myself for being the one who did that. But it's his fault as much as my own for letting things get this far. It feels like a fitting goodbye—an ending to our short story.
Violent. Broken. Catastrophic.
Two ruined kingdoms realizing that the world is bigger than they can face. And the guilt is what drags me out the door and holds me back from running to him.
My footsteps echo softly through his house, more tears falling as I make my way outside. Thankfully, Mayor Astor is nowhere to be seen. And Rylan certainly doesn't try to stop me as I leave.
Whatever was growing between us is dead.
I made sure of it.
By the time I arrive for Algebra, I'm frustrated to find that the only available seat is next to Tai. Just my luck that we're desk neighbors in two classes. I swear he wasn't in this class initially. But at this point, I'm questioning my own sanity. The days are shifting into blurs, unrecognizable as I go through the motions with a fake smile.
Normally I'd have no qualms with sitting near him, but after my fight with Rylan last night, the idea makes me nervous.
I have no idea if he's told his best friends about what transpired between us. Part of me believes he has. No doubt it would give them a good laugh or fresh ammo to use against me. I keep waiting for the bullet to graze, my secrets to be unraveled in enemy territory.
But when I sit down, there's no snide remarks about it—just Tai's usual taunting demeanor.
"Someone got up on the wrong side of the bed this morning," he murmurs, cocking an eyebrow.
"I'm not in the mood today, Beckett."
Tai grins, scooting his chair and desk closer. "Don't be like that, Spencer. Besides, we're going to be spending a lot of time together. We should become friendly."
My head snaps toward him, grimacing as I try to surmise what he's referring to. But before I can question him—even against my will and sound state of mind—Mr. Valkov's loud voice booms over the class.
"Pay attention! As we are now nearing finals week, it is my duty to ensure you all pass—mainly because I don't want to see you here again next year."
Well, no one can disagree with that. Repeating senior year sounds like endless torture. I'd rather scoop my eyeballs out with a rusty spoon.
Mr. Valkov's eyes linger over the class, scanning each and every one of us as if he's trying to make a point. "Therefore, given the current climate, I have decided it is best to prepare you with additional assigned tasks. I understand the past few weeks have been difficult," he pauses, looking at a few Cedar students perched in the front row. "But there's no reason why that would stop you from passing. To ensure you achieve the highest grade possible, you will be partnered up with a study buddy for the remainder of the semester."
What?
Since when do you need a study partner for algebra ?
Murmurs float through the room. Everyone, including the Willowbrook students, appear surprised by this late addition to the module.
"I will be placing a list by the door, assigning you to a partner. You will notice that I have attempted to pair up students together from each academy. This is beneficial," his voice raises as the murmurs turn angry. "It will allow you to explore each other's knowledge, perhaps giving you an advantage. It is also my hope that it will teach you unity, removing any distractions upon finals week."
Ahh—essentially, they are forcing us to be friends.
Once again… what the fuck?
Mr. Valkov walks over to his desk, plucking up a piece of paper. "This is mandatory. Should you not comply it will be an automatic failure as the task is now worth a percentage of your final grade. Now, we're going to continue where we left off—trigonometric functions. I'm about to hand out a pop quiz so I can ascertain your current level of knowledge. This topic will be in the finals, so pay attention to the questions and take them seriously."
There's a chorus of groans as he starts walking the rows, handing out the quiz papers. Once distributed, he makes tracks to the door, slapping the partner list on it with a heavy thud.
I have no idea how I'm supposed to concentrate on this pop quiz when all I want to do is check the list. But I manage to push through, mainly because I'm gifted with some mild entertainment. Tai cusses quietly next to me, muttering something about cotangents being shoved into anal orifices.
By the end of class, people shove past one another to get to the door, a line forming as people survey the list. I hang back, not keen on being stampeded. I want to know as soon as possible so I can prepare for inevitable torture, but at the same time, I'm in no rush to meet my fate now that I have the opportunity to check.
Finally, the line dissipates. Approaching the list hesitantly, I grip my bag strap in my fist as my eyes run down the list. Behind me, Tai peaks over my shoulder.
"Well, this is going to be fun," he grins, making my back muscles tense up.
I wish I could feign ignorance, but there's no denying what I'm seeing on the paper. It's exactly what I had silently prayed against. But it's there for us, in black and white.
Tai Beckett (W) and Bexley Spencer (Ce.)