Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

  Zoey is terrified, anxious, and desperate to return to PCA.

  Dad lets her drive his car. Their little road trip is quiet. She turns off the freeway and follows a long, winding road that indicates they are within mere miles of the destination. The day outside is hot and cloudless and the road is mostly clear of other traffic. Dread builds in her chest and makes it feel hard to breathe. It takes a surprising amount of self-control to not put the pedal to the metal or turn the car around completely. 

  The opposite of how she should feel about her last first day of school at PCA.

  Technically, it's only Admissions Week. Zoey will spend her first few days on campus giving tours to anxious new students and answering an undoubtedly huge selection of questions. Most of the student body will arrive the coming weekend for Syllabus Week and classes. Dustin could have come along, too, but he was having too much fun. He actually enjoyed his summer vacation. 

  "Do you want to stop somewhere for breakfast?"

  Zoey responds with a shake of her head. The last thing her churning guts need is food to deal with. 

  "Okay," Dad says, softly. 

  Zoey Brooks manages to nab room 101 again. Four years, two residence halls, and a mountainous pile of nonsense and hijinks and her room number has been loyally and faithfully constant. She unlocks the door for the first time in a couple months to find it bright and airy with the window open and only the set of PCA blinds coiled high up the pane. The carpets were cleaned recently. Her sandals leave track in the still-damp fibers. The bare purple walls and PCA dorm furnishings are a comforting sight. There is something to be said for the peace of an empty room.

  Even if the heat pouring in with all this sunlight is less than desirable. 

  It feels wrong picking her bed without any input from her roommates. Maybe Lola would want to try the single bed or perhaps Quinn. Technically, she does it anyway by making up the bottom bunk, but it isn't the single. Everyone wants the single bed. At least, usually. 

  Zoey checks the time on her phone and decides to head out to the Admin Office early rather than just sit in the heat. She hopes the whole way that Chase will be punctually on time- as he always is- and that she will have some time in the air conditioning to come up with something charming to say. Maybe, given the presence of "potential witnesses" he will even let her be affectionate to him. Greet him in a, "I missed you this past week," kind of way. Zoey might even push to hold his hand, when appropriate. 

  He let her when they came back to California. Not on the plane, but in the airport where people could see them together. Her parents and his mother, mostly. 

  She was a little disturbed by the coordination it took for Chase to not only maintain his lies through phone calls and texts, but even in person. He beams, green eyes sharply contrasting the tan of his cheeks and the white of his teeth. "We did, I even managed to keep my new camera alive to show you some of the pictures."

  Zoey was even more stunned by her own parents' behavior. They seemed to fall right in step with his story. Turning, Mama asked her about how she liked working as a waitress and Dad joked with Missus Matthews about the clumsiness of their children when it comes to phones. Zoey put on her best smile and stayed quiet, feigning jetlag. She even managed to keep her composure when he parted from her with a gentlemanly kiss to her forehead and a big hug. He left her with a fond, "I'll see you in a few days." 

  Now, their reunion is only minutes away.

Chapter Text

  Once again, Zoey finds herself in a dream scenario. A few days alone (mostly) at PCA with Chase. And, once again, she spoiled the whole thing before it could even get off the ground.

  He meets her at breakfast, and they go an sit in their usual spot. The Senior Quad- or the area designated as such- is not better than the Junior Quad. It's only marginally better than the Sophomore Quad, as well. So, the pair sit up the stairs and at the table they had claimed the year before. The fountain jets are off and most of the doors into classrooms and half of the bathrooms are locked. Zoey estimates there are about two-hundred students on campus, and probably another score of them to come in the next few hours. 

  In the early morning, their table is still cool to the touch despite the bright rays of sunlight beaming from where it rises. Dry winds sway the trees and threaten to rob Zoey's lips of their moisture. Chase squints against it. "Damn, we gotta do a tour in this? The freshmen will blow away."

  "We are going to blow away," Zoey jokes, "we should probably eat in the library."

  That same, stone-faced look does more to transform Chase's appearance than the haircut ever could. She holds her breath, worried she has crossed a line with him, if telling jokes with him is too far. His eyes flicker away from hers and down to his tray. "That's a good idea. I have more notes for you to study."

  She landed in Hawaii with nothing but what was in her pockets; phone and wallet. Zoey didn't even have a return flight or a plan. It must have been a sight for the people at the airport, some frantic young adult with no baggage that could be seen. Doubly so when she ran out on foot, beating a path in the direction she knew the resort was. The locals were probably used to seeing some crazy white girl shit, so they likely rolled their eyes and moved on with their day. 

  On the run, she called Uncle Tim. "Zoey," he answered hesitantly, "I thought-" 

  "I'm here," words that- at the moment- were hopeful. She may have missed a beachside, sunset reunion, but she can still make it for dinner. "I'm here." 

  "Where," there is a shuffling sound and a drawer opening, "I can-" 

  "I passed the corner of laurel and a name I can't pronounce."

  "Are you running?"

  Not just running, no, Zoey was booking it. Years of exercise and conditioning gave her the fitness and stamina required to accomplish her goal. She gets onto the resort's grounds, and mostly through the parking lot, where she nearly crashes into her uncle as he attempts to talk her into a ride. It wouldn't look as good, Zoey decided. She wanted to be this horrific, crazed and sweaty mess when they saw each other again. Proof. 

  In one of his last messages to her before her voicemail box was too full to hold any more he said something about not being able to make her do anything she doesn't want. But then he asked, "just... let me know you're okay." 

  Zoey reckoned her exertion would be a pebble on the scale to prove how right he was. She was stubborn enough to do or die trying to get what she wants. She'll cross the ocean with nothing and run if that's what it takes. Chase Matthews is what she wants. There would have been room in her apologies and groveling to monologue about her regrets. Then again, she imagined him rushing to take her up in his arms at the sight of her. 

  That didn't happen.

  Chase is very different. 

  Besides the haircut that saw much of his signature 'fro lopped off. There are personality changes, too. When they got to the doors of the library, he opened it for her. Zoey was struck by the desperate impulse of things she could do, gestures she could make, to give him the same experience. 

  He doesn't sit close to her at the table. It's a pointed move- she knows- that he sets his composition notebook between them and opens to a page near the end. His sharp, neat penmanship prints line after line of an almost journal-like account of days and times. At the tops of each Chase lists who "knows" about each event. It is very similar in function to the first set of notes he gave her on the flight back from Hawaii. This one is editorialized with descriptive words and slang.

  "So, you don't have to bring any of these-" he flips two pages- "to anyone here if you don't want to. The last set of notes are the ones we can't avoid. Things I told Michael, or Logan, or my mother, or Quinn-" 

  As Zoey's eyes scan the page, she finds entries for hikes and snorkeling, and long walks on the beach and boat rides with stops for dinner. The boat rides especially catch her attention. "I don't remember boats at the resort." 

  "There weren't," he waves of the question, "I booked it online before the last day of school. Like an idiot." 

  "Chase," her heart breaks. He must have been so looking forward to vacation. It makes it so much harder to read his notes of what could have been, through his eyes. "Sweethea-

  He shakes his head and sternly replies, "don't do that. Please."

  So she doesn't. Not for the rest of the day.

  Instead, they prepare their presentations for the new students. The freshmen look so small and there are a handful of transfer students from public schools. Their eyes are nearly always out on stalks to take in their new surroundings. Chase tells the entire group what his first few months at PCA was like. Little insights and some stories Zoey had never heard from him before. 

  Not until she is safely secluded in her dorm room at night and huddled on the bed does she go over the notes Chase had given her.  

  Uncle Tim loves Chase. 

  He is such a good employee. Tim probably couldn't believe his luck when it was Chase who ended up at his resort and not some other schmuck. Chase can and will work his ass off. Enough to be two employees in one. He was a waiter, a cabana boy, and even a guide near the end of his stay. All at once, all on the same day.

  Zoey has three voicemails in her old phone from her uncle. One where he worries and asks where she is. Another in a resigned tone where he asks, "what do I tell your- Chase?" The last one was a little hard to decipher from all the commotion in the background but she caught, "you weren't joking about the restaurant experience," and something about keeping Chase occupied and out of his hotel room. 

  Even at PCA, her uncle checks in on "the guy." 

  Zoey contemplates telling Chase about his newest fan, but she agonizes over what the best way is. She does not want him thinking people only like what he does instead of who he is. He'll hold onto that logic and use it on her. Chase will believe she is only just now head over heels for him because of the trip. Or Secret Prom to accommodate her broken ankle. Or coming to her rescue at Redstone. Or learning how to dance for her. Or the list of sweet plans he had made so they could enjoy their summer vacation together. He doesn't snorkel.

Chapter Text

  The alarm blares sharp and shrill. Chase used to startle awake at the sound. Now he grumbles, squeezes his eyes shut a little extra tight and swings his arm out blindly towards it. With practice he has gotten good at finding the wretched machine’s off switch. General exhaustion pulls against his body and there is a not insignificant allure to calling out and staying in.

  He won’t though.

  The fan in his face dries his eyes out and makes them sting when he opens them, but it is too hot without it and the whir and rattle of slim metal blades lulls him to sleep. With a grunt he sits upright and rubs his eyes before stiffly swinging his legs over the bed. Chase’s feet settle on the dense carpet floor, he leans forward and turns off the standing fan.

  It’s an hour to sunrise and an hour and a half until breakfast service.

  When he pushes himself upright and takes the first few steps towards his bathroom, he notices his ankles pop. It’s probably from all the work he has been getting and he decides it is a good thing. After all, he is a little young to have creaking joints but, well, he tends to do things out of order.

  The bathroom in his hotel room is small. Easily manageable. There is just enough space for a shower with no tub, a toilet, and a pedestal sink. Over the sink is the small medicine cabinet where he stores his dental supplies and his razor. Chase jumps a little at the sight of himself in the mirror.

  His stubble is well on its way to a beard. Dark- bordering on black- hair and facial hair frame a sun-tanned face and green eyes. He thinks he should have shaved the night before, but it is too late now. Cutting most of his hair off was the right choice. At times like this, he looks still looks halfway put together. Chase quickly gets ready for work and throws on the resort’s uniform. Dark blue running shoes, khaki shorts, sky blue short-sleeved button up shirt.

  The hallway is empty and silent. Chase takes the stairs at the opposite end from the elevator two floors down to the ground floor.  The stairwell door opens to a lobby just as empty as the hallways and spacious. The elevator doors are brassy and gleaming. Their reflection shines in the polished earth-colored concrete flooring. There are elements of palm trees and tikis, floral motifs carved into wood, but not so saturated to make it garish. The design does maintain some class. People don’t generally forget they are in Hawaii on an island retreat.

  Chase moves through to the set of double doors that opens into the big indoor dining hall. Some of his coworkers are already sipping coffee from white foam cups around one of the tables. “Morning.”

  The first of them, a short and stout man with a thick black mustache and gleaming bald head, nods once and downs his lukewarm coffee in one last swig. The second- his almost-friend Marissa- is tall with the deep rich tone of the ohi’a lehua tree of her native islands, glossy black hair tied back into its usual updo. She chucks up duces. “’Sup, bro.”

