Chapter 23
Idon’t go to OA right away. I can’t. Not after that.
Instead, I duck into the nearest bathroom, one tucked near the east courtyard, where the old brick pathways curve around ivy-choked stair railings and fallen leaves collect in windblown drifts.
The lights in the bathroom hum faintly overhead, buzzing like a fly trapped behind glass. I press my palms against the cold porcelain sink, trying to steady my breathing. I splash water on my face until the sting in my eyes is from the chill, and not the tears.
Outside, sunlight filters through tall windows coated with dust and condensation. The hallway beyond is quieter now, emptied of the rush between bells.
When I finally step out, the scent of damp earth and cut grass wafts through the propped open courtyard doors. And standing just outside the bathroom, like she knew where I’d be, is Morella.
“You okay?” she asks, voice gentle, but her eyes say she already knows. She’s studying me, her brows pinched like she’s hoping the pain in my expression will vanish if she looks hard enough.
I shrug, then shake my head. “Not really.”
She exhales, a subtle sigh that fogs in the cooler shade of the hallway. “I figured. Rafe… wasn’t in a good place.”
“Yeah,” I say flatly. “I noticed.”
We begin walking. Our shoes echo over the stone floor—worn down in places by decades of students pacing between classes. There are vines creeping in through the windows here, evidence that nature never really lets go of this place.
“I don’t think he meant—” she starts.
“He did.” I glance at her. “He meant every word.”
We pass through an arched breezeway lined with climbing roses. Most of the blooms have faded, but a few stubborn petals cling to life. The wind shifts. A bell rings far off in one of the detached buildings.
“Where is he now?” I ask.
“Weight room,” she says immediately. “Probably cooling off with Archer.”
I pause. “Silas?”
She shakes her head. “I haven’t seen Silas at all today.”
I stop walking and place a hand on her arm, halting her too. “You haven’t seen Silas?”
She shakes her head again.
The courtyard we’ve entered is mostly empty. A few other seniors huddle near the back steps of the art building, sipping iced coffees and scrolling through their phones. Beyond them, sunlight glints off the glass wall of the science wing. It's warm here, but it feels cold anyway.
We’re only a few weeks into the school year, but none of them have missed a day. I want to ask where she thinks he might be, but the words knot up in my chest. Why should I care where he is? I should just be happy he’s not here to torment me as well.
We sit in one of the quieter corners of the courtyard, at a stone table half-shadowed by the twisting limbs of an old oak.
Most of the lunch crowd has gathered near the central fountain or along the outer walkway, their voices blending into a steady hum behind us.
Out here, the breeze is cooler and quieter. Easier to think.
I peel the label off my water bottle, watching it curl against my fingers.
Morella’s eating slowly, stabbing a grape over and over with her fork a blank expression on her face.
“I need something,” I say.
She looks up.
“Can I have Silas’s number?”
Her expression doesn’t change at first, but her fork pauses mid-air.
She sets it down carefully and wipes her hands on a napkin, buying time. “Why?”
“I just want to check on him.”
Morella presses her lips together, gaze flicking out over the courtyard before coming back to me.
“You sure that’s a good idea?” she asks. “I mean… I know you’re trying, but he hasn’t exactly been nice to you.”
“I know,” I say. “But something feels off. And I don’t want to wait around for someone else to do the right thing.”
She sighs. “Liv…”
“I’m not doing it to open a door. I’m doing it because I’d want someone to check on me.”
That lands. She studies me for another moment, like she’s weighing everything she’s seen since school started, everything she knows about both of us. Then she reaches for her phone.
“Alright,” she says quietly. “But if he says anything out of line… you come to me first. Got it?”
“Got it.”
A moment later, my screen lights up with his number.
I open a message thread and start typing:
Liv:
Hey. It’s Liv.
Then hit send. The message sits there, delivered. I place my phone on the table, screen-up, impatiently waiting for a reply. I figured he would be ecstatic to have my number.
“You really haven’t seen him today?”
“No, well not since this morning.” she says. “Which is… weird. For him.”
The wind picks up, rustling the oak branches above. Shadows dance across the table like the light can’t decide where it wants to land.
“Do you think he’s okay?” I ask.
