44. Addy
Chapter forty-four
Addy
T he bell's shrill cry slices through the chaos, and I'm already bracing for his touch before Saint's hand finds the small of my back. It's a silent claim, one that sends a ripple of both annoyance and warmth through me.
And whispers through the crowd around us. Buzz, buzz little bees.
"Ready?" His voice is a low rumble, the same tone that talked about forever in a way that felt more like a chain than a promise.
"Sure." My words are clipped as I shuffle my books closer to my chest. I can't meet his eyes, not when the weight of that unspoken proposal hangs heavy between us, like a ghost we're both determined to ignore.
He guides me through the hallway, past lockers decorated with the remnants of someone's birthday, wilted roses, and heart-shaped confetti. Every step feels like a negotiation. He hasn't brought up the proposal again. But, I know he's thinking about it, waiting. Well, he can keep on waiting.
Who does that? Absolute insanity.
"Saint," I begin, the name feeling strange on my tongue, "about... what happened."
His eyes flicker to mine, a storm brewing in their depths. "We don't have to talk about it, Addy. Not until you're ready."
But will I ever be? Ready to face the choice that isn't really a choice at all, just like with Preston, just like now with Mason pulling strings with my parents. It seems my life is a series of handoffs from one keeper to another.
"Princess?" Saint's voice breaks through my thoughts. He's stopped walking, and I realize we're standing outside my next class. "You okay?"
I nod, the lie smooth and practiced. "Yeah, I'm fine. Just... thinking."
"Okay." He leans down, his lips brushing against my forehead in a moment of affection that's both comforting and claustrophobic. "I'll see you after class. Dre and I will drive you home."
"Thanks," I say, but the word tastes sour. Freedom is an illusion here, and every ride home is a reminder that I am never truly alone. They ferry me from one place to another, a precious object to be transported and guarded.
"Hey," Saint says softly, cupping my cheek with a gentleness that contradicts his brooding exterior. "No matter what happens, we've got you, Princess."
I want to believe him. I want to trust in that 'we', to feel safe in their circle. But trust is a currency I'm always short on, and safety is a language I'm still learning to speak.
"See you later, Saint," I whisper as he turns to leave, my heart a complicated knot of gratitude and rebellion.
"Later, Princess." His reply is simple, but it carries the weight of unsaid things, of feelings buried under layers of scars and fears.
As I watch him walk away, his figure retreating into the sea of students, I wonder if there will ever come a day when my choices will be my own, when my heart will belong to me again. For now, though, I turn and step into my classroom, the lingering warmth of his kiss on my forehead a bittersweet comfort.
The rest of my morning is uneventful. One of the boys meets me outside each classroom, ferrying me to my next as through there are secret dangers lurking in the shadows. I know they're worried about Preston, but he hadn't bothered me in a while.
The final morning bell rings, a shrill sound echoing in the corridor, signaling freedom—at least for an hour. My hand hesitates on the strap of my bag, and I take a deep breath, preparing myself. The hall is bustling with students, all eager for their midday reprieve, but the sea of bodies parts as I step out, my presence drawing a different kind of attention.
"Ready?" Chess's voice cuts through the chatter, his hazel eyes searching mine for something I'm not sure I can give.
"Sure," I say, the word more reflex than truth. His smile doesn't quite reach his eyes, and I feel a pang of guilt for the things left unspoken between us. Silence wraps around us like a shroud as we begin our walk to the computer lab.
Chess matches his stride to mine, a silent sentinel flanking me through the crowded halls. I should be used to this by now—the protective bubble they've crafted around me—but it still feels alien, like a role I never auditioned for.
"Addy..." he starts, and there's a weight to his tone that makes my pulse quicken. But then a group of giggling freshmen barrel past us, and whatever he was about to say gets lost in their wake.
"Chess," I reply, trying to keep my voice steady. "What's going—"
My question is cut off as he suddenly grips my arm, firm but not hurting, and steers me toward the door of an empty classroom. A flicker of anxiety sparks inside me as the door clicks shut behind us, the raucous noise of the hallway muffled as if we're in another world altogether.
