3. Cassie
Cassie
Tyler is everywhere.
Not in a stalker way. In a frustratingly persistent way.
He shows up to the literary magazine meetings, sits in the back, reads every piece that gets submitted. He volunteers to help organize the spring reading event. He even submits a piece himself, a short reflection on toxic masculinity in sports culture that’s actually… good.
Like, genuinely well-written and insightful. Which is annoying because I don’t want him to be talented at anything.
“He’s growing on you,” Lennox says one afternoon while we’re getting coffee.
“He’s not growing on me. He’s like a fungal infection.”
“Very poetic.”
“I’m serious. He’s always there. At the magazine meetings, at group hangouts, at the library. It’s like he’s following me.”
“Or like he’s trying to be part of a community that matters. Like he’s trying to change.” Lennox points out.
“People don’t change, Lennox. They just get better at hiding who they really are.”
“That’s not true.” She stirs her latte thoughtfully. “I’ve seen people change. Carter changed. Ryder changed. Jackson changed. Tyler is changing.”
“Tyler was part of the problem.” I could tell her how bad it got for me, how much I cried in my room, but I can’t be bothered to do it, because she seems to be on team Tyler.
“And now he’s part of the solution. Isn’t that worth something?”
“Not when he’s only changing because he feels guilty.”
“Does it matter why he’s changing if he actually is?”
I don’t answer because I don’t have a good response.
It’s harder to admit that he might actually be trying.
The spring reading event comes up before I’m ready for it. The literary magazine hosts an evening where students read their work, poetry, short fiction, creative nonfiction. It’s become a bit of an institution, with most of the friend group showing up to support whoever’s reading.
I’m reading a piece I wrote over winter break.
It’s creative nonfiction, an exploration of what it feels like to be othered in spaces you didn’t realize were hostile.
It’s not explicitly about sophomore year, but it’s informed by sophomore year.
Everyone who was there will know what I’m talking about.
I’m nervous as hell, because this is maybe the first time I will say some things out loud for everyone to hear.
“You’re going to be amazing,” Lennox says in the greenroom, which is actually just a backstage area with bad lighting and uncomfortable chairs.
“I’m going to throw up.”
“You’re not going to throw up. You’re going to read this beautiful, powerful piece, and everyone’s going to sit in stunned silence before applauding. Then you’re going to come back here and I’m going to hug you.”
“What if I forget my words?” I rub my forehead, not sure how to calm myself down.
“You won’t. You’ve practiced this a hundred times.”
“What if Tyler’s out there and I lose focus?”
Lennox gives me a look. “Is that still about sophomore year or is that about something else?”
“It’s about sophomore year.” I quickly correct her.
“Mm-hmm. And nothing else?”
“Nothing else,” I snap.
She doesn’t believe me, and I don’t blame her. Because the truth is, Tyler’s been showing up to things, and I’ve been noticing him showing up, and there’s something about his continued presence that’s starting to feel less like an intrusion and more like… intention.
Which is dangerous.
When it’s time for my reading, I walk out on stage with my printed pages and try very hard not to look into the audience.
I fail. My eyes find Tyler immediately. He’s sitting next to Carter, paying complete attention, like my words matter to him, which I know they don’t.
I don’t understand why that makes my heart race.
I read the piece, about feeling unsafe in spaces that were supposed to be welcoming, about the way silence from bystanders amplifies the harmful words being said to you, about learning to reclaim spaces that tried to reject you.
When I finish, there’s that stunned silence Lennox predicted. Then the applause starts, from the whole audience.
From Tyler, applauding like his life depends on it.
After the event, I’m standing in the hallway talking to some other writers about how well they did, then Tyler appears.
“That was incredible,” he says, sounding happy and like he really cares.
“Thanks.”
“I mean it. The way you wrote about silence, it was…” He trails off, searching for the right word. “It was transformative. For me, specifically.”
“Good.”
“Is it? Because you’re acting like you couldn’t care less what I think.” He puts his hands into his pockets.
“That’s because I can’t.”
He steps closer, and my body reacts before my brain catches up, heart rate increasing, skin flushing, awareness of his proximity becoming impossible to ignore.
“Really?” he asks quietly. “You can’t even a little bit?”
“No.”
“Liar.”
I should be offended. Should tell him to back off. Should maintain the wall I’ve been building for two years.
Instead, I feel something crack inside me, and I hate myself for it.
“You don’t get to do this,” I say, keeping my voice low. “You don’t get to show up and apologize and try to be better and expect me to suddenly forgive you. You don’t get to make this about your redemption arc.”
“I’m not trying to.”
“Yes, you are. It’s all very noble and very pathetic.” I feel bad about saying it, but it’s how I'm feeling right now.
“Pathetic?”
“You’re trying to earn forgiveness. And I don’t have it to give, but I have no idea why?”
“I’m not trying to earn anything from you, Cassie. I’m trying to earn the respect of the person I’m becoming. There’s a difference.”
Something about the way he says it, matter-of-fact, without expecting reciprocation makes me realize he might actually mean it.
Which is the most dangerous thing that’s happened yet. When I first saw him I thought he was so good looking, and I wanted him, but that all changed when I finally saw the real Tyler.