41. Addy
Chapter forty-one
Addy
T he weight of my eyelids feels heavier than the backpack slung over one shoulder as I push through the glass doors into the cacophonous halls of Saint Ignatius. It's a buzzing hive, students swarming in their cliques, flitting back and forth as they spread gossip like pollen.
I shuffle forward, each step an effort to keep myself anchored to this routine that's wearing me down to the bone.
"Hey, Addy," someone calls out, a voice lost in the sea of chatter. I don't look up. What's the point?
I'm so tired—tired of pretending, of fighting, of constantly being on edge. The thought bubbles up unbidden, a desperate whisper from the darkest corner of my mind: What if I just run?
"Are you okay?" A girl brushes past me, concern fleeting across her face before she's pulled back into the current of students.
"Fine," I mutter, but it's a lie even a stranger can see through.
A fantasy takes hold, a siren's call coaxing me toward an invisible precipice. I could leave, I think. Just turn around, walk out, and never look back.
My heart hammers against my chest at the thought. I'd be homeless, sure, but freedom might be worth sleeping on a park bench. There must be a shelter somewhere that would take me in until I'm eighteen—a few months of hiding, a few months of living without looking over my shoulder. I could do that. I've survived worse.
"Watch out!" Too late; I bump into a locker, the metal cold against my arm, snapping me back to reality.
"Sorry," I mumble, not sure who I'm even apologizing to—the locker, the nameless faces around me, or myself for even considering escape.
I could do it, couldn't I? Just disappear? The bell rings, a shrill reminder that I'm still here, still trapped in this life, but only for now. Maybe, just maybe, there's a sliver of hope. Maybe I'm more than this school, these walls, this suffocating existence.
"Adelaide?" another voice calls, closer this time, insistent.
I shake my head, clearing it of dreams and maybes. I can already feel the tendrils of another headache creeping in. Too many nights of restless sleep are catching up to me. The last thing I need is drama, but as I approach my locker, it hits me like a brick wall.
"Adelaide," Preston's voice calls again, slithering into my ears before I even see his face.
My gaze snaps up, and there he is, leaning against my locker with that same arrogant smirk that's been haunting my days. My stomach churns with the usual cocktail of fear and frustration, but today, anger bubbles to the surface, hot and unexpected.
"What do you want, Preston?" The words fly from my mouth before I can stop them. I don't have time for this, not today.
He pushes off from the locker, stepping towards me. "I just want to talk," he says, but his eyes tell a different story—one where 'talk' means 'control,' 'claim,' 'force.'
"Talk, then," I challenge, crossing my arms despite the tremble in my fingers.
"I've had enough of this rebellion, Adelaide. You know you belong to me," he starts, voice low and menacing. "Barrett Saint is a prick. He's just using you to get under my skin."
A humorless laugh escapes me. "Belong to you? That's rich, Preston." I sidestep him, trying to access my locker, but his hand clamps down on my arm, holding me back.
"Let. Go." I try to jerk my arm away, but his grip tightens.
"Preston, baby!" Cecily's voice cuts through the tension like a knife, dripping with faux concern. Students around us start to whisper, their eyes darting between us, eager for the next installment of high school melodrama.
"Ew, what are you doing with her?" Cecily asks loudly enough for everyone to hear, her tone suggesting she's here to save the day when we all know she's here to put on a show.
"Back off," I snap, still trying to shake Preston off. "Walk away and let me live my life, without either of you."
With one last seething look at Preston, who has yet to release my arm, I spin the combination lock and yank open my locker. The metallic clang echoes my pounding heart.
The hallway is buzzing, every pair of eyes glued to the spectacle. I catch snippets of hushed conversations, speculations, and judgments. None of them really know what's going on, none of them understand. But that's high school for you—a breeding ground for rumors and lies. And right now, I'm the main character of a story I never wanted to be a part of.
"Addy, don't think you're fooling anyone," Cecily's voice is laced with a venom that rivals the sting of disinfectant in the air. "You prancing around with Saint and his crew—it’s all just a sad attempt to make Preston jealous."
I freeze, whipping around to face her. "Excuse me?" My voice is a snarl, but inside, I'm reeling. Does she honestly believe that?
"Please," Cecily tosses her hair, her eyes narrowing. "It's obvious you're not over him. And those boys," she waves a dismissive hand, "they're just playing with you. You're a project, Addy. Once they're done, they'll toss you aside like everyone else."
Her words, meant to wound, only fuel a fire that's been building within me. I try to hold it in, really I do. But, the cackle that escapes me can't be helped. "Oh, oh boy. That's rich. I don't need to make anyone jealous, Cece. I don't want Preston. Not now, not ever again. The same can't be said for him. Everywhere I turn, there he is, waiting."
Before she can retort, a sudden silence falls upon the hallway. I feel rather than see Saint, Chess, and Dre approach. They have this gravitational pull, an aura that commands attention without a single word. The crowd parts for them like some sort of twisted Red Sea, and there, standing before me, is Saint—dark curls and all.
