Chapter 11 Chloe
Chloe
It’s ridiculous how much I’ve smiled today.
From the moment I woke up, my face has had this stupid ache in my cheeks, like I’ve been holding back laughter or a secret no one else deserves to know.
I keep replaying last night in my head—the rain, the quiet of his car, the way Miles looked at me like I was something dangerous and fascinating all at once. That kiss. God, that kiss.
Every time I close my eyes, I feel it again—his hand tangled in my hair, the heat of his breath, the taste of him when he said my name like he didn’t know what he was doing but couldn’t stop.
I try to tell myself to stop thinking about it, that it was just one moment, an accident maybe, a spark that shouldn’t have happened. But my body doesn’t listen. My pulse races every time someone walks past me wearing gray, or when I smell something faintly like smoke and leather.
Classes drag. I barely register anything the professors say. I doodle his name in the corner of my notebook like I’m twelve. I hate it. I hate that I can’t focus, that my mind keeps going back to the way he looked under that streetlight when he told me to walk inside.
By noon, Bella waves at me across the cafeteria, and I half-heartedly wave back, pretending to eat my salad while scrolling my phone. Nothing new. No messages from my father’s lawyer—thank God. No messages from him either.
Not that I expected any.
Miles Thatcher doesn’t seem like the kind of guy who texts after he kisses you in the rain.
But still… a part of me hoped.
He’d said he would, right? Everything is kind of a blur to be honest.
I have to stop myself before I end up turned on all fucking day.
The hours blur together. It’s almost four when I finally step out of my last class, juggling my bag, my notes, and the gnawing mix of nerves and anticipation twisting inside me. The air outside is heavy, humid from last night’s rain, the pavement slick and shining like glass.
And then I see Miles. He’s leaning against the side of the gym building, hat pulled low, hood up, cigarette between his fingers. He’s with a few other guys—tall, broad, the kind of swagger that screams hockey team. But my eyes find him instantly.
For a second, I freeze.
Then I make myself walk over.
He doesn’t see me at first, too busy talking, smoke curling around his mouth like a secret. When he finally glances my way, something in his expression shifts. Not surprise exactly—something colder. Distant.
“Hey,” I say softly.
He exhales smoke, flicks the cigarette to the side, and nods at the guys. They drift off without a word, giving us space.
Now it’s just him and me.
And the silence feels like a wall.
“I wanted to talk to you,” I start, trying to sound casual.
He just looks at me, those gray eyes unreadable. I notice the bruising before I can finish my thought. A black eye, a split lip, faint swelling along his cheekbone. My stomach tightens.
“What happened to you?”
“I’m fine.” His voice is low, rough. The kind that could either melt you or cut you depending on the second.
“Doesn’t look fine,” I say, stepping closer. “Did someone—”
“Drop it, Chloe.”
The way he says my name—it’s not gentle this time. It’s an order.
I swallow, the sting of rejection hot in my throat.
“I got my car back,” I offer, trying to shift the subject, to find some normal ground. “The garage called this morning—”
“Good for you,” he cuts in.
Good for me. That’s it?
I stare at him, waiting for some trace of the guy from last night, the one who put his jacket over my shoulders and kissed me like he meant it. But he’s gone. Replaced by this stranger with a bruised mouth and a tone sharp enough to draw blood.
“Here.” I pull out the jacket I have been carrying in my backpack all day. I was so tempted to wear it, but I didn’t know what type of rumors that would have started up. Now, I ‘m just glad I didn’t.
I thrust his jacket toward him. “Thought you might want this back.”
He doesn’t take it. Just looks at it. At me.
“My jacket,” he says flatly.
“It’s not like I want it––”
“Are you sure, Chloe? Cause last night, you practically begged for it.”
I can feel my blood boil just under the surface. “Excuse me?”
He cocks an eyebrow at me. “I know what you’re doing. Do you think I will chase you down and beg you to keep it?”
“No.”
“Unless this is your way of throwing yourself at me again. Do you think this little act will make me care? News flash, princess, you are not the first girl I have given it too. Most of them just hang them in their bedrooms and fantasize about it. I think you are just deluding yourself here. What? Are you not like other girls?”
My jaw drops. The words hit like a slap, hot and humiliating.
“Wow,” I breathe. “You really are a dick.”
He smirks, but there’s no humor in it.
I shove the jacket at his chest. He takes it this time, but the motion sends another jolt of anger through me.
“You know what? Forget it.”