"Talk to me," he pleads, and there's an urgency in his eyes that tugs at the knot inside me. "Please."
His hand slides from my arm to cradle my face, his touch tentative yet insistent. My heart thrashes against my ribs, trapped between the desire to lean into his warmth and the instinct to pull away.
"Chess, why did you bring me here?" My voice is a whisper, drowned by the sudden quiet of the room.
"Because out there," he gestures vaguely toward the door, "it's chaos. But in here, it's just us. And I need... I need you to see that I'm serious." His thumb caresses my cheekbone, leaving a trail of heat in its wake.
"Serious about what?" I ask, even though a part of me already knows. It's written in the intensity of his gaze, in the way he stands close enough for me to feel the rise and fall of his chest.
"About you, Addy." His voice drops to a murmur. "About us."
I stare at him, caught in the gravity of this moment, of his confession. The rest of the world fades, and it's just Chess, with his olive skin, dark hair, and eyes that hold multitudes. Just Chess, who's been my shadow, my unexpected anchor in the storm that is Saint Ignatius.
"Us," I echo, the word fragile on my lips.
"Us," he confirms, and for a heartbeat, I let myself believe in the possibility of that simple, powerful word.
Chess's hands are on my shoulders now, grounding me. I can feel the trembling in his fingers, a mirror to the tumult inside me.
"Addy," he pleads softly, his dark hair falling into his eyes as he leans forward. "Please, just... talk to me. What you heard that day, it was before anything happened between us. Before I knew how much I—"
He breaks off, swallowing hard, his adam’s apple bobbing with the effort. I see the struggle in him, the tightness around his eyes that speaks of sincerity or maybe fear. Fear of losing whatever fragile thing we've built in the shadows of our lives.
"Since that first kiss, Addy, I swear... I haven't been with anyone else." His voice is earnest, almost desperate, and his hazel eyes search mine for absolution. He swears, and despite everything, a part of me wants to step into the circle of his arms and believe him.
"Chess," I breathe out, my own voice laced with confusion and the dregs of hurt, "I don't know what to do with this. With us."
"Start by trusting me?" There's an edge of hope there, a bright wire of it stretched taut between us.
The hallway outside buzzes with the distant sound of students, a reminder of the world waiting beyond the solitude of this room. Chess waits too, his gaze never leaving my face.
I clench my fists, the weight of past betrayals making it hard to give him what he's asking for. He asks for trust like it's so easy. As if trust is something I have in abundance and can give away without any hesitation or concern.
He reaches out his hand, palm up, and looks at me with pleading eyes. "I know it's hard," he says, "but please, just give me a chance to earn your trust."
"Okay," I say finally, the word not quite a surrender, but an acknowledgment of the truth I see in him. I let it hang there between us, a fragile bridge over troubled water.
Then he closes the distance, and his lips are on mine, soft and insistent. The kiss isn't a question—it's punctuation. It sears through me, melting the ice around my battered heart, and for a moment, I allow myself to melt into him.
We break apart, breathless, and Chess brushes his thumb across my cheek with a tenderness that makes my chest ache.
"Let's go," I whisper, nodding towards the door, my hand finding his.
"Computer lab," he confirms as if the words are a promise. We leave the quiet sanctuary behind, hand in hand, stepping back into the stream of high school life with a new secret warmth shared between us.
The computer lab buzzes with the low hum of machines and hushed conversations, a digital heartbeat thumping in the background. I try to settle on the empty cushion next to Dre, but he's quicker. With a sly grin, he catches my wrist and pulls me down onto his lap, disregarding my squeal of protest.
"Forgive Chess yet?" Dre's voice is a whisper against my ear, sending a shiver down my spine despite the warmth of his breath. "I don't know what he did, but he seems happier than I've seen him in days."