Preston drops my arm like a hot potato when Dre's eyes narrow on the contact.
"Hey, baby," his voice is low but warm, a stark contrast to the chill of the hallway. He holds out a paper bag toward me, the smell of fresh pastries wafting from within. "Brought you breakfast."
"Saint," I start, my anger at Cecily momentarily forgotten as I look at him, Chess, and Dre. They stand united, a front that seems impenetrable. It's both comforting and terrifying how they just swoop in, ready to shield me from whatever comes my way. But right now, I can't focus on that. There's too much turmoil swirling inside, too many battles to fight.
"Thanks," I manage to say, taking the bag. It feels warm in my hands, the heat seeping into my chilled fingers, thawing out more than just the cold.
Saint's hand, unexpectedly gentle, finds its way to my waist. My heart jolts as he pulls me closer, and his lips brush the top of my head—a gesture so tender it feels foreign. I'm acutely aware of every eye on us, of the weight of his claim.
Around us, the tension crackles like static. I can feel the stares, hear the whispers blossoming like an unwelcome spring.
"Oh my god," someone whispers loudly.
They've set off the hive. Saint leans down, his voice a soft murmur against my ear. "Ignore them, Princess."
But the words are lost in the rising tide of speculation and judgment. The whispers from the crowd swell, buzzing with gossip they just can't wait to start spreading.
"I knew there was something going on!"
"I heard she's just using him."
"I heard she's sleeping with all three of them."
"What a slut!"
The weight of their assumptions hangs heavy in the air, and I resist the urge to snap back, to set the record straight. Mostly because they're not entirely wrong. There is something going on with all three of them. And I am using Saint just as much as he's using me.
Cecilys scoff slices through the murmurs, dripping with scorn. "Preston is mine. Stay away from him."
"Happily."
I don't have to look at Preston to sense the anger rolling off him in waves. His presence looms behind me, dark and oppressive.
I can feel my own anger bubbling up. It's seeping through y cracks like hot magma. But I won't let these nasty little pests see me erupt.
"I thought I told you to stay away from my girl, Preston?" Saint's tone is deceptively calm, but there's a challenge there, an unspoken dare for him to escalate this further.
Preston's response is a tight-lipped glare, his jaw clenched so hard I'm surprised it doesn't crack. But he doesn't move. He doesn't touch me again. There's a silent battle of wills, one fought with glares and postures rather than fists. At least while we're on school grounds.
"Come on, Preston," Cecily coaxes, her nails probably digging into his arm, though I don't turn to confirm. "Let's leave the lovebirds to their... whatever this is."
And just like that, they retreat, the crowd parting for them this time, buzzing with fresh gossip to spread. It's over almost as quickly as it began, leaving behind a strange sense of emptiness where the confrontation once stood.
The last echo of footsteps fades, and a heavy silence slumps against my locker. My gaze shifts from Saint's retreating arm to Chess's apologetic shrug and Dre's furrowed brow. I let the paper bag crinkle in my grip, the scent of warm pastries battling with the acrid residue of anger.
"Are. You. Kidding. Me?" I demand when I can see we're finally alone in this stretch of the hallway. "Since when do you make decisions for me?" The question slices through the quiet, sharp and unexpected, even to my own ears.
Saint's eyes darken, the curl of his lips flattening. "I was helping you."
"Were you?" I scoff, feeling the acidic taste of betrayal on my tongue. "You just branded me in front of the entire school without so much as a heads up."
Chess steps forward, hands splayed in a peace-offering gesture. "Addy, we were just trying to—"
"Protect me? By making me your territory?" The words are colder than I intend, but they're out before I can rein them in.
"Snowflake," Dre interjects, his voice soothing but edged with concern. "We had to send a message. Preston shouldn't be touching you."
"A message?" I spit back, my heart thrumming with a cocktail of hurt and indignation. "And who gets to decide what messages are sent?"
Silence swallows us whole, and I can see the cogs turning behind their eyes—concern, confusion, a whole lot of anger, maybe a hint of regret. But none of it erases the fact that they acted without me.
"Guess I got my answer," I mutter, more to myself than to them, as I pivot on my heel and stride toward my class. My bag thumps rhythmically against my thigh, a metronome to my swirling thoughts.
I don't glance back at them, but I can feel their gazes searing into my back. And while part of me revels in the notion of being someone's to fight for, the larger part—the part that's learned to rely only on herself—is incensed.
How dare they think they could just stake a claim? How dare they not consult me?
Yet as I push through the door to my first period, I can't ignore the burgeoning strategy unfolding in the back of my mind. Perhaps this is exactly the leverage I need. I don't need their sincerity, just their allegiance. Just their promise to do right by me.
A weight settles onto my chest, a reminder that and alliances are often forged in the crucible of necessity rather than desire. As I slide into my seat, I resolve to keep my guard up, to remember that while they may stand beside me now, my fight is ultimately my own. But, maybe, just maybe, they're the pawns I've been looking for.