  Nothing. Not the sun or his mood or anything. But he cannot say that so he just shrugs. “Let’s just get set up.”

  The three of them together set the tables and start rolling out serving trays and coffee carts. When the kitchen manager alerts them, they begin carrying out the platters of food. Every meal served in the hotel features some self-service sides. For breakfast, they set out large glass bowls of cut fruit and self-warming racks of muffins.

  Chase opens the curtains over the large wall of windows facing the ocean. It’s approaching dawn outside. “I’m going to go get the awnings.”

  “Pace yourself,” Marissa warns, but per usual, he does not heed the warning.

  The slower he goes, the more time he has to think.

  Outside there are plenty of covered cabanas for guests to sit. There is a big, permanent one with thick support posts designed to look like tiki heads and heavy, beige vinyl curtains on steel tracks. Inside the floor is an array of mortared volcanic stone with a raised area in the center. At night that’s where the DJ plays music and the floorspace around it is cleared to allow for dancing. On the farthest side of the cabana is an enormous semi-circular bar that opens at 11am and closes at 2 am.

  The littler ones just have pairs of long white pool chairs or small groups of Adirondack-style ones.

  He gets inside just as breakfast service begins and the first drowsy guests drift in. Their bald coworker disappears. Chase doesn’t like him very much. Marrisa is a good worker. Out of earshot of guests, she is one of the bluntest people he has ever met. Even after knowing Logan. Then a guest approaches and she transforms into a cheerful and patient host. There is something to be said about her years of experience in customer service and public relations. She calls it “switching,” and it’s effortless for her.

  Chase also has years- God, years- of working in a restaurant has made him pretty adept, too. There aren’t many talents he has in life. He will take what he can get.

  The pair get to work seating guests. The more tickets he brings back, the more the hall fills with families and groups. There are a handful of couples, but Marissa takes them. She always does. Chase is good under pressure, swinging by tables to collect orders from one while dropping off coloring pages and crayons for eager children at another. The sleepy parents are appreciative.  

  He works fast, taking a ticket back to the window and grabbing the food from his last one to take out.

  It is just a very busy half-hour to 45 minutes. The hall empties after an hour as guests go off to get ready for a tour or to head down to the beach. The bald man slinks back in to help Marisa clear down as Chase leaves.  He has a hike to lead until noon and then he plays cabana boy until dinner service.

  “You should eat something, bean pole,” Marisa tells him.

  He always forgets to eat. Chase does have groceries upstairs, but he hates going back up unless it is a necessity. The less time he spends on the third floor, the better. “I will,” he assures her.

  And he does. He takes two bagels from the pantry and sandwiches cream cheese, smoked salmon pieces, and jarred jalapeno slices from the kitchen’s walk-in between them. Marisa sees him wander back out with his sandwich and scrunches her nose. “That is such a man thing to do, but it’s better than nothing.”

  “You sure you don’t want to try,” he asks around doughy mouthfuls. He means it as a joke. She definitely doesn’t.

  “Hell no.”

  Chase’s hiking group is mostly men. He thinks there is some kind of reunion going on. They laugh and talk about the “old times.” He just smiles and makes pleasant conversation while figuring out what pace will allow all of them to huff along with killing them. Chase mentions he plays basketball in school and that induces them to compare their preferred sport to each other’s’. The men seem to all agree with golf.

  He suggests a driving range down the road that serves cheap beers, and they seem to alight on the idea. It might be enough that the DJ will have a short break from playing a ceaseless loop of Jimmy Buffet’s discography.

  The resort pays Chase well enough to do one job, let alone two. The cabana tips are excellent. The middle aged and older crowd- especially the women- like him. And, well, thank God for that. At least he has something to look forward to, in a few decades.

  When Chase finally gets the men back (all alive if red-faced and entirely out of puff) they follow him to said cabana. By law, he is prohibited from serving alcohol. In practice, he often helps the outdoor bar tender by bringing beers to tables for lunch service. Guests will have to wait for another one of his coworkers to arrive for the harder stuff. These guys don’t seem to mind. They are happy to throw themselves into barstools and accept bottles of beer with lime wedges. Some of their wives join them.

  “Woah, now,” Chase leans on his arms over the bar, “excuse me. I’m going to need to see some IDs from you ladies to make sure I can serve you.”

  Predictably, they are flattered and pleased. Some of the husbands grumble, jokingly, not to “encourage them.”

  The group meanders away and Chase takes a beer for himself on break. His phone is lit up with messages from friends. Michael and Logan want to know what they are up to. Lola and Quinn ask for pictures. As always, a pit forms in his stomach before he answers them all. He downs his beer in one go and then begins his careful replies.

  Being a Cabana Boy is easy.

  Even during lunch all he has to do is take orders quickly and efficiently. Sometimes, someone will need help moving a chair from one area to another or he will have to bring more cases of liquor to the bartender.

  Chase is equipped with a radio so he is able to step away for breaks or wander curiously into the kitchen and leave another employee to watch the beach.

  He is halfway through wolfing down a loaf of sheepherder’s bread left over from an event the previous day (not unlike a medieval peasant, he thinks) when his radio cracks to life. “Chase, can I get your help at Awning 4.”

  Chase makes sure he is alone in the breakroom before groaning out loud. “Copy, on my way.”

  When he gets there, it is a group of older women- not unlike his hiking group. The way they interact reminds him of his friends and he suffers under a pitiful wave of homesickness at the sight. They see him. His coworker, a slightly older Hawaiian dude he thinks is named Dan, flags him down. “Hey, do you think we could push 3 and 4 together to make a bigger area for these ladies?”

  Chase fights to not roll his eyes and to keep his tone casual. Later, he’ll have to remind Dan that he has worked there longer. The question is supposed to go the other way around. Chase shrugs instead. “Sure. I don’t see why not.”

  One of them thanks the pair profusely during the whole endeavor. She’s nice. He tries not to think of who she reminds him of. If he thinks about it too long, he will start to worry over just how long and exhausting life is. Alternatively, he desperately wants to see the people his friends become, dreams of decades and a lifetime of their companionship. Some of the couples he sees are so alike, so good-looking, that he thinks about Zoey and James.

  To walk into the ocean or not to walk into the ocean, that is the question.

  They finish the task quickly. One of the women gives them a tip. The rest are quiet, eyeing him and Dan with something like hunger. Some times, he finds it spooky to be openly leered at. Especially, by a woman who reminds him of Nicole.

  Into the ocean sounds good, about now.

  Dinner is served and uneventful. The patio is lively with music and drunk adults while games of horseshoes are played on the sand. Chase helps both inside and outside. Marisa clocks out before dark and sits at one of the cleared and cleaned up tables, watching him. “You need to slow down sometime.”

  He shakes his head, slides a plastic tube of dishes to the passing busboy. “Can’t do that.”

  Marisa sits fully upright and regards him through narrowed eyes, lips pursed. “You’ll be forced to, eventually.”

  “Maybe. Or I’ll just drop dead,” Chase jokes.

  “Unfortunately for you, I am CPR certified. I definitely will not let you die and leave me alone with the bald guy who never does any work. You are shit outta luck, brother.”

  Isn’t that the truth. He is about to reply when the swinging plastic doors into the kitchen are practically thrown open. One of the line cooks, tall and slim both in face and body and white as printer paper, burst through the doors. In each hand he clutches a wine bottle by its neck. “Libations,” he announces, “for a job well done!”

  The resort, as far as Chase can tell, seems to be full of high-end clientele this week. The customers don’t seem to be mindful about ordering, well, any consumables. There is constantly rejected or leftover food that is more than perfectly fine. The same applies to alcoholic beverages served inside the restaurant. They start fresh every day.

  Anything opened can go to the staff.

  It is a lot of wine, Chase notices. The harder stuff is given out first dibs to the kitchen staff. Marisa makes a grabbing motion with her hand, “well let’s see what these old broads are drinking.”

  The cook hands him the other bottle. He happily take it. Rejecting the stuff makes his coworkers tease him about it. That’s what he tells people, anyway. Chase watches his coworker pull the cork out of the bottle and sniff. “Is it any good?”

  “Oh, I have no idea,” she laughs, “it just seems like the right thing to do. I’ll let you know.”

  And with that she takes a big, long sip. Out of curiosity, he smells the contents of his and is shocked by how dark the wine is. “So?”

  “Not bad,” Marisa shrugs, “I thought Jews drank wine for communion or something.”

  “No, communion is Christian.” Chase stirs the bottle and watches the mauve contents whirl inside. He takes a swig. It’s bitter, and not nearly as sweet as he worried it would be. The sweeter the drink, the worse the hangover. It tingles but it isn’t unpleasant. Dry.

  His coworker watches him with an unreadable expression. “What do you think?”

  “It’s okay. I guess.”

  But he keeps the bottle tucked away in the dining hall for the rest of the night. His mind returns to it while he is slinging a sixty-year-old man’s arm over his shoulders and helping him stagger off to bed. Chase thinks about it when the same woman from the awning gives him her hotel room number and asks him what time he gets off. When Mister Brooks comes out to fetch Chase and tells him he must go to his room he can finally take the bottle up with him.

  It’s not a problem that Chase can’t get through a full workday without at least a beer. Nor does it mean anything that he has snuck more than a few partial bottles of wine up to his room before bed. Besides, it’s only temporary. When school begins again in just a few short weeks, he’ll go back to being sober, virginal Chase.

Chapter Text

  Chase hadn’t meant to hurt himself.

  He usually doesn’t. It just happens. He is one part reckless, one part clumsy, and yet another part feckless. Hence, being alone on a damn island.

  He was more drunk than ever before. One of the kitchen staff makes something akin to moonshine and let him have some. It burned and stung until it hit his stomach acid, but it was much more effective than anything else he’s had. Then he broke one of many cardinal rules of booze and mixed drinks. When he retired to his room, he helped himself to some wine.

  Chase reasoned he was drinking quite enough water between to minimize a hangover. He was also feeling good about having the next day off. At some point, he decided to change out of his work clothes and into one of the last changes of street clothes he had left. A plain tee in a color that- should have gone well with his eyes and a pair of jeans. All the better to wake up and get moving, right?

  Wrong.

  It was pure, unadulterated panic that led him to lie about Zoey’s whereabouts. He was about seventy-four hours into this nightmare and running on a cumulative six hours of sleep when Lola texted. y isn’t Zo txting me bck?

  He was stunned by the information. Chase thought that she would have at least told the girls about staying in California. No one but his mother had tried to contact him for days. He ignored the calls. It was almost a reflex to type back. She says sry. Her phone gt wet.

  And then he sent it. Then the next message. Then the next. Each time feigning that they were having fun between working hours. Once every few days, Chase would snap quick pictures of the beach at sunset, or a pair of flippers some guests had used. It was shockingly easy to do.

  They didn’t even ask why the couple themselves weren’t featured in the photos. It owes to their level of trust in him, he guesses. Either in his ability to stay honest, or in the certainty of collapse should anything have gone awry.

  To be fair, he did implode spectacularly from day two to day seven of his stay. There was a reason he started being offered alcohol.

