The Rival

Chapter Twenty-Two

It turns out I get to use nearly every one of those text drafts the next morning, when I emerge from the dorm and there, standing outside of it, is Sebastian Adams, sleepy-faced and wary in the early morning sun. His eyes immediately widen when he realizes I am not walking toward him with purpose but coming at him with a whole lot more than that.

“What the actual fuck?” I demand.

Seb hesitates. “Hi,” he says after a moment.

“Oh, you better reach into that brain of yours and find a better word than ‘hi’ if you’re planning on surviving this conversation,” I say, stopping short of him when I’m mere inches from his face. I don’t lower my voice even one decibel when I add, “What were you thinking?”

Seb works his jaw. “You know what I was thinking.”

“Apparently not, or I might have seen that coming. I mean, shit, Seb,” I say, gesturing wildly out to the campus. “You could be ruining your chances. Everything you worked for—and I know better than anyone how hard it was, because I practically had your GPA tattooed to my eyelids—and for what? So you could have some numbers off your conscience and play hero?”

Maddeningly, Seb is not giving an inch. “So I could hold myself accountable for my actions,” he says. “And you can be mad all you want, Sadie, but tell me you wouldn’t have done the same thing.”

“No. I wouldn’t have kissed you and then cleared off the damn campus without so much as a word,” I counter.

Seb’s eyes flicker with remorse but nowhere damn near enough of it to placate me. “You were only going to try and stop me—”

“Hell, yeah, I was,” I say, “because I love you, you stubborn, ridiculous jerk, and if it’s someone’s job to stop you from wrecking your life, you damn well know it’s going to be mine.”

That stuns Seb into an immediate silence. I give him two seconds to recover, and then one more, and then decide that’s more than enough.

“Well?” I demand.

Seb blinks. Laughs to himself. I am about to ask what on earth he could be laughing about at a time like this, but he stuns me into a silence of my own by closing the small gap between us and firmly taking both my hands in his. When he speaks, his voice is low and sincere, weighted with calm.

“It wasn’t about the numbers. It wasn’t about playing hero,” he tells me. “It’s that—I’ve seen how hard you’ve worked, too. And I’ve seen you come into your own even in a few short weeks because of Newsbag. If there was a chance that turning myself in might save it, I was going to take it. Because I love you, too. You stubborn, ridiculous person.”

“Oh,” I say, disarmed by the warmth in my chest, the happy ache in my throat. It felt easy to say, but it has a strange magic, hearing it back.

“Oh,” Seb echoes, his voice teasing.

He squeezes my hands lightly, and I can’t help squeezing back. The look in his eyes so tender and so familiar —a shade of love that’s always been there, that was just waiting to be cast in the right light—that I nearly forget myself. I nearly lean in and kiss him, because the most absurd part of these past two days is that no amount of chaos has stopped me from thinking nonstop about doing just that.

But life-changing, earth-shifting, heart-stopping confessions aside, this conversation is far from over. I don’t let go of his hands, but I take a step back.

“You disappeared on me,” I say quietly.

Seb nods. “My parents were—upset. And confused. I had a lot of explaining to do.”

I can’t say I didn’t worry about that myself. We’re lucky to have parents who trust us enough to let us make our own choices, but “I willingly gave myself up to get suspended after hacking a mainframe” is probably one none of them saw coming.

I skim my thumb over the top of one of his hands. “I guess this wasn’t a great way to soft-launch the idea of you switching to journalism to your dad,” I say.

Seb shakes his head. “Actually, it kind of helped. I don’t think he understood just how seriously I took writing until I was willing to get so involved in Newsbag. We spent a long time talking it out last night. He’s not like—thrilled. But he seems to respect it more now, seeing what we’re doing.”

I nod, smiling down at our shoes. It’s a relief, but not a surprising one. I hope it means that his dad will be open to more conversations about it in the future. If nothing else, maybe my parents’ newfound aggressive enthusiasm for all things Newsbag will help.

“What about staying here at Maple Ride?” I ask quietly.

Seb is quiet for a moment. “He’s not happy about that. But he’ll come around.”

I look back up, so stunned it nearly knocks the smile off my face. “So you’re staying? No matter what happens with Newsbag ?”

Seb squeezes my hands again, softer and steadier about it. “Maybe we don’t know how this ends, but everything I’ve done this semester—with the others and with you—it’s enough for me to know this is where I belong.”

“Good,” I say, so choked with relief I can’t think to say anything else. “I just wish you’d called.”

He pulls in another breath and hesitates before he uses it. “There was something else. I knew the dean was planning to shut down Newsbag before he told the others. He told me when I turned myself in.” His eyes are apologetic on mine. “I was trying to think of what we could do to save it, and I just—it’s ridiculous. I know. But I just wanted to have some idea for fixing it before I could get in touch with you, but I couldn’t think of anything good enough.”

