Chapter 22
Chapter Twenty-Two
Jace
My room is now upstairs, two doors down from Bells.
It’s strange as hell to have a room that’s actually mine.
Not temporary. Not borrowed. Just mine. I have a bed that doesn’t sag in the middle, a proper mattress that doesn’t have springs digging into my back when I sleep.
There’s a desk where I can actually spread out my stuff, and a window that looks out over the backyard.
The walls are painted in a neutral gray color, and I have a closet. A damn closet with doors that close and shelves I can actually use. I’ve kept it neat and tidy, folding the handful of shirts I own onto the shelves. It doesn’t look like much, but it’s more than I’ve ever had.
The room I had downstairs, the one near the kitchen, is being set up for when Lola’s dad is coming home next week.
He won’t be able to climb the stairs for some time.
Bells and I have been getting it ready. She has been buzzing with excitement about it for days, talking about how good it’ll be to have him home, how much she’s missed him, how the house will finally feel complete again.
I go with her to visit him now. Every other day after school, we drive to the new rehab center where they’ve transferred him.
We talk. He asks me about school, about work at the diner, about how I’m settling in.
He seems like a decent guy, the kind of dad who actually cares about his kid.
The kind who asks questions and listens to the answers.
The kind who looks at his daughter like she hung the freakin’ moon.
But I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t scared that this whole arrangement might fall apart when he gets back, because dads don’t really trust me with their daughters.
So yeah, I’m fucking terrified that Mr. Bellamy is going to get home and decide it’s time for me to leave.
Today, though, I have bigger problems to handle.
Miss Mallory arranged for me to retake an English test I totally bombed last semester. I didn’t even bother answering half the questions. Just simply sat there staring at the paper like it was written in a foreign language. I even doodled a decent skull in the margin and handed it in blank.
Now I really have to pass the damn thing.
Bells and I have been working our butts off.
Our days are so packed that there’s barely any time to breathe.
School, visiting her dad, me going to work, and tutoring sessions that go late into the night—Bells sprawled out on my bed with textbooks and notes, drilling me on symbolism, metaphors, and all the stuff I never paid attention to the first time around.
And of course, fucking, because no matter how busy we are, no matter how exhausted, I can’t keep my hands off her.
The way she looks when she’s concentrating, biting her lip as she explains some concept I don’t fully understand.
The way she gasps when I kiss her neck. The way she says my name when I’m inside her.
But this test is important. It’s one of the requirements for my graduation, and for the first time in my life, I truly want it.
I want to walk across that stage in a cap and gown to receive my diploma.
I want to prove that I’m not the screw-up everyone expects me to be and to show Bells that her faith in me wasn’t misplaced.
But more than anything, I want to be someone she can be proud of.
The classroom is empty when I walk in except for Miss Mallory sitting at her desk, her head bent over a stack of papers she’s grading with a red pen. She looks up when I enter, and there’s something in her expression that’s professional but not unkind. Like she actually wants me to succeed.
“Jace,” she says, her voice smooth and steady. She points to a desk in the front row, the one directly in front of her. “Have a seat.”
I sink into the chair and my leg immediately starts bouncing with this nervous energy I’m not used to feeling. My hands are sweaty. My heart is pounding harder than it should for a damn test.
Miss Mallory stands and approaches, her heels clicking on the linoleum floor.
She’s wearing a pencil skirt that clings to her hips and a white blouse, tucked in so tight it’s distracting.
Her dark hair is pulled back into a low bun, with a few strands framing her face.
She exudes that authoritative, untouchable kind of heat that used to make me think about all the wrong things.
Not that I’m looking anymore like I was. Not now when I’ve got Bells.
She puts the test face down on the desk in front of me, and I stare at its blank white back as if it might bite me.
“You have two hours,” she says, her voice steady and even. “Read each question thoroughly. Take your time. Show your work on the essay questions. And Jace?” She pauses, waiting until I meet her gaze. “Actually try this time.”
I nod, as my throat is too tight to say anything.
She returns to her desk and settles into her chair.
“Okay, you can start now,” she says.