  When his mother called, he did everything in his limited acting power to pretend he was having the time of his life. Telling her, as always, not to worry. “We’re doing fine, mom. The sunsets are stunning. After work, we are going-“ and “tell Zayde I said hi.”

  With some time alone with his thoughts and his reflection, he wondered if it was even worth all the effort. If the girls believed his lie, it meant Zoey hadn’t corrected it. She hadn’t texted or called Quinn and Lola, nor Michael and Logan. Nobody. For weeks.

  But what happens after summer is over and he has to go home? From home, back to PCA? Will Zoey even be there? Maybe she fled back to Louisiana or even abroad. Her father had almost taken a job in England. She might have gone there to get away and start completely over.

  There is also the issue of their break-up. Even if they manage to keep up the story, there is no way Zoey wants anything to do with him. She never had. Chase came on much too strong too quickly. Perhaps, if he were good-looking, he could have gotten away with it. He just isn’t handsome enough to sell himself as, well, much of anything. He is just some gangly weirdo who told a girl he loved her after only half-way dating for however long.

  Who was he kidding? Of course he remembered how long they were “together” for. Recorded each day into memory. Chase is such a loser that he had planned a little anniversary celebration one year out from when they kissed at the fountain the day after it happened. Zoey likes plans and he would have made sure to always have one or two up his sleeves.

  Chase contemplated just coming clean in a mass text. He quickly decided against it. That would surely destroy their friend group and split it into two sides. A Him versus Her situation like he instigated with the damn Fada radio. He can’t do that again. Most certainly not to poor Quinn and Logan. Just because he doesn’t have a relationship doesn’t mean he should ruin theirs. They don’t deserve that.

  Then he considered telling only his mother the truth. She wanted to fly back with him from California to Oregon on his return. There was no talking her out of it. There would also be no hiding the fact that he will get off the plane alone. Chase had his mother’s number lit up on his phone screen, ready to make the call, when the vicious black cloud of a thought crawled in.

  Like mother like son.

  Hadn’t she done the same thing he did? Chasing his father from the east to the west coast to settle somewhere unfamiliar with nothing but optimism and blind love? Then his dad bailed on her. She described it as abrupt and all at once. No phone call, no mail, and when she went to his apartment it was locked up and empty.

  There is something bleakly ironic that his name is Chase. He’s always hated it. Some instances more than others.

  Technically, what Zoey did isn’t nearly as bad. Right? It’s not like Chase is pregnant and it isn’t like he moved to Hawaii. With the abundance of tips, he can more than afford any flight home tomorrow, if he pleased.

  He took another swig from his wine bottle and then worried if Zoey had been miserable the whole time. She isn’t one to keep something like that to herself, but perhaps she was just trying to throw him a bone. Maybe she was afraid of his reaction?  Her dating record is brief but those boys were all completely the opposite of himself. How could he have been so blind?

  Like mother like son.

  Chase knows his mom isn’t very superstitious, but she would likely blame herself for this. Whenever anything bad happened to the mother-son duo, she always did that. Worried herself sick. Worked herself to the bone. She will think she cursed him.

  Chase got angry. At everything. Himself, his dad, Zoey, Mister Brooks, James-

  Like mother like son.

  What he thinks he meant to do was shatter his mirror. He swung out with the bottle of wine like a club, like a bat, to bludgeon his own reflection and do one of two losers in the room a small act of mercy. Mid-motion, he realized the mirror doesn’t belong to him. That it is his employer’s property. So, he tries to stop himself.

  Drunk and off kilter, he redirected the swing down towards the sink and doesn’t remember much beyond that point.

  Zoey often wonders what her friends are doing.

  If she has them anymore. Her phone has been dead for weeks and therefore all messages and calls unanswered. Zoey spends most of her days walking around her neighborhood or sitting alone in the park. All in the sweltering summer heat. So much so, that she’s acclimated to it and hardly notices how much she is sweating or that it’s triple digits outside. Normally, a depressed person might shutter themselves indoors and huddle under blankets with the television.

  She can’t watch anything. One never truly notices how much romance is featured in shows until they’re trying to avoid the topic.

  Also, Zoey doesn’t believe she is depressed. It’s too off and on. Sometimes, she is struck with white-hot guilt and shame. It’s like lightening and almost as blinding. She wears athletic clothes everywhere so she can run off the sensation when it strikes. Her ankle is still a little weak, but her endurance is returning bit by bit. She runs a lot. Sprints up and down the park pathways until she is sick and coughing.

  It isn’t a new hobby. Zoey has been restless and uncomfortable since the start of this mess.

  At the airport, she only meant to step outside for some air. Hot, crowded, polluted air, but air nonetheless. Anxiety lumped in her throat until she felt she couldn’t breathe. The sight of her and Chase’s matching tickets didn’t help matters. It felt binding. Contractual and full of obligations.

  Of what, Zoey wasn’t sure and that was what scared her.

  When she packed for the trip, she picked all the safest clothing options she could find. A bathing suit with extra coverage, shirts with modest necklines and shorts longer than the ones she wore to school, everything to telegraph to anyone who saw her where her morals lie. The line in the proverbial sand. When Chase saw her, he beamed and was excitedly rambling about swimming in crystal-clear water and long walks off hotel grounds.

  His enthusiasm clashed with her trepidation. Zoey decided then that it was a mistake to invite him. It was too late to change her mind. She couldn’t even have Dustin go in her stead because he was already with his friends in summer camp. The seriousness of the situation hit like a ton of bricks. Chase worried, putting his hand to her forehead and asking, “are you okay, Zo?”

  She wasn’t. “I’m fine. I think it was the heat. I’m going to go to the bathroom. I’ll meet you on the plane.”

  He was hesitant to leave her. It took her insistence to get him to go away. When he did, he pressed a sweet kiss to her forehead and said he’d save her a spot in line.

  And then Zoey started walking. And walking. And walking. Her phone rang and vibrated in her pocket so much she didn’t even have to guess who it was. She waited at a payphone a half mile from the airport. The deal she made with herself was that if Chase came looking for her, his love was true, and they would take the next flight. If he didn’t, he was in it for the trip and he would still have fun without her. Their departure time came and went. Her phone stopped ringing. She turned it to silent and then dialed her home phone.

  That was it, she decided, they went their separate ways as all high school relationships do.

   When Chase wakes up on his bed, he is immediately grateful to have the day off.

  His head pounds and his whole body aches as though he got hit by a truck. With a grunt he sits up and has to press his fist against his mouth as bile momentarily surges up into it. It’s bitter and acidic. He swallows and reaches to grab a bottle of water from his minifridge.

  Chase discovers two things simultaneously; he took off all his clothes before falling asleep, and there is gauze haphazardly strapped to his right thigh from just above his knee to about 8 inches up. It bled a lot. He can see the splotches saturating the fabric, his leg hair has clots trapped in it. There is a smear of blood on the sheets. He frowns.

  In Human Anatomy, they studied the blood vessels. He tries to mentally draw a map of them under his own flesh. He thinks the femoral artery in on the inside of his leg. It would have to be. Chase concludes he would have bled out in his sleep by now if he hit anything important.

  The rest of him looks uninjured. He downs the bottle of water in one go and stands up to hobble to the bathroom.

  It looks like a murder scene. There is dry and tacky blood in chunky blots all over the tile floor and more big streaks on the wall like he leaned against it, bleeding. Big, sharp shards of a broken wine bottle are scattered across the counter. The neck and part of the body were left in the bloodied sink along with an open first aid kit. He left handprints on the countertop, the handles, and the shower curtain.

  Chase carefully steps through the mess to peer into the shower stall and finds his clothes in there. Bloody jeans, boxer briefs, and a shirt. Luckily, they are all covered in blood so he can just throw it all away. Yet more stuff from Before he can rid himself of.

  Again, he thanks God he won’t have to work today. It will give him time to clean all the mess up and now he has no choice but to go and buy some more bandages and wound care equipment. Mister Brooks will notice if he takes more first aid kits from the hotel’s supply. Then his bathroom door will have a bicycle lock on it just like the door to his balcony.

  It takes longer than it should to scrub the floor. The metallic smell of blood is nauseating, and he keeps having to pause and spit in the toilet. Chase will just have to be more mindful to eat before he starts drinking again. Luckily, the walls are painted with a high gloss enamel so there are no stains after wiping them down.

  Chase finishes the job by getting decent enough to go down the hall to the supply closet and fetch the vacuum. Just in case he missed any pieces of glass.

  Showering hurts. The cut is big and wide and deep. He runs cold water over it in the shower and grits through washing all the clotted blood and early scabbing out. Chase gets the dregs of vodka from his fridge. The shot tastes awful but it takes the edge off while he picks bits of gauze out of his leg with the tweezers in his kit. When he is done, he takes what could be one or two more shots to stave off the pain a little while longer. Civil War medicine.

  Realistically, the wound should get stitched up.

  He doesn’t want to. It’s good, he supposes, that he has at least one external scar from the whole ordeal. Chase is always getting scuffed up, bruised, scraped and the like. It isn’t like he doesn’t have other scars he can point out and tell the story about where they come from, who he was with, what he was thinking.

  This one can be a mystery. Maybe he will make something up.

  Freshly showered and cleaned up, Chase hobbles down the stairs and helps himself to the kitchen. Breakfast service has already ended. The crew looks like they are preparing for a luau event later. There is a whole raw pig skewered across the prep table. It makes him queasy and glad to be Jewish.

  He is fishing for bagels in the pantry- and slowly discovering he might be a little more drunk than he intended to be- when Chef Pete taps him on his shoulder. Chase turns slowly to face the shorter man. Narrowed blue eyes dig into him. “I know it is your day off, but you need to slow down, kid.”

  Chase opts for a half lie. “I didn’t mean to- I think it is because my stomach was empty, and I’ve never done this kind of stuff before. I don’t- I don’t know. I thought it would be slower.”

  Pete seems to believe his story. “Just be careful.”

  “I will try.” Even that feels like a lie.

  He ends up just eating the bagels untoasted and plain. Chase worries about the effect cream cheese or other accoutrements might have on his whirlwind gut, especially because he has errands to run.

  The resort is limping distance from town. There are restaurants and shops and outdoor equippers all along the closest blocks for ease of access for tourists and the people who make a living servicing them. The buildings are clean and new and too much for him. A couple blocks from there, behind little neighborhoods and various hangouts he probably will never go to, are the actual local shops.

  The buildings are stout and older, their colorful paint peeling like they have been there for generations. Chase enters one that is the color of the inside of a grapefruit because he sees there is not one tourist-looking article of clothing in the window. The floor is broad plank and creaks a little with his steps. A man eyes him suspiciously from the cash register. “What’s up with you,” he asks, “why do you limp around like a zombie in my shop?”

  “I fucked up my leg at work,” Chase answers. He wanders over to a rack of first aid supplies and starts grabbing what he thinks he will need and then some. Just to be sure. He pays in cash and then sets off again to go find a little trinket to send back to his mother.

  The injury prevents him from running on the beach, but he can do other exercises.

  At some point in the not-too-distant future Chase will be going back to PCA. His little lie will fall apart in a spectacular display. That is, if Zoey doesn’t get in contact with everyone before then. He could pretend to be okay and that the split was amicable. No one will buy mutual. For his friends’ sake, he will go back to seeing her everyday and suffering in silence like he already knows how.