He kisses me, tasting my lips. When he pulls back his eyes are lit up with mischief. "Oh, you did forgive him, didn't you. Imagine all the fun we could have. Together. All the possibilities."
His words linger like smoke, curling around the idea that's already taking root in my mind. It's tempting, wildly so, and there's a part of me—a reckless, hungry part—that wants to explore every dirty possibility he's hinting at.
"Maybe," I murmur back, the word feeling like a secret I'm not quite ready to share.
"Good girl." His lips press into a smile against my neck, and for a moment, I allow myself the luxury of leaning back into him, feeling his chest rise and fall with quiet laughter.
"Let her eat, Dre," Saint's voice cuts through the tension, though there's a smirk playing on his lips too. He's lounging near the door, dark curly hair falling into his eyes as he watches us with an unreadable expression. "Something came up, Princess. Dre and I've got some business after school. You're riding with Chess today."
Then he shocks the shit out of me. "Is that okay with you, Addy?" Saint's gaze locks onto mine, searching, demanding honesty.
I hesitate, aware of Dre's arms still around me and the weight of Chess's kiss still lingering on my lips. "Yeah, it's fine," I say, and there's a firmness to my voice that surprises even me.
Saint nods, seemingly satisfied, and turns away. I take a deep breath, willing my heartbeat to slow down. It's just a ride home. Just Chess.
"Good," Dre murmurs, releasing me slowly so I can slide off his lap onto the cushion beside him. "Because I think you two have a lot to talk about."
And maybe we do. But right now, with the comfort of Dre's hand finding mine under the table, I let myself focus on the here and now—the soft clatter of keyboards, the silent companionship, and the tangled web of feelings that I'm not quite ready to unravel just yet.
??????
I gather my things slowly, heart thudding in anticipation of sharing a confined space with Chess as the final bell rings. It’s unsettling how much I crave his company despite the chaos it stirs within me.
I want to believe what he said is true. I really do. So, I'm taking a leap of faith.
I might land flat on my face, but that won't be anything new. I can't move forward with my plan unless I'm sure about them. And, I can't be sure about them if I keep them at arms length.
He's waiting for me when I exit the classroom. Normally it's Dre there, so there are some whispers from my classmates as I step out to join him. Without a word, he takes my bag and my hand.
We weave through the throngs of students, each step taking me closer to the inevitable. As we exit the double doors, the crisp autumn air does nothing to ease the warmth spreading through my chest. Chess leads me to an old sedan that's seen better days. His car lacks the polished arrogance of Saint's ride. I'm surprised for a moment before I remember that Chess is a scholarship student.
"You ready?" he asks, walking me to the passenger door with a casual grace that belies the tension in his smile.
"Yeah," I reply. The car's paint is faded, some unknown color that was probably vibrant once upon a time. No tinted windows or chrome here; just the bare essentials held together by what I'm assuming is Dre’s mechanical savvy.
"Let's get you home, Addy." His voice is warm, but there's a weight behind his words that hints at unspoken conversations.
He opens the passenger door for me, and I slide into the seat, the springs groaning in protest under the worn fabric. Chess rounds the vehicle and slips into the driver's seat, his movements fluid like he's merging with the car itself. He looks over like he wants to apologize for what his car is lacking, but I offer a smile so he knows it's not necessary.
I don't need opulence. I grew up in filth and I'd honestly prefer that to the gilded cage I live in now.
We're halfway to the Winthrop estate, silence our uneasy companion, when Chess’s phone erupts with a frantic melody. He fumbles for it, a flicker of concern crossing his features as he glances at the screen before pressing it to his ear.
"Hey."
I strain to listen, but the caller's words are lost to me, drowned out by the persistent hum of the engine and the rush of wind outside. However, the tone is unmistakable—a desperate pitch, feminine and laced with panic. Chess's hazel eyes darken, knuckles whitening on the steering wheel.
" Tranquila, tranquila ," he murmurs, a softness to his voice that's meant to soothe. "I'm on my way."
