Chapter 2
Chapter Two
SUTTON
Ihaven't slept.
Every time I close my eyes, I see that photo. The pain I feel is physical. It actually hurts. My heart hurts.
I've been lying in bed for hours, staring at the ceiling, replaying every moment of the past few weeks.
Every time Bree showed up at the house.
Every "coincidental" encounter in the kitchen.
Every giggle in the hallway.
Every touch that lingered too long.
I thought I was being paranoid. Jealous. Insecure.
But I wasn't. I was right.
I haven’t left my room except to dart across the hall to use the bathroom. I crept downstairs to grab a snack, but I’ve been hiding since. It’s silly and immature, but I don’t want to see him.
And now I have to get up and go to class, where everyone will look at me and either laugh at me or pity me.
I hate that.
I hate that he’s put me in this position again.
The house is quiet. It always is at this hour. I have practice, which I normally hate being so early, but now I’m grateful for it.
I grab my bag and head out, not bothering to make myself coffee or grab breakfast. I don’t think anyone is in the house, but just in case, I’d rather not deal with the guy’s looks—pity or anger.
I’m still not sure where Holden and Declan stand.
I don’t think I heard Holden in the house yesterday, but I can’t say for certain.
Practice is horrible.
I'm off my game. My passes are sloppy. My shots are weak. I can't focus on the plays.
Coach blows her whistle and skates over. "Webb, a word."
I follow her to the bench while the rest of the team continues drills.
"What's going on with you?" she asks bluntly.
"Nothing, Coach."
"Don't bullshit me. Did you get taken over by a pod person?”
“A what?” I ask with confusion.
“Your head's not in the game." She crosses her arms. "Is this about that photo I've been hearing about?"
Of course, she's heard about it. Everyone's heard about it.
"It's personal."
"Personal affects performance, and right now, your performance is suffering." Her voice softens slightly. "Look, I'm not going to pry into your relationship drama. But you're the captain of this team. The girls look up to you. If you're struggling, it affects everyone."
"I know. I'm sorry."
"I don't want your apology. I want you to get your head together." She gestures back to the ice. "Take the rest of the practice off. Go clear your head. Come back tomorrow ready to work."
I nod, fighting back tears as I skate to the locker room.
This is just getting better and better.
Class is torture.
I sit in the back of my forensic pathology lecture, taking notes I won't remember. The professor is talking about blood spatter analysis, but I can't focus.
My mind keeps drifting back to that photo.
To all the little moments I dismissed.
To all the times I told myself I was being crazy.
"Ms. Webb?"
I look up and find the professor staring directly at me. Shit. Did she ask a question?
She did, and she asks again. And she may as well be speaking to me in Mandarin.
Several students turn to look at me. Sutton Webb, the straight-A student who always knows the answers, is drawing a blank.
"Perhaps you should review the material. See me after class."
I nod, my face burning.
After class, I try to slip out quickly, but the professor calls me back.
It’s already been a rough day, and it’s not even noon yet.
"Sutton, is everything all right?"
"I'm fine. Just tired."
She studies me with concern. "You're one of my best students. You don’t look well. Should you go to the clinic?"
"I’m fine. I promise. I'm sorry. I just didn’t get any sleep. It won't happen again."
"If there's something going on—personal issues, family problems—you can talk to me. We can arrange accommodations if needed."
"Thank you, but I'm fine. Really."
I escape before she can press further.
I'm failing at everything. My classes. My hockey. My relationship.
I head to the coffee shop near campus. I need to study. Need to focus on something other than Declan, Bree, or that damn photo. With a Trenta iced mocha. Trenta—as in the biggest cup they have. I don’t care that it cost me ten bucks. I need it more than I need air at that moment.
I'm two chapters into my textbook when someone sits down across from me.
I don't even need to look up to know who it is.
"Cole, I swear to god, I’m so not in the mood."
"Just hear me out."