  He will be Chase Mathews; The Guy who Got Left on an Island.

  But there is still time to make improvements. To go home as a slightly less embarrassing individual and start the school year off with something to show for. He hits the gym most days. He’ll never fill out like Michael or have abs like Logan, but anything is better than his current appearance. Coach Kar might even be pleased.

  The hotel gym is often empty. On rare occasions, he runs into other people. Less often are they in groups. Chase notices that the younger men attending business conferences and the like listen to angry metal. Crashing, furious sound while they hog all the free weights except the squat rack and cardio machines. When it is too crowded, he elects to do bodyweight exercises in the conference room.

  Alcohol has finally allowed him to put on weight. It’s little, but a start. Chase’s voracious appetite and often unwise dietary choices have not given him results like wine before bed or beer at lunch. Melisa thinks he’s nuts.

  If she isn’t calling him by his name, she refers to him as Lolo.

  He likes it. If he ever got a tattoo in the future, he’d get that inked into the skin of his upper arm or chest. Somewhere he wouldn’t have to see it all the time but seen often enough to be a story. How big of a fool he is can become- with time- a joke. A cautionary tale to other young men who are too blind to heed the warning signs of imminent disaster.

  Working out hurts his leg. He opts to do tricep exercises to avoid causing further damage, but even sitting down on the bench or walking up and down the stairs agitates and burns the tear in his flesh. Chase has found that physical pain is better than emotional pain. He pushes through it anyway.

  Zoey does eventually run herself sick.

  She has to sit down on a bench. It’s shaded from the summer sun by the swaying boughs of a nearby sycamore. The wind is dry and stinging. Quickly, Zoey chugs the remaining contents of her water bottle and tries to catch her breath. It’s much too hot for most people and she has run of the park. Sweat burns her eyes as she glances about for a water fountain.

  The bench seat is much too hard to be comfortable. However, the metal feels cool everywhere her body makes contact with it. Her clothes are so drenched that they stick to her skin. It takes a minute to find the motivation to rise again and hobble to the water fountain. Her sweating is so profuse she shivers despite the heat. Her hands shake as she fills and downs three consecutive bottles’ worth of water.

  It’s probably not a good sign, but she ignores it in favor of making her way back to the shade. Sunlight hurts her eyes and- for lack of a better word- seems to be cooking her skin. Nausea swells so ferociously that she can feel her heartbeat in her stomach. Her head spins. Zoey lays down on the cool grass next to the bench. Overhead, the broad shapes of sycamore leaves block out most of the daylight.

  To distract from her extreme discomfort, Zoey uses her swimming vision to create shapes in the texture of overlapping leaves. There is a sea monster and the head of an alpaca. The silhouette of a mountain peak covered in snow rises above the blotted form of a bumblebee.

  It makes her dizzy. She rolls onto her side to spit up a mouthful of water. The trembling gets worse. When she drinks again, she sips slower. Her abdomen clenches painfully, but this time she keeps the water down.

  For the first time since she left Chase at the airport, she wonders what he is doing. Uncle Tim supplied updates to her parents who in turn passed them along to her. He landed safely, checked into whatever his assigned room was, and waited for her. Zoey knows it verges on insane, but she was bitter that he still got on the flight without her. Never mind that he called her and called her until her phone died.

  Once her parents said that he started his first day of work, she asked them not to tell her any more about him.

  But now, she is desperate to know. She wants to hear how Chase’s day is going so far and if he slept well the night before. Zoey closes her eyes and imagines charging her phone and calling him back. Technology would crush the twenty-five hundred mile distance between them like a paper cup. In her dreams, he answers on the beach and his voice mingles with the swell of the sea.

  Her arms prickle and break out in goosebumps. She wraps them tighter around herself and wishes they were his. There is a high likelihood they would have had a brown-eyed, dark-haired child. A girl, Zoey thinks, with a tiny fishing rod of her own looking up to him to teach her to cast her line into the ocean. When he catches something, he lets their daughter help reel it in.

  Zoey coughs up more water and realizes she is in danger. Her dreams are too sweet to interrupt, though. She adds another daughter and a son to their brood. They crowd in around their daddy and ask for turns on the fishing rod and if they can help cook the fish, too. The breeze turns cool and salty. The rustle of leaves turns to the roar of waves as she dozes off to Chase’s laughter.

Chapter Text

  Chase did not really have to explain much of anything to his mother or Zayde.

  He thought the haircut would be shocking for them- and it kind of was for the old man- but Mom just squeezed his cheeks between her thumbs and index fingers with a, “oh, my handsome son!”

  To be fair, she has to think that. It’s a biological imperative that parents think their kids are cute. Otherwise, babies would probably all have been sent down rivers in baskets like Moses the second they got annoying. Even he experiences the same soft, squishy mush inside when Bender lets him watch Joshua.

  He tells Mom and Zayde he got rid of most of his things because he was inspired to do so. The friends he made there really helped him evaluate what was and wasn’t important. Zoey helped him pick out what to keep or get rid of but ultimately, he was happy with a clean slate. It was a good, cleansing experience. 

  The latter statement is true. The rest is bullshit.

  Back home, he and his mother had just moved in with Zayde. It was kind of sudden. With chase gone most of the year and then soon moving out, there was no reason for his mom to maintain the house they had been living in since his freshman year. Too lonely, Mom said. For Zayde he would need "support" now that he was also alone. It’s a euphemism, of course. They- his mother, mostly- moved in to look after him until he follows Bubbe into Eternity. Like a long-term hospice care. For now, Zayde is well and needs little- if any- assistance in his day-to-day activities.

  In fact, he has just enough energy and mobility to need supervision. Not help.

  The house is two stories tall and the stairs to the second floor are a little steep and narrow. The smooth wood treads pose slip hazards of their own, but Zayde has begun needing his cane more and more in recent months. Neither of his mom’s parents were tall to begin with, but old age had shrunk them even further. Mom has been slowly moving things from the overhead cupboards down to the lower cabinets, the same with the bookshelves.

  If he had not been in Hawaii, this would have been his first summer living in his grandparents’ house as a permanent resident. It would have also been the first time he stayed there without Bubbe. Even the days he spent waiting for the school year to start again felt surreal. The house looked exactly as it had the summer prior. There were times Chase could have convinced himself that she was just in another room. When the radio was on, he imagined her swinging around corners and bopping around the hallways. While grabbing sheets from the linen closet, the contents smelled so much like the detergent she used it was as if she was just behind him. Like when he was little and she taught him how to do laundry and put it away.

  In the waning days of summer, Chase made himself busy. He found chores to do all day every day until he had to leave.

  While his mother is away at work, he rides his bike to the home improvement store to buy wall anchors and a stud finder. When he returns, he spends the rest of the day affixing every earthquake-hazard he can find firmly to the wall. Chase dusts and rearranges furniture that is too heavy for just Mom and Zayde to figure out on their own. On another day he borrows Zayde’s old car to go back and buys a battery lawnmower and weed whacker to replace the ancient gas ones.

  The lawnmower is self-propelled. If Zayde decided to be stubborn, he could use it on his own to mow. The whacker is a little heavy, but both are chargeable. Meaning, neither adult will ever have to lug a heavy gas can around again for yard work even while Chase is at PCA. He trims the front lawn (it was desperately needed) while he’s at it.

  Inside, he pops every old door off its hinges and greases them with a spray lubricant. The one into the hall bathroom is hard to close. It needed to be releveled and hung. After dinner, the three of them pile into Mom’s car to buy a new, more manageable refrigerator to replace the rattling behemoth in the kitchen.

  Chase doesn’t mind lying to them. He is forced to, anyway. His head hurts and his hands shake every morning such that he drinks cups of water with both hands. On his laptop, he looks up delirium tremens and decides he can't possibly have withdrawals. He hadn't been drinking long enough. It's just... traveling. And hard work that is making him feel like trash-fucking-garbage these days. No, he doesn't get a little zip of excitement up his spine when he remembers the liquor cabinet is in the back of the pantry. No, he was not crushed to find it empty. Not that he opened it. If he did, it was only to make sure it was safely attached to the wall.

  What he does have is a bag full of gifts and a mind full of imaginative stories. They eat up every one with stars in their eyes. How happy they are to hear he had the time of his life. Zayde has nothing to worry about- as for his youngest grandson- in his final years. Mom asked him if they planned on going back for their honeymoon and all three laughed.

  Funny joke.

  In the morning, he cleans the gutters. Heights are less scary when one isn’t so invested in the whole survival-thing, Chase finds. While he is up there, he even cleans the debris out of the chimney grate where a bird had attempted to build a nest.

  As a reward, Zayde sits out in the shade of the backyard with him for lunch. The garden is massive. The ground is a crisscrossing array of bushy greens in a dozen shapes and shades. They added aboveground planter beds (Mom’s insistence, to keep Zayde off his knees) that are bristling with delicate sprouts or tangling vines on cedar trellises. “Looks good.”

  “Bah,” Zayde waves off the compliment, “a mess. What with the weeding and the trimming that needs done.”

  Chase laughs, “subtle. Should I get started now?”

  “We can do it tomorrow, tatala. My flowers died, do you see,” he points one shivering finger against the far fence. Brown, bumpy shapes lay in dejected mounds. “Your mother inherited my trouble. Bubbe could grow flowers just by looking at the dirt hard enough. Elaine? Not so much.”

  “I remember. She said flowers were the key to good vegetables.”

  It’s science. The colorful flowers attract pollinators like bees. The pollination leads to buds that swell into the fruits of the plant. Tomatoes and pumpkins and everything else. Yellow was her favorite color, but she believed purple was lucky. Orange and red were “sweet” colors.

  The pair sit in contemplative silence. A hummingbird in jewel tones of green and purple zooms up to a tiny yellow flower growing on a vine. A pole bean. A soon-to-be green bean, Chase thinks. The bird zips away and disappears over the fence. “Perhaps it is good she won’t see how poor my vegetables turned out without her.”

  Chase frowns but doesn’t know what words to say. He doesn't think there are any. 

  Zoey does not want to lie to her friends.

  Rich coming from her, she knows, after everything she has ever outright lied about or all truth she obscured. The mountain of which is so tall that parts of it are hidden behind a foggy memory. If she wanted to set the record straight on everything, Zoey would have to tell her entire life’s story.

  Lola beats Quinn to the dorms. She bursts through the door, finger aimed accusingly at the empty single bed and one hand over her eyes. “Alright, I’ll give you two one minute to get decent!”

  Zoey scowls from the lower bunk and closes her book. “Now, why would you think anything like that would- happen?”

  Lola frowns and uncovers her eyes, looking between her roommate and the single bed. “Why are you over there?”

  The blonde shrugs. “I didn’t want to unilaterally decide on sleeping arrangements without y’all. Anyway, how was your break?”

  “Fine but who cares about that,” the brunette leaves her stuff in a heap inside the door and hustles to throw herself across Zoey’s lap. “Tell me everything about your romantic getaway. When’s the wedding and which of us is the Maid of Honor?”