Chess's shoulder tightens, the muscles beneath his shirt coiling like springs wound too tight. His voice contrasts with the tension in his body. "I promise, I'll be there as soon as I can," he reassures the caller.
He ends the call, his thumb lingering on the disconnect button as if to hold onto the connection a second longer. The atmosphere in the car shifts, charged with a new urgency, and I'm left grasping at fragments, trying to piece together the puzzle of Chess’s life beyond the halls of our dark high school.
I realize I don't actually know anything about him. About any of them. I've never made the effort to try.
Chess's gaze flickers to me, his hazel eyes a stormy mix of worry and resolve.
"Addy, I need to make a stop at my place," he says, voice steady despite the earlier urgency. "It's not on the way, it's pretty damn for out of the way actually, so I can drop you off first if—"
"No." The word is out before I've even considered it. "Whoever that was... they need you now. It would take you at least twenty minutes out of your way to drop me off and then head back."
Chess studies me for a moment, the corners of his eyes softening. "Are you sure?" he asks, even though we both know my mind's made up.
"Absolutely."
A silent nod is his gratitude, and he steers the car into a sharp turn, away from the route leading to the Winthrop estate and towards uncertainty. I watch his profile, the way his jaw sets with determination, a glimpse into the depths of Francesco Ortega that few are privy to.
"Thank you, Addy," he murmurs, and I see the boy who hides his burdens behind a smile, the scholarship student who bears the weight of worlds on his shoulders. In this moment, in this car, we share an unspoken bond, one tempered by secrets and sealed with trust.
The landscape changes as Chess navigates through the streets, each turn leading us deeper into a part of town that feels worlds away from the manicured lawns of the Winthrop estate. I watch, feeling like an intruder, as we pass homes that clutch desperately to their last bits of paint, and yards where gardens have surrendered to weeds.
"Sorry about all this," Chess says, his voice carrying an edge of embarrassment I've never heard before. "It's not... well, you're safe with me, okay?"
I glance at him, his profile etched with concern, and shake my head. "I know I am," I respond softly, reaching out to place a hand on his thigh, seeking to reassure him. His hand covers mine instantly, his grip firm. It's a lifeline, a promise without words.
The car rolls to a stop in front of a small bungalow that has seen better days. The curtains are drawn tight, the paint is peeling, but it's clear someone inside cares enough to keep things going.
And there she is, a young girl pacing anxiously on the front walk. Her movements are erratic, her arms flailing as if batting away invisible obstacles. Even from a distance, her resemblance to Chess is striking—the same olive skin, the same dark, expressive eyes.
"Is that your sister?" I can't help the surprise in my voice. Chess nods, his face softening at the sight of her.
"Yeah, that's Carmen," he says. I had no idea he had a sister.
"I don't know much at all," I murmur more to myself than to him.
Chess turns off the engine and finally releases my hand, but the warmth lingers. "I just need to check on her," he says, a protective fierceness replacing the worry in his eyes. "You can stay here, it's okay."
"Of course I'm coming. Unless you don't want me to."
"No. No, that's fine."
As we approach Carmen, I ready myself to step into another piece of the puzzle that is Francesco Ortega, uncertain of what I'll find but resolute in standing by his side.
Carmen's words spill out in a frantic mix of English and Spanish, her hands fluttering like trapped birds. I catch the gist of it—" sangre " and " miedo "—my Spanish is rudimentary at best, but I recognize blood and fear. My heart clenches for her; I know this panic all too well.
"Hey, hey, it's okay," I say, reaching out to steady her shoulders. She looks up at me, eyes wide and brimming with tears. I don't need fluent Spanish to understand. The terror of the unknown doesn't need translation.
"Chess, she's just scared," I explain, my voice low so Carmen doesn't feel talked about as if she isn't there. "But, there's nothing to be scared of, I promise. You're just becoming a woman." Chess's eyes widen, his cheeks tinge with a hue of helplessness. He nods, taking a step back, giving us space.
