Page 88 of Picture Perfect

"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.

Chapter forty-two

Addy

The last of my pencils clatters into the metal case, echoing in the nearly empty classroom. I take my time sliding each book into my backpack, drawing out the seconds. Chess is out there, I know, with that half-cocked grin and the patience of a saint. He's been my self-appointed escort to the computer lab since... well, since things between us changed from just classmates to whatever tangled mess we're in now.

"Addy, you coming?" Mrs. Kline asks, her eyes kind but curious behind her glasses.