  She knows it’s a joke, but it hurts. “Would you calm down?” 

  “Absolutely not,” Lola insistently prods Zoey’s shoulder with her fingers. “Details, blondie, details.”

  Which she has. Pages of detailed notes with a distinct chronology of how she (could have) spent her vacation. Her heart squeezes before her mouth can form the words. Zoey finds herself torn. Chase wants her to lie.

  He seems to think that what she did reflects poorly on him. That, if even their closest friends knew that she had left him alone for weeks, they would think he did something wrong. That he’s to blame, somehow. Zoey knows that isn’t true. He also values their friend group and the relationships therein. She thinks about Quinn and Logan. Michael and Lola, and Quinn and Michael, and Lola and Logan. All interesting and unique dynamics besides. 

  Chase wants her to lie.

  I can’t make you do what you don’t want to do.

  He’s said that to her at least a handful of times in the past few months. Both in person and over the phone. She used to think it was a compliment, and maybe he meant it like that, but in a relationship, she can’t imagine a worse trait short of abuse.

  Chase doesn’t dance, but he was willing to learn for her. He wanted to watch what she said about him in the time capsule, but he abstained because she asked him to. If it was important to her, it was important to him. She mattered enough to him to put himself out there and get out of his comfort zone.

  That’s love.

  So, if that’s what Chase wants, that’s what he is going to get. Even if it’s too little, too late.

  Zoey rolls her eyes, and hopes it comes across as good-natured. “Well, alright. First, when we landed, there was this mix up at baggage claim-“

  Chase can’t sleep.

  His bed is too warm, and his sheets are suffocating. They coil around his limbs like pale boa constrictors and his heart keeps pounding. The air in his room is stifling and stale. Chase would open the door to his balcony, but Mister Brooks chained it shut.

  For the record, he would never jump. If he were going to kill himself, it wouldn’t be in front of an audience. Besides, his balcony hangs over the front of the hotel. If he were to take a dive, he might land on some innocent bystander. Mister Brooks saw him leaning over the rail and deep in thought one time and now he can’t use part of his own room.

  Chase can’t die without knowing if Zoey is safe or not.

  She is. He forces himself to believe she is okay. Repeats it like a mantra. Like a prayer. His eyes burn and he can feel his heartbeat beneath his face. The blood vessels throb in his fevered brain. He aches. When Chase moves his head, everything blurs. He keeps swaying on his feet like a ship on churning waves. Zoey is okay. She is only sick. Sick of him, he hopes. At least then the cure is simple and recovery guaranteed. 

  No one has called him. No one has told him different.

  If she- if something had happened, her parents have his number. He got theirs off Zoey’s phone. For emergencies. For their peace of mind.

  Chase hears a woman shout outside in the hall. She is laughing, joking with another woman who calls back with a reply. The sound hurts his eardrums even through the door. He hops out of bed and puts on his work shoes. Some fresh air might help, he decides. He needs to sleep at some point. He looked like shit today and a guest asked him if he was sick.

  He has no idea where he is going until he is outside. The front of the hotel faces the road, the parking lot, and the way back to the airport. The back leads to surf and sand. A football field between the doors and the Pacific. Chase’s stomach lurches while he crosses the beach as if he is getting seasick just from walking. Maybe he is. It could be the salt in the air or the way the ocean swells and throbs in the moonlight.

  He gulps a few deep breaths of cold air and then spits bile down between his feet.

  A woman shouts again. Chills run down his spine. Goosebumps bloom violently across Chase’s skin as if his body is rejecting the sound. If he were in his right mind, he would have recognized the jovial tone in the shout. Some guests were drinking and playing cards outdoors. If he were in his right mind, he would have gone back to his room and slept with his door open.

  If he were in his right mind.

  But he wasn’t. She sounded like Zoey when she cried out for help in Redstone Gulch. The screams were sad, scared, and lonely. His heart races, eyes catching the glimmering reflection of a crescent moon scattered over churning, rippling waves. Long, white, and angular like the wing of a plane. She shouts again and he’s sloshing out into the water.

  Chase probably would have drowned if it weren’t for someone reporting a lunatic in the ocean to the staff. It's not like he could have dragged the reflection of the moon out of the water. He doesn’t remember being wrangled out of the waves or dragged into the kitchen. He heard that he fought against his captors. Rescuers, more like. He has only faint memory of Pete slamming his palm into Chase’s back while he gagged on saltwater and coughed it all up in the sink. He knows he was pissed.

  For a moment, and only just, the water felt good. Cold and dark. He imagined sitting at the bottom in the pressure and surge of passing currents. Commend his body to the depths. 

  That’s also the night he was offered something Pete called firewater. “This’ll knock you out, kid.”

  And boy did it. 

  It’s harder finding the motivation to lie to Michael. He is the closest thing to a brother that Chase has ever had. They were frightened eleven-year-olds together on a campus far from home in an unfamiliar state. Before Michael, Chase was accustomed to being alone outside of school. He was used to not being invited to do stuff unless he proved he was good at it. Like racing go-karts or some other random, useless skill he has.

  Guilt takes root in his gut and climbs up to his chest and neck like vines. Chase imagines them like long, black tendrils with sharp leaves coiling around each of his ribs and slithering up his vertebrae to hook his lower jaw. That could be good for something. He ought to write that down.

  Lying to Logan isn’t nearly as hard. The guy has other priorities- namely, Quinn- and has no qualms about taking every story at face value. “So, what, you guys didn’t do anything,” Logan asked, sounding endlessly disappointed, “like, nothing? On an island get-away far from both your parents, and you didn’t-“

  “Dude,” Chase rolled his eyes. He was annoyed and another feeling he couldn’t quite identify. Vaguely sad, he supposes. To think he would go through all this trouble just to lie to Logan. “I told you before we even left that that wasn’t what we were doing. We were just there to have a fun trip and that’s it.”

  “They’ll have time,” Michael interjected, “when’s the wedding?”

  This time, Chase found it a little harder to laugh.

  The haircut was shockingly easy to explain away. For years he cut and trimmed his own hair to avoid going to the PCA barber. Taking an electric razor to the back of his neck, and trimming his sideburns while shaving saved time and money. Clippers helped him keep his hair’s shape and semi-organized appearance. The barber just wanted to sheer Chase like a sheep.

  His hair is a distinctly Zelikovich feature he inherited amongst the many Matthews traits. Like everything else, the more of Chase that can be covered, the better he looks.

  He also pays for it dearly. In exchange for a decent beard and thick curls, he also is saddled with dark body hair. When he found out about Gender Defenders, Chase shaved his shoulders and everywhere on his back he could reach with a razor. Every morning. Then he refused to take off his tank top during any water challenges. Armpit and leg hair is a normal thing for a boy. It’s quite another to grow a sweater for display at the pool.

  When asked, Chase says he is trying something new. Changing it up for his last year at PCA. So far, he has heard positive reviews. Even Quinn comments on finding the trim, "a good choice." 

  Probably one of three he has made since June.

  Zoey starts letting herself into Chase’s room around his bedtime.

  He’s often already dozed off. Freshly showered and huddled on one side of the bed. If she were more delusional she might join him since there is room for two. In another life, maybe she does. Maybe he waits up for her her to climb onto the mattress next to him and they fall asleep listening to the other's breathing.

  She thinks he is just accustomed to the tight squeeze of the bunkbeds at PCA.

  On some nights, he is still awake but drunk, watching her with one eye while she moves around his room. He rarely speaks, but when he does, he asks, “are you actually in here or am I just fucked up?”

  Which hurts more than Zoey can tell him. The implication is that there were times he had dreamed she had stayed. There were mornings he woke up and had to reacclimate to his loneliness. “I’m here.”

  Chase usually grumbles and falls asleep with nothing else to say.

  There is never anything for her to do. Chase keeps his room tidy and even his bathroom mirror rarely has so much as a speck on it. Zoey cleans it anyway. Dusts is dresser or takes what little laundry he produces every few days down to the first floor to wash. His guitar had accumulated dust from disuse that she very carefully removed with a cloth.

  It’s all to kill time until he is in deep enough sleep that she can sit next to him on the bed. When he sleeps on his back he snores. Zoey hates the sound. It means Chase can’t sufficiently protect his airways. On his side, it isn’t as bad. So, she lets him lean his bare back against her while she watches him sleep. Listens to his dreams and hopes they are pleasant.

  They don’t sound like they are.

  One of the nights Zoey helps herself to his room she goes to take the trash out and finds chunks and pieces of Gilbert Giraffe. It’s like a murder scene of stuffing and fabric. The poor thing is ripped limb from limb, seam by seam. Zoey silently gathers the remains into her hands. He probably brought the thing knowing she would bring Bubby. On that day in the airport, she did indeed have her plushy dog in her carry-on.

  Luckily for him, she can fix the giraffe. Zoey can reassemble him even better than before. When she was little, she accidentally ripped the leg off Bubby and Mimi showed her how to fix it. How to replace the stuffing and sew reinforced seams with strong thread so it would last “a good-long while.” It will be easier piecing the toy back together than it will be with the boy who owns it.

  If he even would want to keep it. Or her.

  Zoey is scared to know why his balcony is chained shut and hopes it is unrelated to why Chase walks with a limp. She has noticed it gets worse near the end of the day and sometimes she sees light pink in the dampness at the bottom of his shower. Collecting near the drain. The color- she fears- of watered-down blood. His bathroom trash basket is always empty, as if he takes the contents out with him whenever he leaves the room.

  There are plenty of bandages and gauze in the bottom dresser drawer.

Chapter Text

  The boys are assigned a different dorm room every year. They were 38 and 45 Gilbreth Hall in freshman and sophomore year. Last year they were 105 Maxwell, now they are 220. A second floor, even room. Better still, they have a corner, meaning their room has two windows. They don't have a great view, but they have lots of natural light. That pisses Logan off. Chase gets it, mostly. The windows reduce their wall space and all that light pours onto Logan's giant television screen and makes it harder to work on their laptops as well.

  It just isn't anything they can't solve. He tells the guys they can just get an extra set of curtains or- he priced it out at the student store- they could get some cheap PCA beach towels, one for each window, and tack them up behind the standard hangings with nails. It's more work than traditional blinds, but Chase doesn't mind rolling them up and clipping them with plastic alligator clips when they need more light. Or air.

  His mother taught him that. 

  There was a short time where they lived with one of her friends, Miss Cynthia. Chase was young but, despite his mother's best efforts to the contrary, he pieced together they must have gotten kicked out of their previous house after she quit her night job. He thinks the scary manager of that job was also their landlord but he isn't sure and he is too scared to bring it up. Even now. The last thing he would want is for Mom to feel embarrassed or ashamed. He knows what she was doing, how hard she was trying. He can be a good boy and keep his mouth shut in return.

  But his mom's friend was, politely, a hot mess. Which says a lot for a lady providing temporary shelter to a single mother still holding out hope that said child's father would come back. She did not have any dishware, only paper plates and bowls. She had five forks- all from different sets- three matching spoons, and one butter knife and one steak knife. The Matthews slept in the living room where all of the windows were completely unadorned and faced the rising sun. Chase got his mom to sleep on the couch by sleeping in a sleeping bag on the floor under the coffee table. "Look mommy, it's like camping," he said.