I finally look at him. He's not smiling this time. He looks almost... sympathetic.
"I know what happened," he says. "Everyone knows."
"Great. Did you come here to gloat?"
"No. I came to show you something." He pulls out his phone and turns it toward me.
I scan the thread. “So? I know. She wanted him. She got him. Good for her.”
The messages were in some goofy cheerleader group chat. I had no idea how Cole had the screenshots, and I honestly didn’t care.
"She's been telling people for weeks that you and Declan were on the rocks. My cousin is on the squad. She told me, which is why I’ve been coming around. I thought you could use a friend.”
That was bullshit, and we both knew it. He was coming around because he smelled weakness. I was the weakest animal that got left behind, and Cole was moving in for the kill.
I already felt numb. And dead.
I stare at the screenshots, feeling numb.
“I don’t care, Cole. Whatever. I’m not going to go after her and start a catfight if that’s what you and the rest of campus are hoping for.”
He leans forward. "Look, I know we didn't end well. And I know I've been kind of pushy lately. But I'm not a complete asshole. Bree Matthews is toxic. She manipulated this whole situation."
“I don't want to talk about this anymore." I gather my things. "Please stop showing up wherever I am. It's weird."
"I'm just trying to help."
"You're not helping. You're making everything worse." I stand up. "Leave me alone, Cole. I mean it this time."
I leave before he can respond.
I stumble through two more classes before going straight to the restaurant for my shift.
My shift is a blur. I smile. I take orders. I serve food. I pocket tips.
I don't think about Declan.
I don't think about Bree.
I don't think about anything.
By the time I clock out at ten, I'm exhausted. Physically. Emotionally. Completely drained.
I just want to go home, crawl into bed, and disappear.
But when I get home, Declan is sitting outside my door.
He's got two milkshakes from my favorite shop. A bag from my favorite diner that smells like the breakfast sandwich I always order. His hair is a mess. His eyes are bloodshot.
He looks terrible.
Good.
"Sutton." He stands up quickly. "Please. Just five minutes. That's all I'm asking."
I stare at him, remembering all the times I believed him before. All the times I gave him the benefit of the doubt.
"I brought a strawberry milkshake. And I had them make your favorite bacon, egg, and cheese. I’m guessing you didn’t eat breakfast this morning.” He holds them out like peace offerings. "Please. Just let me explain."
I am hungry. And that milkshake is comfort in a cup.
I take it from his hand.
His face lights up with hope.
I walk past him to the trash can at the end of the hall. Pour the entire cup into it. The creamy ice cream slides down the plastic bag.
"Sutton."
I walk back, unlock my door, and step inside.
He’s standing there looking like I just kicked his puppy.
I stare at him for two seconds before shutting the door in his face.
"Nothing happened!" His voice is muffled through the wood. "Bree was crying. She asked me to walk her to her room. That's it. That's all that happened."
I pull out my phone and open Spotify, searching for the angriest playlist I have.
"I didn't cheat on you! I would never cheat on you!"
I turn up the volume—the music blasts through my room, drowning out his voice before I put in my earbuds.
I am drawn into a world with an angry guitar and a pounding drumbeat.
I press my back against the door, sliding down to sit on the floor.
I can feel him on the other side. Feel the vibration of his voice through the wood, even though I can't hear the words anymore.
The music pounds in my ears. Aggressive guitars. Screaming vocals. Exactly what I need.
I don't know how long he stays out there. Ten minutes. Twenty. Maybe more.
Eventually, the vibrations stop.
He's gone.
I turn down the music and listen.
Silence.
I should feel relieved.
Instead, I just feel empty.
My phone buzzes—a text from Keira.
Keira: You okay?
Me: No.
Keira: Want me to come over?
Me: I just want to be alone.
Keira: Call me if you need me—any time.
Me: I will.
But I won't because talking about it makes it real. And if I pretend hard enough, maybe I can convince myself that none of this is happening.