The room becomes quiet except for the ticking clock on the wall and the sound of my breathing.
I flip the test over.
The questions stare back at me, black ink on white paper, and for a second, that old panic starts to take hold. The one that tells me I’m too stupid for this, that I’m wasting my time, and that I should just walk out now to avoid the embarrassment of failing again.
But then I think about Bells. About the way she looks at me when we’re studying together, her eyes bright and patient and so fucking sure that I can do this. All the times she smiled when I got something right. She believes in me even when I don’t believe in myself.
I pick up my pen and begin reading.
I stare at the question, my mind immediately drifting back to the night Bells and I studied this.
We were sitting on my bed, her legs tucked under her, with the textbook open between us.
She read this poem aloud, looked at me, and said, “It’s about choices, Jace.
About how the decisions we make shape who we become. ”
I remember thinking about my own roads. The ones I’ve chosen and the ones I didn’t. The decision to stay with Bells instead of running. The choice to try instead of giving up.
I start writing, my handwriting messier than Bells but still legible. I talk about roads as life choices, about how the speaker reflects on a decision that changed everything. I mention the theme of individuality, taking the less traveled path, and how that has shaped the speaker’s identity.
It’s not perfect, but it’s something. It’s more than I would have written six months ago.
I keep working, question after question.
Short answer, multiple choice, another essay about Shakespeare that makes me want to throw the test across the room.
But I push through, remembering how Bells explained it all to me at two in the morning, her voice patient even though I kept getting it wrong.
By the time I’ve finished the test, my hand cramps so badly I can barely hold the pen, and my brain seems like it’s been put through a blender. But I did it. I answered every single question.
I stand, my chair scraping against the floor, and walk the test over to Miss Mallory. She takes it from me, her expression unreadable.
“Come back at lunch,” she says, setting the test aside. “I’ll have your results by then.”
I nod, not trusting myself to speak, and leave. My heart is pounding harder than it should.
Lunch can’t come fast enough.
I spend the rest of the morning in a daze, barely paying attention in my other classes. My mind keeps drifting back to that damn test. To all the questions I answered, wondering whether I got them right or totally fucked it up.
Bells is waiting for me outside Miss Mallory’s classroom when the lunch bell rings, leaning against the wall with her arms crossed over her chest. She’s wearing jeans and a soft gray sweater that makes her eyes look lighter, and her hair is pulled back in a ponytail.
She looks nervous, chewing on her bottom lip in that way she does when she’s anxious.
“Hey,” I say, sliding my hand into hers.
“Hey.” She squeezes my hand tight. “You ready?”
“No.”
She laughs softly, but it sounds strained. “You’re going to be fine. You studied so hard, Jace.”
“Yeah, well, studying and passing the test are two different things.”
“You passed,” she says with a confidence I don’t feel. “I know you did.”
I want to believe her. I want to believe that all those late nights and early mornings really paid off. That the hours we spent reviewing notes and practicing essay structures weren’t a complete waste of time. But I’ve never been good at this. I’ve never cared enough to be good at it.
Until now.
We walk into the classroom together, and Miss Mallory is sitting at her desk with my test in front of her, a red pen in her hand. She looks up when we enter, and I still can’t read her expression.
My stomach drops.
This is it. This is where she tells me I failed, that I’m not cut out for this, that I should drop out and stop wasting everyone’s time.
“Sit,” she says, gesturing to the desks in front of her.
Bells and I sit side by side, and I can sense the tension radiating off her. She’s as nervous as I am, perhaps more. Her hand finds mine under the desk, our fingers lacing together, and I hold on like she’s the only thing keeping me from drowning.
Miss Mallory stands and walks around her desk, leaning against it as she looks at me. She’s holding the test, and I can see red marks all over it, corrections and comments in her neat handwriting.
Fuck.
“I’m not going to drag this out,” she says, her voice softer than usual. “You passed.”
The words take a second to register.
“I passed?” I repeat, still with some doubt. The words are foreign in my mouth.