  Because sometimes he had to trick her into doing things for herself. What they both agreed on was that it was too damn bright in the morning. Mom took him with her to the store and they bought heavy, dark paper to fashion into curtains and then nailed them above with windows. Her friend was pleased to keep them after they moved out.

  What Chase is not willing to do again is sleep on a bunk bed. He would happily take the floor for his mother or sleep outside to get away from an obnoxious roommate. Michael would kill him if he ever told anyone, but he used to sleep on the top bunk and stick his arm in the gap between the mattress and the wall so Michael could grab his hand if he got scared. Michael might be cool now, but once upon a time, he was a mess. They both were. One just grew out of it. Chase has voluntarily taken all kinds of less-than-ideal sleeping conditions and didn't really care enough to fuss over it. Until now.

  The bed at the resort was huge. It was awesome- when he could bring himself to enjoy it. He was excited when he looked up the rooms online and saw the picture of the bed. At the time, he imagined coming back to his room after a day of work and festivities and throwing himself face down on the mattress. Like in movies or music videos. All the while resisting the urge to text Zoey after literally seeing her all day. That went how it went and hotel sheets kind of suck, but he did love having the leg room and the ability to sprawl out even if he didn't actually do that. Chase can't be entirely certain, but he thinks Zoey might have sat with him a few times near the end of the trip. The bunkbeds have space for none of that and he's sick of being the tallest boy in the room with the short bed. 

  Logan tries to argue against it.

  "I'm not doing that shit again," Chase tells him, sternly, "we're not racing, boxing, hopscotching, or tiddlywinks-ing for it. I got here first, I did the Confidentials, you're short, the end."

  Michael looks horrified. "What is tiddlywinks?" 

  "Did you just call me short?"

  "Should we go and put it to a vote," Chase purposefully stands up at full height, "we can have our classmates decide who is taller."

  Logan surrenders.

  Vince Blake moves in on the opposite wing. An odd numbered room on the second floor of Maxwell. He has one roommate and it is James Garrett. 

  Chase wonders how that setup even happened. He devotes only a minute to the thought and then decides he doesn't have the time or energy to give a fuck about the machinations of the universe or God or The Force. It hates him, anyway. Del Figgalo paces past him, wide-eyed and in a state as close to panic as Chase had ever seen the boy in. Him not caring doesn't stop the rest of the guys in his Hall from mentioning the development to him several times a day. Everyone on campus knows about the what and why of Blake's expulsion. They tack James to it as a novelty. Like, one of the nicest dudes rooming with the psycho quarterback, how long until Garrett gets his pretty teeth knocked in. There's an over-under bet and everything.

  Chase puts his money on "never."

  He actually, truthfully, hopes never. It sucks getting beat up. It probably hurts less when it is one person, though. He does take it upon himself to let James in on his roommate's history. Chase seeks the golden boy out and finds him sitting in the common room, watching a game of foosball. "Hey, James."

  "Oh hey," he beams. The smile and greeting both feel genuine. "what's up, man? How was vacation?"

  Chase manages to smile back, "pretty good. How about you?"

  "Awesome, dude, went out deep sea fishing with my uncle. We caught the biggest tuna- it was like a dinosaur. It was crazy." 

  "Sounds crazy," he agrees, "look, have you met your roommate yet? Vince Blake?" 

  Confusion shines almost as bright in his eyes as joy had. His eyebrows furrow and cast shadows over the twin pools of crystal-clear blue below. "Why is everyone asking me about my roommate?"

  Chase cannot suppress his reaction. He rolls his eyes and huffs. It's all irritation directed at the boys of Maxwell. Well, mostly. He swings another chair out from one of the nearby tables and sits so that the back of the chair is in front of him. Chase can fiddle with the chair to busy his hands, and it also puts some distance between him and James. "Blake got suspended last year for fighting. He was an asshole. Probably still is. I just wanted to give you the heads up."

  The blond looks surprised. "Wow. Fighting at PCA, huh? Over what?"

  "Stupid shit," Chase shrugs, "he was kind of a big deal. Hero Quarterback, they called him. You know how things get. People grow egos and maybe two hardheads meet-"

  "Ah," James nods in understanding, "I got it. What happened to the other guy? Or guys, or whatever?"

  "Dunno. I don't keep up with that kind of stuff."

  "Not much of a drama guy?"

  "No," Chase actually does chuckle despite the circumstances, "I try to avoid it."

  "That's probably smart." James Garrett's smile could power their Residence Hall. His teeth are perfectly straight and the right shade of white. They go well with his tan and blond locks and those eyes of his. Chase doesn't have any of that. His mouth makes all of his smiles lopsided and malformed. Warmth radiates from the, "thanks for letting me know, dude," such that he would liken it to sunshine. Like, when he met Zoey, he might have described her as if rays of sunlight had taken on human form. It's like James and her come from the same species. The same alien race.

  He feels bad for trapping her with him. For a moment he considers calling this whole stupid arrangement off and setting her free to be with whoever she wants. Chase just hasn't figured out a way to do that without burning the whole friend group down. He could move the timeline up, he supposes. Shorten Zoey's sentence from seven to five months. Less than that, even.

  But he pushes all that to the back of his mind and bumps fists with James. For a split second, he sees his fist connecting with the collar of Blake's letterman. It's a glancing blow, from a missed jab. A punch he does not have time to block strikes him in the face. It's gone in a blink. "No problem."

Chapter Text

  Chase thinks too much.

  In fact, he is pretty certain that his first act in life- before drawing his first breath or crying out or flailing his little newborn limbs- was to think. It probably was a thought about how cold the air was, or where the fuck am I, or what the hell is this, or who are you people? Something like that.

  Babies are terrifying. When he looks after Joshua for Mister Bender, he is struck time and time again with that fact. His mom was alone with him so much for his first few years. It wasn't like she was a teenager, and it wasn't like she couldn't go back home. For the first few months after his birth Bubbe moved away from Baltimore and in with them. Elle and Elaine, a mother and daughter duo against the world. Still, he can't imagine how scary it must have been for his mother.

  Which, as with everything, forces his mind to detour into thinking about Zoey. About her being just a girl barely older than her little brother and carrying him around on her shoulders. Barefoot and wild with her cousins and friends in pastures and muddy woods. The way she looks after Dustin like it's as natural as breathing to her. He imagines it must be. That there were more times where it was just the Brooks siblings than not. Neither have ever said that but one would have to be both blind and stupid to miss it. He's only one of those.

  When his mom ultimately gave up her job and resorted to taking all the odd ones he does remember, he was old enough to start going to school. They moved to an apartment close to the preschool/elementary school. It was plain with brown, painted concrete bricks and eternally dusty windows. Chase was kept in preschool for two years. The additional year was so he would graduate at eighteen like the rest of his peers rather than seventeen like many November-born babies. He was just getting old enough to notice he had no Dad but everyone else did.

  He didn't care. He was just curious.

  Mom might have made mistakes, but she didn't lie. She told him he did have a father but that he wasn't around. Not, "in the picture." Polite ways to say deadbeat. Not that he knew.

  Chase's mind was and is ravenous. He needs to do stuff, learn, create, or something. He feels his brain is more a writhing mass of grasping hands than anything. As a boy, it manifested as the endless stream of "why's" from his mouth. Even Bubbe used to scold him from time to time. "Sometimes, an answer is just an answer and that's good enough."

  To which he would ask, "why," and then be sent outside to go entertain himself.

  Chase sits alone in his room.

  Normally, he is up and at it again. Even on days off he would wake up and get the fuck out of his room to go find something to do. His leg is better and he can trot on the beach again. The gym might not be safe for him to go into anymore, but there are so many additional rooms all over the hotel she probably has no idea about. That's not true. She likely got her hands on all of the floor maps or spent the evening wandering the halls to familiarize herself with every God-damned-corner of the place.

  When the breeze kicks up it rattles the glass panes in his balcony doors.

  He thinks about storms and rain. How much he misses Bubbe and how- he's almost certain- if she were still alive he would have already called her weeks ago. In that case he told her about his predicament and his loneliness and that he doesn't feel so good. Maybe she would have sung to him over the phone while he huddled in his bed like he isn't a grown man. Like a baby.

  The thought is depressing enough to get him off his bed, dressed, and hustling down the stairs.

  Melisa at the front desk waves at him frantically, flagging him down in an effort to warn him. As she had attempted to do last night. Chase rolls his eyes while he rushes past her, "I know. I know."

  She lobs a pen against his back and whisper yells. "She's here! She-"

  "I saw her," he turns to stoop and pick up the pen then tosses it back on the desk, "you were right. I was wrong. I'm getting the fuck outta dodge for the day."

  "No, stupid. She's here," Melisa points through her shoulder towards the office door behind her. It's ajar and with the lights on. He can see a shadow moving around. "What do I say? She's my boss's niece."

  Chase rolls his eyes. Zoey wouldn't get someone fired over- would she? What is he willing to bet -now- on how well he knows her? "Tell her what I just told you. I'm going to be gone all day. Don't look for me."

  Without another word he pushes his way out through the double doors and jogs to the street, down the sidewalk, and until the pain in his leg stops him. The Hawaiian coast is not like California's. In California there is generally a lot of flat areas of beach. It isn't one continuous strip of pristine sand by a long shot, but there are many more miles of runnable beach in The Golden State. Hawaii is a volcano raised from the sea. What had once been a castle of deep, rich stone and moats of magma cooled solidified into a fertile green bastion of life in the Pacific-fucking-ocean. With freshwater and rain and humidity and dry spells.

  There is no way he could walk/jog the perimeter of the island and be back at work bright and early the next day. That doesn't mean he can't go elsewhere. He contemplates options and then decides to just wander and focus on everything and anything else. His phone goes off but he ignores the call. It can't be Zoey.

  Marissa really was the one to push him to block her number. In this moment, he's grateful. If she were to call him now, if he were to hear her voice pleading with him to go back, Chase might just break and do as she asks. Hear her out. 

  He picks a direction and walks. And walks. And walks.

  The first fish he ever caught was a rainbow trout.

  A group of dads had taken his class out to fish near town. Very near town. They could see people on their smoke breaks in the backlot of the local grocery store. It was a shallow pool fed into on one side by culverts and other water diversions. Feeding out of the pool was a small stream that slowly, through natural means and human interference, met up with an actual stream. The water was cold and slow. Not murky like a pond, but not clear either.

  Chase had a tiny plastic fishing rod and one hook. One of the dads showed him how to snell it so the fish couldn't slip off. Another had brought one big cup of crickets and one big cup of worms. Chase picked a worm because they were slimy and muddy and gross. That seemed like the best choice for a fish to dine on.

  His line could not have been more than a test of three pounds. Most of his day was spent watching in fascination and joy when one of his classmates caught something and got help reeling it in. Bluegill calm up wriggly blue-grey. One or two small yellow bullheads came up fighting. Long enough for the happy young angler to drape them across their tiny palm. Chase had fun.