“I think…” She hesitates again. “He’s holding it in. Like always. But something’s probably brewing.”
The phone stays still. No response. No read receipt. Just my message hanging in limbo.
Public Relations is quiet when I step in.
The overhead lights are still half-dimmed, the windows cracked open just enough to let in a breeze that rustles the hanging posters and pushes the scent of autumn leaves into the room. The desks are arranged in clusters of two, same as always, but I feel the hollow space beside mine like a bruise.
I take my seat and wait. I’m not nervous, not really. But I keep looking toward the door, waiting for him. When Archer finally walks in, his shoulders are squared but his steps are slower than usual. He sees me and his footsteps falter.
We lock eyes for a beat. Something flickers in his.
Then he looks away and takes the seat next to mine.
Not like usual. There’s an extra chair-width of space between us.
The distance feels colder than it should.
I almost say something, but Mr. Carter stands up at the front of the room, tugging at the sleeves of his ill-fitting sweater vest.
“Alright, everyone,” he says, clapping his hands once. “We’ll be working in your pairs today. You can work anywhere you like, as long as you’re being productive. Your goal for today is simple: brainstorm a couple of booth ideas for the upcoming Harvest Festival. Be creative. Be appropriate.”
A few people laugh. Someone groans. A few groups start gathering their things. Beside me, Archer sighs. He doesn’t look at me, but he stands. I follow his lead. We don’t say anything as we leave the room.
He stops a few paces past the door, just outside the breezeway. The breeze lifts his hair a little. He doesn’t turn around to face me. The silence hangs between us.
I clear my throat. “We need to talk.”
He finally looks over his shoulder at me. He studies me for a second. Then nods. Without a word, he turns and walks toward the library. I trail behind him, heart ticking faster with each step.
Instead of the main study area, Archer leads me toward the back.
Past the newer stacks of books and tutoring booths.
Past the row of desktops and students hunched over group projects.
He slips into the oldest part of the library, where the lights are dimmer and the carpet smells faintly like dust and old pages.
This part never sees much traffic. No computers.
Just books with spines cracked from age and titles in faded gold lettering.
The shelves are taller here, and the silence is deeper. Almost sacred.
He picks the farthest table in the corner and sits down, back straight, hands folded. He waits for me to join him.
Archer doesn’t speak right away. He leans back in the chair, arms folded across his chest, gaze fixed somewhere on the edge of the table like he’s trying to find the words buried in the wood grain.
I settle across from him, my bag slipping off my shoulder and thumping softly against the carpet.
I tuck my hair behind my ear and let the quiet stretch.
But when I finally look at him, I notice it. The bruising. Faint, but visible. A shadow on the bridge of his nose, the skin around his right eye slightly discolored.
“Your face,” I say quietly.
His jaw shifts. “Yeah.”
“What happened?”
He breathes out through his nose, and for a second, I don’t think he’s going to answer. But then he does. “Silas hit me.”
My chest tightens. “Why?”
He finally looks at me. And there’s no heat there. No flippant grin. Just something stripped down.
“Because he thought I hurt you.” Archer blinks once. “Because I did hurt you.”
I shake my head, but he holds up a hand, cutting me off before I can speak.
“I didn’t mean to,” he says. “You startled me outside of the bathroom. I didn’t realize that my grip was too tight until it was too late. Until the bruises were already there.” His voice cracks slightly on the last word. “I tried to explain. But I didn’t know how.”
I stare at him, this boy who’s always so composed, so in control of everything and everyone. He’s sitting in front of me looking like he’s not sure he deserves to be.
“I never thought you did it on purpose,” I say softly.
He doesn’t reply.
“Archer.”
His eyes flick back up to mine.
I reach across the table, slow and steady, and take his hand in mine. His palm is rough and warm. “It’s ok, I forgive you.” I say.
He watches me for a long moment, but something shifts in his face. A tiny fracture in the mask. His fingers close around mine, just enough to hold. Then he brushes his thumb across my knuckles.
When I tear my gaze from our hands, I look up into his hazel eyes and see the moment he accepts that I’m not upset with him and trust what he’s telling me.