“You should have called me,” I insist again. “Not just because of what happened. But because we’re a team. I don’t need you to protect me from things like that. We can figure it out together.”

Seb has the audacity to smirk then, shaking his head at me. “Seems like you did just fine without me. Better than. Shit, Sadie. Your article blew everything Jerry did out of the water.”

He lets my hands go then, only to pull his phone out of his pocket. The piece is already pulled up on his screen. Even though I’ve seen it plenty of times refreshing the Newsbag website by now, my face flushes. I skim the words he’s scrolling with his thumb—my words, right on the home page next to a reader tally that’s amassing more and more clicks by the second—and feel another small swell of pride.

REPORT: Maple Ride Solves Every Problem It’s Ever Had by Suspending Some Kid

Local Maple Ride students woke on Sunday morning to clearer skies and edible dining hall food and absolutely zero historic misuse of university funds, all thanks to swift action on the part of the administration to suspend some kid.

“I thought maybe we needed mental health advocates to assess our unsustainable work-life balance as student athletes, a quarter of which end up quitting their sport from burnout,” one soccer player shared. “But we got rid of some kid and we all feel much better now.”

Another student attests, “I read somewhere that over half the donor budget was going to the football coaches and media strategy while student-run organizations vital to our sense of community on campus were getting shut down, but when some kid left campus I realized that only happened in a dream, and felt quite silly indeed.”

The rest of the piece goes on in a similar vein, highlighting all the unresolved issues on campus with the student-run organizations and the administration with more and more absurdity until Seb’s removal isn’t just responsible for restoring order to Maple Ride but to the known universe and the cursed dining hall chili.

At the end of it is a brief paragraph explaining what actually happened to Seb for context, along with an email and phone number for the dean’s office for anyone who wanted to “thank” him for his heroism.

“Every time you do something ridiculously cool you have to go top it with something cooler, huh?” says Seb. “Thank god we’re not competing anymore or I’d really be toast.”

“Thanks, ‘some kid,’” I say. “But really, all of this depends on how the rest of our little stunt goes.”

Seb’s smirk only deepens. “I’d say pretty well, if Instagram is any indication.”

Seb opens the app to show me the main grid of Adams’ Apples, where he posted the same graphic that the rest of the Newsbag team did this morning, and a ton of other students have since. The one declaring “NEWSBAG’S FINAL ISSUE: THE GREATEST HITS.”

We spent the entirety of yesterday scouring the archive of decades’ worth of Newsbag issues, curating them to find the best pieces, many of them from alums who went on to writers’ rooms and publishing and comedy notoriety. We carefully slotted them all into the issue along with my piece, posted the graphic all over social this morning, and tagged as many of the former writers in the posts as we could.

The twist? Even though there are dozens of former Newsbag writers and countless faithful readers it’s amassed over the years, there are only twenty physical copies of the “last issue” in existence. Ten of them will be available by random lottery, and ten are up for auction, the proceeds of which will all go to funding for student organizations.

Meaning it’s going to be a veritable Hunger Games for anyone to manage to snag a copy, whether their old pieces were published in it or not.

Still, if we were hoping that would spread the news about the situation, I don’t think we could have predicted what’s already happening—Seb’s Instagram post alone has enough traction that I can see at least five verified accounts have commented under it, all of which seem to be from former writers: They can’t shut down newsbag! That’s the only reason i’m insufferable on the internet instead of working in my dad’s law firm!! And Point me to the villains responsible for this. Not on my watch. And Holy shit just saw the digital version—they SUSPENDED a kid over this?? What is going ON over there?? Under them are hundreds of other comments from readers who found the post, all of them shades of indignant and outraged and angling to get their hands on a “last issue” themselves.

“I posted it right before I drove back this morning, and by the time I got here, it had already been shared on a bunch of Instagram stories, too,” says Seb, scrolling to show me. “Daisy went ahead and got in touch with some of the former writers who commented, so they can talk to her for the article.”

“Shit,” I say, feeling a swell of hope and pride so intense that it feels like there isn’t room for it in me. “This might actually work.”

“You sound surprised,” says Seb. “But in my experience, if there’s something Sadie Brighton wants, she finds a way to get it.”

I take a small step back to look Seb up and down. “Lucky you,” I say cheekily.

Seb grins, but his own response is soft, his eyes steady on mine. “Lucky me.”

The future may be more of an unknown for us than ever, but something deep in me feels settled then. Something that’s been waiting for peace further back than the rest of this, as far back as Seb and I go. It’s a feeling that used to rattle me—used to irritate me to no end—used to tangle in my dreams and bite at the edges of the world when I was awake. But this is all it wanted, in the end. To love and to be loved.