" Lo siento , Carmen. I can help you," I tell her, dredging up my high school Spanish. My own memories surface unbidden—the sting of isolation in a foster home's bathroom, the confusion, the fear. No one should face that alone.
" Vamos ," I coax, gently leading her inside the house. The bungalow is modest but cared for, a stark contrast to the manicured lawns and sterile halls of the Winthrop estate. It feels real in a way that my gilded cage never could.
" ?Dónde está tu ba?o? " I ask. She points, and I guide her toward the small bathroom. It's clean but worn, every surface telling a story of lives lived fully and without pretense.
"Okay, Carmen, let's get you cleaned up." I keep my voice steady, a rock in her stormy sea of embarrassment and shock. She nods, clinging to my calm like a lifeline. Chess hovers in the doorway, uncertainty etched into his features, but he doesn't intrude.
" Te voy a buscar —I'm going to help, okay?" I promise, reassuring her before turning to Chess. "Your mom should have at least some of what she needs."
"Grandma, actually," he replies, gratitude softening his voice. "And I think she's a little past the age of...this."
I rummage through cabinets and drawers until I find the necessary supplies to at least get started cleaning her up. Returning my attention to Carmen, I help her with gentle instructions, explaining each step, my voice a soothing murmur.
"Are you okay?" I ask once we've sorted everything out. She nods, a shy smile cracking through her unease.
" Gracias ," she whispers, and something warm unfurls in my chest.
" De nada , Carmen. Anytime."
Chess watches us, an unreadable expression on his face. But for now, I push away thoughts of tangled relationships and uncertain futures. Right now, there's only Carmen and the simple act of being there for someone in need. And that's enough.
"Chess, if your grandmother doesn't have what she needs, you're going to need to run to the store. She'll need pads when she gets out of the shower. Grab some ibuprofen, and maybe some chocolate too?" I suggest, hoping to ease Carmen's discomfort with familiar remedies.
"Got it," Chess nods, snatching up his keys from the cluttered countertop. His hazel eyes meet mine, a silent promise lingering in their depths that he'll be fast. "I'll be back before you know it." He plants a kiss on my lips and with that, he's out the door, leaving me with Carmen who's still looking a little lost.
"Come on, let's get you cleaned up," I say, leading her to the shower. The small house feels cozier now, less like a stranger's and more like a place where life happens, messy and real. I turn the water on for her. She's so busy wringing her hands, I'm not sure she even realizes where we are.
"I'll be right outside the door, okay. And don't worry about your clothes. I know how to get blood out."
"Can you...can you stay?"
"Of course, I can. Why don't I sit in the hallway and we'll leave the door open. That way you can have the privacy you need and I'll still be here."
"Thank you," she murmurs, her voice muffled by the fabric. "I don't...I don't know your name."
"Addy. I'm Addy."
"Thank you, Addy."
"Hey, no worries. It's what girls do for each other," I reply, brushing a strand of hair from her forehead.
We chat about school, about favorite music—anything to keep her mind off the cramps and the panic. I share a few embarrassing stories from my past, and soon enough, her tentative giggles fill the space between us.
The front door swings open, cutting through our bubble. Chess strides in, bags in hand, and relief washes over me at the sight of him. He's done as I asked, a knight on a modern steed, returning with provisions.
"Mission accomplished," he announces triumphantly, setting the bags down and crouching beside me in the hall. His dark hair flops into his eyes, and there's an eagerness to his movements that wasn't there before.
"Thank you, Chess," I say, standing to give him room. He rifles through the bags, handing me the painkillers and a bar of chocolate.
"Dark chocolate, ninety percent cocoa. That's the good stuff," he winks at me, and Carmen responds with a weak but genuine smile.
"Could you get her some water?" I ask, and he's up again, moving to the kitchen.
"Ice Princess my ass," I hear him mutter under his breath, and I can't help but smile. It's strange, this dynamic shift, but not unwelcome.
