Chapter 16 #2
One of the girls gasps. “Who are you and what have you done with Stella?”
I roll my eyes. “Relax.”
But something in my chest shifts. I stand. Walk to my closet.
And for once—I don’t reach for comfort. I don’t reach for function. I reach for impact. Shorts. Denim. Cut high enough to show the muscle in my thighs.
Legs I’ve built.
Earned.
A fitted cami with thin straps. Soft fabric that clings just enough.
I let my hair down.
Brush it out until it falls smooth down my back.
No braid.
No bow.
No armor.
Just me.
Makeup.
Not heavy.
But intentional.
Gloss.
Mascara.
A little shimmer at the corners of my eyes.
Enough to catch light.
Enough to be seen.
I slip on heels.
Not practical.
Not safe.
Not me.
Or maybe—
A different version of me.
When I turn back toward the room—
They’re all staring.
Delia lets out a low whistle.
“Well damn.”
One of the girls laughs.
“Stella Cortez decided to ruin lives tonight.”
I grab my bag.
Shrug one shoulder.
“Something like that.”
But inside—
It’s not confidence.
Not really.
It’s something closer to defiance.
If the world wants a show—
Fine.
I’ll give them one.
Because I’m done being the girl who watches from the stands.
Even if I have to pretend.
The party is already loud when we get there.
Not just music loud—alive loud.
Bass thumping through the walls like a second heartbeat. String lights zigzag across the backyard, casting everything in warm gold and shadow. The air smells like cheap beer, expensive perfume, and something fruity burning in a vape pen nearby.
Bodies everywhere.
Girls dressed like they’re heading to a club in downtown LA instead of a frat house—tight dresses, glossy lips, hair blown out and perfect. Malibu Barbie types with bronzed skin and white teeth and effortless confidence.
Guys louder.
Shirts half-buttoned. Red cups in hand. Arms slung over shoulders like they own the place.
Beer pong in the corner.
“WATERFALL!” someone yells as a line of girls tilt plastic cups back and laugh.
It’s chaos.
It’s exactly what I’ve been avoiding.
And tonight—
I don’t care.
“Shots?” Delia asks.
“Yeah.”
She blinks.
“…You sure?”
I take the cup from her hand.
“Yeah.”
I knock it back.
Burn.
Sharp. Immediate. Cleansing.
Good.
I move through the crowd like I belong here.
Head high.
Shoulders back.
People look. I can feel it — the shift in attention, the way conversations pause just slightly as I pass.
I don’t acknowledge any of it.
I’m not here for them.
I’m here to not feel like I’m the only one sitting still while the world keeps moving.
I grab a beer.
Then another.
Then something stronger someone hands me that tastes like citrus and bad decisions.
For a few minutes—
It works.
The noise drowns everything out.
The music fills the spaces in my head.
I laugh at something Delia says.
I even forget—
Until I don’t.
“Did you hear about T & T?”
The words cut through everything.
I freeze.
Just for a second.
Then I keep moving like I didn’t.
Like I don’t care.
A group of girls stands near the kitchen island, phones out, voices buzzing.
“He literally went in the ambulance with her.”
“No way.”
“Yes way. My friend is on the soccer team she said he wouldn’t leave her side.”
My stomach tightens.
I take another drink.
Too fast.
“That’s so hot,” one of them sighs.
“Right? Like—protective but calm? Total bad prince energy.”
“What’s her name again?”
“Isa. Isabella something.”
“God, she’s so lucky.”
Lucky.
The word lands wrong.
Another girl leans in, lowering her voice like it’s a secret worth savoring.
“She posted from the hospital.”
Phones tilt.
Screens glow.
“There—see? And look—he’s literally right there.”
They all crowd closer.
“Oh my God.”
“He stayed?”
“Yeah. I heard he had Kane bring him an overnight bag. She’s in shock. Might need surgery.”
“No way.”
“Yes way. He’s staying with her tonight.”
“Stop. That’s so—”
“ROMEO.”
They all laugh.
Swoon.
Glow.
My grip tightens around the cup in my hand.
The plastic crinkles.
I don’t realize how hard I’m holding it until beer spills over my fingers.
Cold.
Sticky.
I don’t say anything.
I just—drink, repeatedly.
The music gets louder or maybe I just stop hearing anything else.
My head feels lighter.
My chest—heavier.
Of course he stayed. That’s who he is.
That’s what I saw on that field.
That instinct—that loyalty.
It could have been me.
I swallow hard, the alcohol burns on the way down. I push through the crowd.
Shoulders bumping.
Music pounding.
Lights blurring slightly at the edges.
I just need—out.
I turn a corner—and stop.
Kane.
Up against the wall.
Not alone.
The track girl.
The one with sleek dark hair and sharp eyes.
Half-Asian, I remember someone saying.
Fast.
Pretty.
Dangerous in that quiet, confident way.
His hands are on her.
Her fingers tangled in the front of his shirt.
And they are—kissing.
Not casual.
Not light.
Full.
Deep.
Like they’ve done it before.
Like they plan to do it again.
Something inside me drops.
Not breaks.
Just—
Drops.
They don’t notice me at first.
Why would they?
They’re wrapped up in each other.
In the moment.
In something easy.
Something I walked away from.
Then Kane pulls back.
Just slightly.
And his eyes—
Catch mine.
Guilt flashes.
Quick.
Gone just as fast.
The girl turns.
Sees me.
Her eyes narrow.
Slow.
Deliberate.
She doesn’t say anything.
She doesn’t need to.
The message is clear.
You had your chance.
I look away first.
“I’m—” I start.
But I don’t even know what I’m excusing myself from.
Them?
Myself?
The moment?
“Sorry,” I mutter anyway.
And step back.
No one stops me.
No one follows.
I push through the front door.
Out into the night.
Cool air hits my face.
Sharp.
Real.
I fumble with my phone.
Uber.
Home.
Now.
The ride is quiet.
Too quiet.
The driver doesn’t speak.
Thank God.
I stare out the window.
Lights blur past.
Campus fading into something softer.
Darker.
My chest aches.
Not dramatic.
Not cinematic.
Just—
Heavy.
By the time I get back to my room, the buzz is gone.
The alcohol doesn’t help.
It never really does.
I kick off my heels.
They hit the wall.
I don’t care.
I sit on the edge of my bed.
And for a second—
I just sit there.
Still.
Then it hits.
Not pretty.
Not controlled.
Tears.
Hot.
Fast.
Silent at first.
Then not.
I press my hand to my mouth.
Try to hold it in.
But it comes anyway.
Because it’s not just one thing.
It’s everything.
Tristan.
Kane.
The field.
The whispers.
The way everyone else seems to fall into something—while I’m just standing here.
Choosing myself.
And ending up—alone.
Frustrated.
Missing heat. Passion. Sex.
All the things that everyone else is having in spades.
I curl onto my side, pull the pillow into my chest.
Eyes burning.
I didn’t want this.
Not like this.
And the worst part? I don’t even know how to fix it.