  And then his line wrenched and he and his fishing pole both nearly went into the drink. He started to do what he had seen the other kids were instructed, flick up to set the hook and fucking reel. The dads didn't swear. He wasn't allowed to out loud. He just did it in his head. The one who brought the bugs got on his knee by Chase's side and coached him through the fight. 

  Everyone was shocked when a trout burst out of the water. Not least of which was Chase who gaped at the thing like it was gaping at him. The man grabbed it by it's mouth laughing and unhooked it. The pink stripe and shimmering green-browns and silvers kind of scared him a bit. The man showed him how to carefully set the fish back in the water. "Trout have to be babied," he told Chase, "other fish can just be dumped in. Not these guys."

  "What is it?" Mom will want to know.

  "Steelhead." And then after a second, "also called rainbow trout."

  He preferred rainbow. 

  Chase has a natural talent for fishing. He doesn't think he does anything different than anyone else and it isn't like he has all the gear and the bells and whistles others use. At most, he snells his hooks and sometimes uses a little metal spoon lure that he cut two out of three of the hooks off of. Little beach was his first effort at surf fishing. Every time before that he had gone with small groups or alone.

  The dad who helped him catch his first fish was nice. Not single, though.

  Zoey couldn't find Chase.

  Tim said he was working and that he was either in the dining room or the covered patio area. She is told he doesn't stay in one place for long and is always in motion. She erroneously believed that he was going to immediately stand out regardless. 

  The dining room was serving deserts, coffee and tea. Outside was another story entirely. 

  Of course she picked the night of some big high school reunion. The class colors were a horrifically garish orange and black. 50 in 5-0 said the banners draped between posts and over the bar. A band was in full swing playing songs directly from Papaw's record collection and the dance floor was crowded by folks with orange sashes and grey hair shades. 

  A bushy head of black hair should have been immediately noticeable. Even short hair would have stood out when combined with Chase's height. Zoey had trouble navigating the masses. At times, she would be arrested in bits of conversation with the patrons mistaking her for a waitress. When she told them she wasn't they would change subjects. Women asked what on God's green earth she was doing and professed to not know who she was talking about. Men tended to ask what school she went to and were equally confused about the subject of her search.

   So then she had the brilliant idea of waiting for him in his room. Zoey figured it would serve many purposes to have their reunion be that exceedingly private. They could talk- really, really talk- about how badly she fucked up and she can apologize and grovel to his heart's content. She would never met just any guy in his hotel room and she is sure Chase would notice that. He might also take note of the lengths she went through to find him, too. Finally, and only if he was willing, she could start... making it up to him. Every wasted second. 

  And then she immediately crashed headlong into yet another problem. Zoey doesn't remember their room numbers. She remembers that there was a room between them- as if that would somehow make it less likely for one to sneak into the other's room- and her parents requested...

  That they each only be given one keycard!

  To keep them from slipping the other the literal key to their bed. Zoey thought it was kind of smart then. In the now, it's genius. She can use that to find Chase's room by process of elimination. She hustles back through the dining room and down all of the first floor corridors and hallways for employee areas. They are clustered together. The first door opens to something like a tiny locker room. The woman inside startles. "Hello?"

  "Sorry, ma'am, wrong door," and then she hurries to the next. A closet full of bulk supplies and washers and dryers. 

  The next opens to room full of plastic maintenance carts. 

  "Can I help you?" The woman crosses her arms and raises an eyebrow. "This is employees only, kid."

  "I- uh, my family works here," Zoey decides on half-truths, "I'm looking for them."

  "Uh-huh," comes the unconvinced reply. The next door opens to an office.

  Bingo.

  The room is dim and the desk his huge. Old filing cabinets and cupboards line the walls that are not taken entirely by windows. On the desk is a big blocky computer probably as old as she is. When she turns to try and get a read on the woman, she notices that the woman is running away. Probably to go get security. Zoey has to move quickly.

  Luckily, Tim literally had a drawer labeled "employees," and it was full of room cards. The cards themselves indicate floor and room number. Chase's had a piece of paper affixed to it by a double-wound rubber band. It was too dark for her to read most of the paper besides C Matthews at the top. She wasn't willing to waste any time figuring that out and sprinted out to the elevators.

  Chase starts heading back around sunset.

  He isn't certain where he is, but he knows where he came from and what direction (roughly) would be his best bet. He gets to a block of residential houses and then a couple stores after dark. His feet hurt and the knee of his cut leg keeps trying to buckle under him. He contemplates going into one of the stores and using a phone there to call the resort. Maybe he could even get one of his coworkers to find him and drive him back.

  And then he passes a store that beckons him inside for the nostalgia alone. It smells sweet and a little like vinegar and popcorn and plastic. The shelves are lined with VHS tapes in battered cases and much fewer DVD's. The man at the counter reminds him of the corner store clerk. Chase decides to test his luck and sit on one of the wooden benches next to the door. Just for a minute.

  When Mom worked at the media store, it was awesome. Chase would nap on the armchair in the records section and practice his reading on magazines and newspapers. In the televisions, he would sit crisscross on the linoleum behind the cashier's desk and watch the looping commercials and movie trailers. In his mind, he would create little stories for the people in the ads. Like, the lady in the toothpaste commercials would become a secret agent, or the old man with the DVD player was merely feigning confusion, as he was the one to launch rockets to the moon on a computer the size of a van. And as with everything, Chase managed to get himself in trouble.

  In fairness- and hindsight- his mom should have probably made sure everything they showed on the television was child-appropriate before letting him hunker down in front of it for hours. He saw a trailer where a woman vomited, looked at a white stick with pair of little lines, and then by the middle she had a baby. Chase correctly deduced that the vomiting and the stick were both part of the process of having a baby. His brain made an admittedly strange connection; he had never seen his mom or Bubbe throw up, and they had never had more babies. Chase determined that girls only throw up when pregnant, and he only throws up when Zayde forces jarred gifilte fish on him.

  Then poor Yessenia threw up at recess the next week and Chase was beside himself with worry. Enough to tell Miss Beth his suspicions because, well, Yessenia would need the nurse to help her give birth.    

  So both he and Yessenia had to go home early. Mom went through stages of confusion, horror, confusion again, and finally laughter when he tearfully explained to her what he told the teacher. Mom doesn't lie. She told him that sometimes people- boys and girls- just get sick. That he will understand more as he gets older, but there is much more to babies than in movies. He won't have to worry for a long time. Neither will his classmates.

  And by a long time, she had no way of knowing one of her coworkers would quit the store a week later. In doing so, that asshole thought it would be nice to leave a graphically pornographic film running. On all of the screens. During store hours. Chase's "why's" were exceedingly frantic that day. 

  He almost completely forgot about the whole episode. Under no circumstances was he allowed to bring it up at his school or to his grandparents. Mom told him they would both get in trouble with his school if they found out and he would never do that to her. They would both get in trouble with Bubbe and Zayde if they heard about it and he would never do that to her, either.

  So he thought about other stuff instead and not the scary thing he saw. He's good at that.

  In fact, he was so good at it that he would fill up pages of lined paper with stories he wrote to entertain himself when electricity was expensive or he needed to sit in silence. Chase read them to Mom before bed. He isn't stupid. They probably all sucked. Still, on nights she was especially tired, she would fall asleep next to him on his bed before he finished whatever tale he had daydreamed. He preferred that to her sleeping on the couch or falling asleep in her car or napping in whatever breakrooms.

  His whole family was pleased when he learned to write in Hebrew and Yiddish. The stories probably sucked worse, but they seemed delighted by the effort. It would have to make up for the fact he had little to no interest in piano (Zayde was devastated) and all of the interest in playing in the rain (Bubbe was devastated).

  It wasn't until Logan started joking about Chase being desperate to jump Zoey that he remembered. By then, the memory was a hazy, human flesh-toned mud puddle in the recesses of his mind. All of it except the part where the guy began hitting the woman on the back with some leather strap-thing. Some medieval torture device. Hard. The image may have been murky but the sound sure stayed clear. It made him wince reflexively, gave him a horrified chill.

  Zoey gets to Chase's door and presses her ear to it.

  Only the ambient quiet meets her ear. She is still extra careful to not make too much noise letting herself in. The door clicks and a little shrill beep sounds from the handle.

  It's pitch black inside. She leaves the door open while she tiptoes in and scours the darkness for any signs or silhouette of her... Chase. His bed is made and empty. The sight alone makes her want to climb onto it and wait for him under the sheets. His bed is always made. Even when he was just a fourteen year old boy and she was being annoying and demanding, "did you put a camera in a bear?" Only to be met with his patience, humor, and mostly confusion. His bed is made and clean.

  The bathroom door is open to a yawning maw of nothing. She turns on his bedside lamp, feels along the glass body and then up to find the delicate pull chain. It isn't a huge amount of light, but it's something. She goes back and closes the door. Her plans to snoop are derailed completely by seeing the locks on his balcony doors.

  Out in the hall voices approach. Arguing, Zoey quickly steps away from the door and towards the bathroom. "-and what? Not every blonde is her."

  That's his voice. Another voice- an unfamiliar female one- argues something she misses. Because Chase opens the door without the clicking or beeping, because she hadn't locked it behind her. "Will you settle down?"

  "Okay but Melissa said she had an accent and said her family works here. Chase-"

  "That could be anyone. I have an accent, you have an accent-"

  "A southern one, smart ass!" 

  "You can't freak out every time a blonde girl who looks like she could be Zoey checks in. The last two were wrong."

  "Why would she go looking for a manager's office then? Huh?" 

  Chase huffs a deep, tired sigh. "Look, it's been a long day. We can talk about this in the morning. Shit, I'll even let you guys drag me out to go look at this random fucking stranger if it makes you feel better."

  "What if it's her, dude."

  "It's not!" He snaps, "it isn't. Everyone kept telling me 'oh, she is long gone, brother. Get over it,' you included. Now, what, you want me getting my hopes up and running around looking for Zoey Brooks? She left me. It's done. We're over. Finito, fin, final, donezo. I'll talk to y'all in the morning. Peace."

  And the door closes with a bang. Zoey frowns and contemplates what her next move should be. She feels so pitifully empty handed and under prepared. He coughs and snuffles. She reaches out and grabs the hotel robe hanging on the door. It doesn't smell like Chase-Chase, but it does smell like him and whatever soaps and shampoos he had been relegated to using during his stay. 

  He used to give her such good massages. She can start there. She can use her position as niece of the boss to give him tomorrow off. There is rustling and swearing abound the main light in the room kicks on almost blindingly. Chase is grumbling bitterly when he passes her on his way to turn off his lap. Grumbling and in his underwear only. "Chase." 

  He freezes. She tries again. "Chase?"

  That does something. He dashes through the doorway and slams her into the wall by her shoulders. His grip hurts. "What the fuck are you?"

  In hindsight, she understands the confusion. Terror. The white robe in front of her body and standing cloaked in shadows probably was an unwise way to reintroduce herself.

  Chase buys a movie. Buys. Not rents.

  It's one of the movies on his list of movies to see. This time it's a colorful children's movie about a dog who dies and goes to heaven or something. It seemed so odd he had to have it. On his walk back, he misses Michael. And Logan. And home. 