Study hall feels heavier than usual. The classroom is half-full when Morella and I arrive, the overhead lights buzzing faintly above rows of paired desks.
Our usual table is empty, so we slide into our seats across from each other.
I drop my bag down with a quiet thud and glance toward the door. Still no Silas.
“Have you seen him yet?” I ask, my voice low.
Morella shakes her head, setting her water bottle down. “Not since this morning.”
I nod, biting the inside of my cheek. My fingers tap restlessly against the tabletop.
A few minutes later, Rafe walks in. He doesn’t strut in like usual.
Doesn’t carry that cocky, untouchable energy that fills every room whether it’s welcome or not.
Today, he just… walks. His shoulders are stiff, his gaze downcast. He looks like something got knocked loose inside him and never quite settled back.
He slides into the chair beside me with barely a glance.
I don’t say anything, but I can feel the difference. A moment later Archer enters. He crosses the classroom but pauses just behind Rafe, gaze flicking from him to me… then back again.
“Move.” He growls through clenched teeth. The word cuts through the quiet like a blade.
Rafe looks up and the two just stare at each other for a long, silent moment. Rafe stands and walks around to the open seat across the table. Morella and I lock eyes. She raises her eyebrows slightly in question. I tilt my head and purse my lips in response.
Archer drops into the now-empty seat beside me. Tension lingers in the space between us all, crawling up my spine and settling just behind my ribs.
Morella clears her throat. “Either of you heard from Silas?”
Rafe shakes his head. “No.”
Archer just mutters, “Nope.”
I reach for my phone, a sudden spike of hope clawing its way up my throat. But the screen is unchanged. No new messages. Just the same text sitting there, unread. My stomach twists.
The rest of study hall passes in silence. We pretend to focus, notebooks open and pens moving, but no one’s really working. Everyone’s minds elsewhere. When the final bell rings, Morella and I gather our things. We don’t speak until we step outside.
I glance at her. “Do you know where Silas lives?”
She gives me a look. “Of course I do.”
I hesitate. “Will you take me there?”
Morella stops walking. “Liv…”
“I just want to check on him.”
“I know. But it’s not that simple.” She glances away.
She shifts her weight, arms crossed, brow furrowed like she’s running through a mental list of every possible outcome.
“I’m not letting this go,” I say, softer this time. “You know I’m not.”
Morella exhales sharply. Then finally nods. “Alright. Let’s go.”
Morella’s car rolls to a stop in front of the house. It’s bigger than I expected. Not flashy, just large. All sharp edges and trimmed hedges, the kind of place where silence echoes. The driveway is spotless. No toys. No basketball hoop. Not a single thing out of place.
Morella cuts the engine. For a moment, we just sit there. Neither of us moves. Then she unclicks her seatbelt and reaches for the handle.I stop her with a hand on her arm.
“Wait.”
She glances at me, one brow lifted.
“This is something I need to do alone,” I say quietly. “It might mean more that way. Coming from me.”
She hesitates, eyes scanning the house. Her fingers tap lightly against the steering wheel. “Liv…”
“I’ll be okay. I promise. If I need you, I’ll call you.”
Her frown deepens. “I’m not leaving you here alone.”
I shake my head. “You won’t be. I’ll be with Silas. I just… I don’t want him to shut down the second he sees someone else standing behind me.”
Morella exhales, frustrated. “I really don’t like this.”
“I know,” I say gently. “But I need to tell him what truly happened. Maybe if he hears it from me he will understand I’m not hurt.”
She chews her lip, then finally nods.
“You better text me,” she says. “Even if it’s just to say you’re breathing.”
“I will.” I squeeze her hand. “Thank you. For bringing me.” I open the door and step out of the car.
With a heavy sigh, Morella puts the car back in gear. She pulls out slowly, like she’s waiting for a reason to slam on the brakes and come back. I watch her taillights disappear down the road, then turn back toward the house.
The front walk is lined with perfectly spaced shrubs. Every square inch of the lawn looks like it’s been trimmed with a ruler. I don’t hear birds. I don’t hear the wind. Just the soft crunch of gravel under my shoes and the dull thump of my own heartbeat in my ears.
When I reach the door, I pause. Then I lift my hand, and knock.