"Right behind you," I lie, watching as she nods and exits the room. The door swings shut with a soft click and I'm left in the silence—a precious commodity given how noise follows me like a shadow, both at home and in these halls.
The busy little bees haven't stopped all fucking morning.
I'm putting the rest of my things away, already picturing Chess leaning against the lockers with that unruly dark hair of his falling over his forehead. That look he gives me, like I'm the only constellation in his night sky, sparks a warmth that lingers long after his smile fades—it sends a thrill through me every damn time.
It's different from Saint, who looks at me like I'm a puzzle he's still solving, or Dre who looks at me like he wants to crack my bones and suck the marrow out.
I'm still annoyed with them for making me spectacle this morning. But now that I've had time to calm down, I understand why they did it. And I do appreciate it.
But then, laughter trickles in from the hallway, high-pitched and flirtatious. It grates on my nerves, the simpering tones of girls who think volume equals importance. I roll my eyes, ready to block them out, until a familiar name weaves through their cackles.
"Chess, you are so bad," one of them teases.
My movements stall, and I feel the prick of annoyance. Not at him—never at him—but at the situation, the expectation that I should care. But I do. I do dammit. But I shouldn't. It's not like Chess and I are exclusive. I'm not even sure what we are. We're... complicated.
With the others I never know where I stand. I doubt I'm more than a game to them. But, with Chess, I thought it had been real. Or, more real than anything I've ever had anyway.
I shove my textbooks into the backpack with more force than necessary, the zippers straining against the sudden onslaught of fury I can't quite keep at bay. Stupid, Addy, so stupid. My hands tremble, but no one's here to see it.
"Come on, spill. Who's better, me or Mandy?" another girl presses, and the irritation flares hotter in my chest.
With an exaggerated sigh, I lean back against the cool surface of the teacher's desk, arms crossed over my chest as if I can physically hold back the tide of emotion trying to break free. I don't need to look to see the picture they paint—him, the center of attention; them, hanging on his every word.
"How could I possibly choose?" Chess fires back, and despite myself, the anger I've been so good at pushing down all these years comes bubbling back to the surface. He knows I can hear him. He has to.
"Maybe we should let you try us side-by-side so you have what you need to make a decision," comes the simpered reply, followed by more laughter.
I gag.
I straighten up, slinging my bag higher onto my shoulder. Time to make an entrance, to pretend none of this reaches me, to be the Adelaide Winthrop everyone expects—untouchable, unbothered.
I take a deep breath, letting the cool air fill my lungs and freeze over the hot, searing pain of betrayal. There's a mask I've perfected over years—the icy facade that's kept me safe when nothing else could. It slides into place now, seamless and cold.
He doesn't get to see how much he's hurt me. He doesn't deserve that satisfaction.
The chatter picks up, the words curling around me like smoke, insidious and suffocating. One of the girls mentions a night with Chess, her voice sugary sweet with reminiscence. There's a hardness in my throat as I listen, a silent witness to the casual exchange.
"Chess always knows how to make a girl feel special," she purrs, each word a needle into the fabric of what I thought we had.
"Definitely top tier," giggles another. The sound is jarring, too bright, too sharp.
"Totally," agrees the first with an airy laugh that grates on my nerves. "Remember that time at Lila's party?"
My fingers tighten on the strap of my backpack, knuckles whitening. I can't help but eavesdrop, the masochist in me needing to hear, even as it carves away pieces of something delicate within.
"God, yes. We snuck off and—"
Backpack secured, I straighten up, ensuring every strand of blonde hair is in its rightful place, every inch of my posture screaming indifference. The classroom door feels heavier as I push it open, the weight of my pride making me stronger, or maybe just more stubborn.
My jaw clenches. I don't need the sordid details; the implication alone stings enough. My eyes flicker involuntarily towards Chess. He stands there with his signature smirk, that dark hair falling just so over his hazel eyes. But he doesn't shoo them away, doesn't end their trip down memory lane. Is it for my benefit? Or maybe for his own ego?
"Addy," he says suddenly, and I realize he's caught me lingering in the doorway. Chess's gaze catches mine, and there's something in his eyes—a flash of what? Shame? Regret? It's gone before I can decipher it
"Are you ready for lunch?" I manage to ask, keeping my voice light, indifferent.
"Ah, of course." Chess shrugs, a half-smile dancing on his lips, not reaching his eyes. "Let's head over."
"Come on, then,” I say, breaking the tension.