We lean in, and my eyes start to slide shut, feeling the hum of that peace in my bones, the electricity between us quietly crackling as we close the distance between us. My lips are nearly on his when we’re stirred by the sound of students clamoring out of the dorm for morning classes, and someone who recognizes Seb yelling, “Quick! Hide! It’s ‘some kid’!”

Seb laughs, but I startle.

“Wait,” I say, probably way later than I should have. “Are you unsuspended, then?”

Seb laughs harder. “Our guess is that the administration got very, very nervous when Daisy started calling to fact-check her piece. She was put on hold for a long time before, gee, I was miraculously allowed back.”

I’m so relieved I’m laughing, too. “We owe her some quality maple syrup. It was her idea to pull one more stunt to get more eyes on this.”

“Sure,” says Seb. “But you’re the one who came up with a way to make it happen.”

“We all did,” I say, and not because I’m trying to be humble about it. Everything about it was a group effort. Me coming up with the idea; all the Newsbag writers going through the back issues and bringing the contenders to Amara, who meticulously combed through them and put them in order; Rowan essentially pulling a Batman by getting the copy together to send to the printer by cloak of nightfall, so we’d have the physical zines ready in time; Seb for having the Instagram clout to get things moving faster this morning than we imagined.

Seb shakes his head slightly, like he’s not going to humor it, but doesn’t press the point. Instead he steps closer and says, “Do you have any other grievances to air?”

I lean in close, tilting my head up to his. “Yeah. That you haven’t kissed me yet.”

Seb corrects that particular situation in the next second, dipping his head to meet me. I feel my toes curl in my sneakers as I arch myself to meet him back, feel that warm crackle start to spread just under my skin the instant his lips are on mine. I sink into him until our chests are pressed to each other, my hands coming around his back again to pull him in closer. He settles a hand just under my jaw, his thumb stroking my cheek with a carefulness so at odds with the intensity of the kiss that I feel my sense of self melt with it, the edges a happy blur.

It feels impossible to me that we haven’t done this before; it feels impossible to me knowing that I’ll get to do it again and again and again. When we finally pull apart, I’m still straddling that line, somehow more grounded and more delirious than I’ve ever been.

Seb keeps his hand just under my jaw, holding me there and searching my face. I quirk my lips self-consciously.

“I want to remember this moment,” he explains. “It’s a perfect one. But I’ve already got so many with you that it’s hard to keep track.”

I almost laugh and make a joke of it. It would be too easy; in the pie chart of good and bad moments we’ve shared, most of them are in the red. But even those were perfect in their own way, if they led us here. It seems silly looking back that I ever thought anything but.

So I lean in and kiss him lightly, like I’m sealing the edge of the moment with it. “Well, that’s going to be tricky, seeing as there are going to be a whole lot more.”

I’m honestly not sure how long we end up making out in full view of half the campus after that. Long enough that at least one person from Newsbag passes and says, “Goddammit, I lost the bet,” and long enough for Christina to return from morning practice and catcall us so colorfully that Seb and I end up laughing into each other’s mouths. We are only persuaded to stop by the mutual need for oxygen and the fact that my phone is buzzing in my pocket with a call.

“It’s Amara,” I tell him. “Maybe we’ve got an update.”

When I pick up the phone, Amara doesn’t wait for a “hello.” Instead she says, “Hey, are you free right now?”

“Yeah, what do you need?”

“Can you meet me at the stairs at the top of the quad?”

“For sure. I’ll be there in five.” I turn to Seb when I hang up. “Shit. They’re going to be so happy to see you.”

But Seb is just shaking his head, an unmistakably fond look on his face. “I’m not coming,” he says.

I pause midstep toward the quad. “Sure you are.”

“I’m not,” he says, eyes gleaming with amusement.

“Why?”

Seb leans in and kisses me on the temple, then says very patiently, “Because they’re meeting you at the top of the quad.”

Only then do I remember that Newsbag has a ritual for initiating new writers. One that starts in a specific spot on the quad where the first Newsbag writers used to sit and meet to read each other’s work. One I hardly even let myself think about, because it would feel like jinxing everything, letting my imagination go that far.

I blink back happy tears, so overwhelmed with relief and pride that it feels like it could tip me over. “Do you think that means— shit —does that mean we saved Newsbag ?”

Seb shrugs merrily, then takes me by the shoulders to pivot me back in the direction of the quad. “Only one way to find out.”

I stare out at the main path I’ve taken so many times, knowing that no time will be quite as sweet as this one. I want to soak in every second of it; I want to sprint down it like a little kid. I want to press yet another perfect moment into my heart, but my heart is already way ahead of me, thrumming with all the moments to come—the joyful and the scary and everything in between—knowing that so many of them started right here, in the arms of the boy I love, with a future full of infinite possibilities at my feet.