“Yes. You passed,” she confirms, and there’s the smallest hint of a smile on her face. “Not barely, either. You got seventy-eight percent. That’s a solid C plus, Jace.”
Relief washes over me so hard I almost laugh. It hits me in the chest like a physical force, knocking the air out of my lungs. My chest is tight, my throat thick with something I’ve never allowed myself to feel before.
“Fucking hell,” I breathe out.
“Language, Mr. Cooper,” Miss Mallory says, but she’s definitely smiling now, her professional mask slipping just enough.
“But yes, indeed. You did well, Jace. Really well. Your essay on Frost was particularly strong. You showed a genuine understanding of the material. You actually thought about it.”
I don’t know what to say to that.
Bells exhales a breath beside me, and when I look at her, her eyes shine with unshed happy tears. The kind that make her eyes gleam, all bright and wet, and so fucking proud it makes my chest ache.
“I knew it,” she says, her voice thick with emotion, barely above a whisper. “I knew you could do it.”
The way she’s looking at me, as if I’ve moved mountains instead of passing a damn English test, makes me want to be better.
“There is one more exam,” Miss Mallory continues, setting my passed test down on the desk in front of her.
I can see the red marks all over it, but they aren’t all corrections; some are check marks.
“In two weeks. It covers the second semester material: modern poetry, contemporary literature. If you pass that one as well, you’ll be on track to graduate with your class. ”
Graduate. Walking across that stage in a cap and gown, proof that I’ve truly made it.
“I’ll pass it,” I say, and I truly mean it.
For the first time in my life, I actually mean it.
I’m not simply saying what someone wants to hear.
I’m making a promise to myself. Giving myself hope.
There’s that fucking word again. The one I thought was bullshit.
The one I always dismissed because faith in things only led to letdowns when they proved unsuccessful.
We stand, and Bells immediately grabs my hand. Her fingers thread through mine as she leads me toward the door. Her grip is tight, almost painful, but I don’t care. I’d let her break every bone in my hand if it meant she’d keep looking at me the way she is right now.
But before we leave, something makes me stop. Something that is important.
I turn back.
“Miss Mallory?”
She looks up from the papers on her desk, her pen hanging in mid-air.
“Thanks. For giving me another shot. And for not giving up on me.” The words feel awkward as they leave my mouth, but I mean them. “Most people wouldn’t have.”
Her expression softens, and for a moment, she doesn’t seem like a teacher. “Everyone deserves a second chance, Jace. What you do with it is up to you. But for what it’s worth, I think you’re going to do just fine.”
I nod, not trusting myself to say anything else without my voice cracking, and follow Bells out into the hallway.
The moment we’re alone, she throws her arms around my neck, and I catch her, lifting her off the ground. She’s laughing and crying at the same time, her face pressed into my shoulder.
“I’m so proud of you,” she whispers against my ear, her voice breaking on every word. “So, so proud. You have no idea.”
And for once, I let myself feel it. The pride. The accomplishment. The knowledge that I actually did something right. That I worked hard and it paid off. That I’m not the hopeless case everyone considered me to be. That I’m becoming someone worthy of the girl in my arms.
“I couldn’t have done it without you,” I say, setting Lola down but keeping my arms around her waist, holding her close enough that her heart beats against my chest.
“Yes, you could have,” she says, pulling back just enough to look at me. Her eyes are red-rimmed behind her glasses and she’s never looked more beautiful. “You’re smarter than you think you are, Jace Cooper. You just needed to believe it. You just needed to try.”
“I never had a reason to try before,” I say, and it’s the fucking truth. Raw and honest in a way that makes me feel exposed, vulnerable in a way I’ve never let myself be with anyone. “Not until you.”
Her breath stalls in her chest and her eyes go wide for just a second before they soften.
Then she’s pulling me down, her fists in my shirt, dragging me to her as if she can’t wait another second.
And I kiss her. Right here in the hallway, not caring who sees or what they think.
I kiss her like she’s the only thing keeping me alive, because maybe she is.
Maybe she’s the reason my heart keeps beating, the reason I get up in the morning, the reason I’m trying to be more than the screw-up everyone expects.