Carmen turns the water off and grabs the towel before opening the curtain. She looks a little better than she did when we got her. At least she's calm now.
I pour two ibuprofen pills into my hand and hand them over to her. "Your brother is grabbing water. After you can grab your clothes and I can walk you through what to do with the pad, okay?
Chess returns, hands Carmen a glass, and then turns to me. There's an intensity in his gaze that pins me in place. It's like he's seeing me for the first time, or perhaps it's just the first time he's allowed himself to really look.
Carmen slips by us toward what I assume is her bedroom.
"Addy," Chess begins, his voice carrying a weight that makes my heart stutter. Before I can respond, he steps forward, closing the gap between us. His lips press against mine in a kiss filled with a fervor that sets my veins alight. It's not just a brush of mouths, but a meeting of souls that have been dancing around each other, hesitant to collide.
His hands cup my face gently, as if I'm something precious, and I realize that I don't want him to stop. Not now, not when his kiss speaks of apologies, promises, and a hope for something more.
I lean into him, returning the passion, letting it sweep away doubts and fears. For a moment, there's no Saint, no Dre, no complicated ties—just Chess and the undeniable truth that in his arms, I feel a dangerous sense of belonging.
When Carmen returns with her clothes, I walk her through what to do. I explain the difference between pads and tampons and how often she'll need to change it and anything else I can think of.
Once she's dressed, we head to the living room. I help her onto the couch, tucking a cushion behind her back.
"Here, lay down for a bit," I encourage. Carmen complies, curling up under the throw blanket I drape over her. She seems so young in that moment, and I'm struck by how much we've all had to grow up too fast.
A little while later, the front door creaks open, and we all startle as Chess's grandmother steps into the living room. She's a small woman with kind, crinkled eyes that widen in surprise when they land on me.
"Chess, mijo, quien es esta hermosa joven? " she asks, her gaze soft but curious as she sets down a bag of groceries.
"Abuela, this is Addy," Chess says quickly, standing up and going to help her with the bags.
"She's basically my hero," Carmen chimes in.
" Mucho gusto , Addy." Abuela smiles warmly at me, extending a hand which I shake gently. Her presence is comforting, like a warm blanket wrapped around a shivering body.
" Gracias, se?ora ," I reply, my tongue heavy with the unfamiliar language.
"Call me Abuela, everyone does," she insists, patting my hand before letting it go.
"Abuela, Carmen had an emergency," Chess explains, his voice steady, though I can hear the undercurrent of worry that had gripped him earlier. "A...female emergency. Addy was there for her when I couldn't be. She knew exactly what to do."
"Ah, mi ni?a ," Abuela sighs, her eyes shifting over to where Carmen lays cocooned in blankets on the couch. She crosses the room to press a kiss to Carmen’s forehead and then turns back to me. " Muchas gracias , Addy. You have a good heart."
"Anyone would've done the same," I say, feeling the weight of her gratitude. It feels undeserved, considering the chaos that usually surrounds me.
"Stay for dinner, sí ? I make extra." she asks, already moving towards the kitchen. "It's the least we can do."
I hesitate, aware of the Winthrops' expectations, their strict schedules and stricter rules. But then I think of Carmen's scared face, of Chess's fervent kiss, and I know I want to stay, if only for a little while longer.
"Sure, I'd like that," I answer, and Abuela's smile tells me I've made the right choice. "But I should probably call my parents."
"Of course, use the phone in the kitchen, querida ," Abuela says, waving a hand toward the archway that leads to a cozy, spice-scented room.
"Thank you," I murmur, feeling a strange sense of inclusion in this home that's so different from my own.
I don't need the phone in the kitchen with my cell, but it's sweet that she offered.
Chess follows me, hovering nearby as I dial the familiar number, preparing myself for the coldness on the other end. My parents won't understand, but in this moment, with the warmth of Abuela's welcome still lingering, I find that I don't mind as much as I thought I would.