I swing my bag over my shoulder and turn toward the path. My pulse is pounding, half from rage, half from something else—hurt maybe, or confusion. I don’t even know. I just know that the guy who made me feel safe last night now makes me feel small.
Who the hell does he think he is?
By the time I reach the lot, I’m shaking. My books nearly spill from my hands as I shove them into the backseat of my car. Screw Miles. Seriously.
But even as I tell myself that, the image of his bruised face won’t leave me. The tightness in his jaw. The way he avoided my eyes.
Something happened.
And I hate that I care.
I’m slamming my door shut when a voice calls out, “Chloe!”
I turn to see Bella hurrying toward me, her ponytail bouncing, her lip gloss catching the afternoon sun.
“Hey!” she chirps. “You okay?”
“Long day,” I mutter, forcing a smile.
“Well, perfect timing then,” she says, sliding her sunglasses up her head. “There’s a mixer tonight for all the prospective cheerleaders. You should come if you’re still serious about joining.”
I blink. “Mixer?”
“Yeah. At Delta Phi. Starts at eight. Kind of a get-to-know-you thing. The rest of the captains will be there, some of the guys from the teams too.”
My heart stutters. “Some of the guys?”
Bella grins like she knows exactly what I’m asking. “Some of the hockey team always show up. Mostly to flirt, not that it matters.”
I bite the inside of my cheek. I should not care. I should absolutely not be asking this next question.
“Will Miles be there?”
Bella tilts her head, one perfectly arched brow lifting. “Miles Thatcher? Why? You crushing on the bad boy already?”
“No,” I say too fast. “I just… I saw him earlier. He looked… never mind.”
Bella’s smirk softens into something sly. “He shows up sometimes. Depends on his mood. But honestly, who cares? This is about you. You need to get to know the girls. Make friends. Last time we were at The Crest, you were all…” She waves her manicured hand. “Quiet. Kind of stuck-up.”
I blink. “I’m not stuck-up.”
“Then prove it.” She grins, lipstick glinting under the sun. “Come tonight. The password’s ‘First Down’. Don’t be late.”
Before I can reply, she’s already walking away, heels clicking on the pavement.
I stand there for a moment, her words echoing in my head.
Stuck up.
My eyes drift back to where Miles was on the corner near the gym. Empty now. Smoke dissipating into nothing.
I tell myself not to think about it, to let it go.
But I can’t shake the image of his split lip, or the sound of his voice when he told me to drop it.
And even as I drive away, even as I tell myself I’m done caring, I know exactly where I’ll be tonight.
Delta Phi looks like something out of a fever dream when I finally walk up the front steps. Music pulses through the walls—something bass-heavy and glittering with synth. The windows glow pink. There’s laughter spilling from every room, the kind that’s half-drunk, half-happy.
Inside, it smells like perfume and citrus vodka. Girls are everywhere—dancing, laughing, shouting over the music. The air feels alive, thick with heat and motion.
Someone presses a drink into my hand before I can even find Bella. “Here,” a girl says, smiling. She’s got a red braid, and freckles dusted across her nose. “You look like you need this.”
“Thanks,” I murmur, taking a sip. It burns, sharp and sweet.
I take a slow look around. The girls already in Delta Phi are a blur of sequins and denim shorts, perfectly tousled hair and glittery eyeliner. The ones hoping to pledge—like me—stand out in their nervousness. Clutching plastic cups. Fidgeting. Smiling too wide.
Bella’s easy to spot. She’s in the middle of the room, down to her bra and panties, hula-hooping while she sips beer straight from the bottle.
The crowd cheers her on, the hoop circling her hips like liquid gold under the string lights.
Her co-captains—two tall girls with matching ponytails—clap and laugh beside her.
It’s chaos, but it’s the kind of chaos that hums with life.
Someone yells, “Shots!” and suddenly there’s a tray being passed around.
I take one because everyone else does. The tequila hits hard, burning all the way down, and I can’t help but grin after it.
Maybe this is what I needed. Maybe this—this noise, this light, this total abandon—is the real college experience.
For a few minutes, I let it be that. I laugh when someone trips near the kitchen. I dance for a song or two with the freckled girl who gave me my drink. For a moment, I even forget about all my problems.
Because my brain keeps drifting—to him, yes, but also to the hollow ache of home.
To my father sitting in some cell, his once-expensive suits replaced by an orange jumpsuit.
To my mother’s voice over the phone, soft and strange, saying, “I’ve started baking again, darling. The neighbors love my bread.”
She sounded happy. Or maybe she was just pretending.