Page 56 of Forever We Fall

Arlo.

My stomach cramps.

I’m running late because as much as I want to be near him, his disregard hurts. It’s like an old sore that never heals. And it’s on a finger. It gets scraped and bumped every hour of every day, sending zings of pain straight to my heart.

The headmaster pauses, watching and waiting for the students to filter out of the hallway. After only a few seconds, the bell reverberates through the corridor, ringing loudly in my ears. It’s so much louder out here.

When it finally goes quiet, he clears his throat. “Mr. Judge…”

My cramping stomach plummets to my feet. “What’s wrong? Is he…hurt?”

“I was hoping you could tell me.”

“Sir?”

He shifts uncomfortably from one foot to the other.

“When he came back from the holiday, he seemed different.” He sighs. “He didn’t look so great. I’ve heard from a couple of his professors that his prestigious grades are slipping. I wondered since you two are close, if you know…Is he okay?”

“He’s been back to school for three weeks, and you’re just now asking me?” I wrinkle my nose. “And you’re asking me, not him?”

A long breath chuffs out of his aristocratic nose. His arms cross over his chest in a defensive stance. “Will you answer the question?”

“Arlo is perfectly fine.” I lie through my teeth, thinking they might fall out from the effects of this sugary falsehood. I’d deserve nothing less.

“Oh.” His shoulders drop with a sigh, along with his folded arms. He straightens and lifts his chin. “That’s great.”

Fucking wonderful.

I just barely keep my eyes from rolling around my skull. It’s like he wanted everything to be okay. He wants the relationship with my math professor and a student down the hallway from me to magically not exist, but he’s unwilling to do anything to stop it.

A door opens behind me.

The headmaster’s eyes lift and go wide.

I turn to find Arlo shoving from the lecture hall with a pass clutched in his hand so tightly that the crests of his knuckles show white from twenty feet away.

His sure stride takes off toward us until his head pulls up, clocking our presence in the hall.

“There he is,” I say to Bridgeport, but make sure it’s loud enough for Arlo to hear. “You can ask him yourself.”

“Oh, that’s not necessary.” The man pulls a pad from his pocket, rips a class note from it, and hands it over. He waves at Arlo, then skitters away as though he’d prefer to turn into smoke and evaporate.

Arlo stops about five feet away from me. His gaze bounces from the headmaster’s retreating form to me and back several times.

When the focus of his stunning and sad eyes finally stops on me, I stand a little taller. “You’re out of class.”

“I was…” His gaze falls to his shoes. “You never miss class.”

“And?” I barely control the urge to crumple the small paper in my hand.

He wipes his nose with the back of his hand and inhales. His eyelids blink several times. His emotion is a punch to my sternum, only because I can’t wrap my arms around him and pull him close.

“I was worried about you,” he finally whispers.

The admission lights up my dark world. If only by candlelight, it’s better than the colorless void I’ve been enduring.

“You don’t have to worry about me.” I hitch a finger toward the direction the chickenshit went. “He stopped me to ask if you were okay.”

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