  He almost didn't ride his bike that morning. Michael had finally gotten in late the night before and they stayed up well past their usual bedtimes to talk about their summer breaks, the new year, and girls at PCA. Chase was a little sick of the topic. He had heard nothing but "oh, dude! Girls at PCA," for the days he had been on campus and alone in his dorm room. The boys in his hall ranged from way too upset to disturbingly thrilled at becoming a coed school. Chase didn't get the fuss. In fact, it was weirder that they just now got around to letting girls on campus. It's the norm literally everywhere else in life.

  But that's him thinking again.

  In the morning, they got a late start. The boys ate junk food Chase had stocked up on, wondered about who their third roommate would be, and then Michael left to go to the Admin offices to sort out his class schedule. Chase turned on the GameSphere, watched the bouncing ball in the menu, and considered what game he would play. 

  But it was bright and nice outside. In an hour or two, it would be too hot to leave their residence hall to hang out, and the thought made Chase stir-crazy. He turned off the game system and grabbed his helmet to go burn off some energy. In the previous days, he played basketball with whoever was willing until he was drenched in sweat. The other boys on the court mocked him for not caring about girls coming to PCA. He didn't do himself any favors by calling bullshit on the tall tales some of them told about the hook-ups they had with girls "back home." They might as well have been Canadian girlfriends.

  But that's him thinking again. Making himself a freak and an outsider again when he ought to just keep his stupid mouth shut.

  Chase mounted his bike and went on a counterclockwise loop around campus. Everywhere he might have raced laps around or otherwise spent time in were overcrowded and full of luggage. So he kept moving. And moving. He squinted against the burning sunlight and regretted wearing jeans. Sweat had begun to settle in the creases of the backs of his knees. He ran into familiar faces, lightly greeted some new ones, to try and be friendly. He was making a mental note to wake up earlier the next day and haul Michael out of bed for a more comfortable outing when he saw Zoey.

  And his brain shut the fuck up.

  It ceased its incessant chatter and the endless grind of cogs halted with a brutal clang so loud he wasn't sure if he imagined it or if it was his body hitting the flagpole that made that sound.

  But none of that mattered because she was talking to him. And he was talking back, making her laugh on purpose, and she was smiling at him. Willing to let him take her on a short tour on her way to her dorm. Zoey is like... the morning of a good day. Like how it feels to wake up and know it's the weekend. Her eyes are like the soil in Zayde's garden. He knew (knows) better than to ever say that out loud. No girl would take that as a compliment even if he absolutely meant (means) it as one. 

  Smile like the sunshine, eyes like the earth.

  His sense of danger went to an all time low. Chase didn't even think to be afraid of her dad or to concern himself with the distrustful squint of his eyes. He was too busy trying to pin where Zoey's accent was from and committing every single detail about her to memory. His brain regaining just enough capacity to grasp and feed upon the interaction like someone had thrown a rotten chicken leg into a pool of starved piranhas.

  He thinks that's probably why the man hates him even after all this time. It's probably why he didn't bother alerting Chase to Zoey's flight cancelation. 

Chapter Text

  Logan is doing pretty good as boyfriend. At least, Quinn is having more fun with him than Mark.

  He has successfully struck a balance of only lightly pestering her and being an incorrigible mush. She is shocked by the amount casual affection he gives. It was almost overwhelming for the first few days. It was like living in a drought. She had become accustomed to rationing and conserving. To working harder with less to keep something growing- or even just sustained- between her and Mark.

  Logan is like an atmospheric river. A season of heavy snow that will keep the rivers and reservoirs fed through summer.

  And like flooding in real life, Quinn's previous constructions of relationships and their workings were completely drowned and destroyed. Washed away. She's fascinated by it. 

  On their first night all back on campus he let himself into 101 and helped himself to her nightlight. It took him less than thirty seconds to notice she had changed the star constellations projected on the ceiling. At about the thirty second mark he grinned and said, "looks great babe. Even if you kind of got the Pleiades wrong."

  Lola and Zoey roll their eyes and visibly brace for the bickering while Quinn hops up from her bunk. He keeps his face turned upwards but Quinn sees the quick flick of his eyes to her and the tiny twitch of his lips. She stands next to him and looks up at the projection. "What?"

  "Well, look it's just that the center four are too close in comparison to the two on the bottom." He smirks a little at her raised eyebrow and nudges her with his elbow, "looks good, otherwise."

  Logan is easy to figure out. He doesn't care to be told that, Quinn has discovered, but she means it exclusively as a compliment. Mark was difficult to understand sometimes. She was sympathetic to his condition and his difficulties but his... idiosyncrasies ate up a lot of patience. Sometimes hindsight makes her worry if she wasn't short or harsh with her friends after being depleted of energy by her boyfriend.

  That is not the case now. Zoey has told her- half teasingly, half sincerely- that she seems happier. 

  "How would you know?"

  He scoffs, "I'm Logan Reese, I know my women."

  Which prompts her to go and grab a pillow off the couch. She swats him in the arm with it. On the second swing he takes it and pins it against his chest. "Well if that's how it's going to be," he teases, "I also noticed-"

  "Would you shut him up," Lola groans, "I'm trying to cram my summer reading into these last few hours."

  "Happily." And then Quinn hauls him in by the shirt.

  "Not like that!"

  "I'm going to have to add makin out to our room rules," Zoey laments, "aren't I?"

  "Don't be dramatic," Logan flips her off and she returns the gesture.  

  Quinn has been agnostic for years.

  Her heritage is Jewish, but neither of her parents practice any religion. As far as she knows they're atheist. She was raised to be the same- unintentionally, her parents never forced anything on her- but "converted" (for lack of a better word) in middle school. It was only because she didn't know there was such a thing as agnostic until then.

  Thank goodness for that. It probably would have been more jarring to encounter an actual ghost otherwise. As if the ordeal itself wasn't bad enough. 

  Zoey really values her religion. Quinn has watched her pray before bed dozens of times. Her roommate usually does it sitting upright in bed, hands folded in her lap and still. The blonde might be one of few students on campus to utilize the Campus Chapel for its intended purpose. When Quinn was sleeping in her bed after the Generator Debacle, she found a great deal of comfort in Zoey's prayers.

  She prays for a lot of people. Quinn thinks that is sweet even if it turns out that nothing is out there. The sentiment is nice. She would be lying if she said the warmth of knowing her friend was grateful to God that she survived didn't coax her into more restful sleep. That, and sleeping next to Zoey is comforting. Between the three girls only one has actually fistfought a ghost and seemingly won. 

  And she might not be wrong. There could be some interesting phenomena in the universe. Maybe The Universe listens.

  All that to say that there is a disturbance in The Force that Quinn is picking up on. It could be Vince Blake and his return to PCA. Lola is not pleased. She is doubly irritated to discover he is in the Yoga Club. Quinn and Zoey hear about it when she returns, heated from the exercise, the temperature outside, and the exchange. Zoey is terrifyingly angry and silent. 

  Chase already knows. He shrugs off their warning with a "I heard," that sounds more fatigued than nonchalant. Quinn finds his reaction odd. She finds it odd Zoey hadn't heard about it from James with whom she thought her roommate was friends with.

  "I haven't talked to James in months," Zoey says, "just... I don't know. He's nice but, we're not anything other than acquaintances." 

  Lola accepts the statement at face value. Quinn finds her flippant attitude a little out of character. 

  "I gave him the heads-up," Chase continues after a bit. Zoey seems surprised. "He is a nice guy and, well, I didn't want to just let something happen to him."

  Michael claps his hand on his best friend's shoulder. "Brave dude. Already starting back up this feud."

  "Nice rhyme," his friend rolls his eyes good-naturedly, "but I'm not trying to start anything. I just... it sucks to get jumped. You remember."

  Logan reflexively flinches at Quinn's side. She rubs her hand across his shoulders and he leans into her side. 

  Zoey rests her hand on Chase's forearm. He glances at it, then up at her, and continues. "But if Blake is actually reformed or whatever, hopefully it's unnecessary."

  Quinn finds the whole exchange fascinating. Silent curiosity sparks in her mind. 

  Her mother the lead research scientist at a bioengineering firm around Seattle. Growing up, it was not uncommon for her mother or her coworkers to occasionally "test" their research on themselves and each other. Mom had no problem taking a dab of the serum they were using in clinical trials for a headache or other pain. Meanwhile, Quinn's father is in a similar role advising biopharmaceutical companies. He and his colleagues made themselves into guinea pigs from time to time. 

  Then, she attended private schools where she made friends with other gifted kids who had no qualms about touching the live end of homemade potato batteries or wafting various concoctions made in the labs. When Quinn decided to come to PCA it was the first time she received pushback on what she thought was a normal amount of human experimentation. For a time, she figured it was because Zoey wasn't... informed enough to approach a sleep study with an open mind. The poor girl was from a notoriously uneducated section of the country and openly religious so of course she did not quite grasp scientific pursuits. 

  Quinn at least had enough social awareness to not say that out loud. Regrettably, she probably treated her future roommate in a way that she got the message anyway. 

  But now she would never do that. It is unethical to test on human subjects without their informed consent. Most people would not want to be tested on. Most. Dustin is shockingly game for just about anything. Logan is limited in what he can take by athletic testing. Zoey and Chase would likely object to being studied, but Quinn can merely observe their interactions as anyone else can. If she makes note of odd exchanges it's just because she is a good friend.

  A friend wondering just what the hell happened in Hawaii that made them act... off. 

Chapter Text

  Zoey watches Chase. Her latest sport.

  It's hot out. Even with PCA's proximity to the ocean the weather has been brutal for over a week. The temperature is in the 80's by 10 am, and only gets hotter from there. September swelter. Every common room is packed of students attempting to escape the scalding sun, the library and computer labs are full, too. Zoey isn't sure whose idea it was to sit out on the lawn beside Maxwell, but it's a good one. The shade from mature sycamores is a welcome reprieve and the grass is cool. Because of the lawn's orientation between buildings, a breeze is channeled over the group. 

  Lola, Michael, and Lisa are playing some kind of music game they invented. Zoey has no idea how it works, but all three have earbuds in and connected to the same music player. Every so often, one of the three will slam a button on top and make the other two cheer or groan. She can't tell who is winning but they look happy enough that it doesn't seem to matter. Quinn is laying on a broad beach towel and reading from her laptop. Her dark chocolate eyes drift across the screen, focus sharply, and then her fingers tap away at the keys enough for a sentence or two before the whole process starts over again. 

  Logan lays next to her. It's too hot for much physical contact so there is a few inches of space between them. His eyes match her eye movement. When she types, he grins. Sometimes he'll mutter something too quietly for Zoey to hear but it makes Quinn smile or gesture to the screen and mutter something back. 

  Chase leans back against the trunk of the tree and watches the couple. It isn't an intense or scrutinizing gaze. With his knees drawn up and his wrists resting atop them, head tilted and eyes almost half-lidded he looks so... unhappy. His resting expression is almost always something like that, now. He often shrugs off any question about it or just says he's tired or lost in thought. Zoey is crushed by how despondent he becomes. How quiet he gets.

  Slowly, he lolls his head towards her. Externally, it just looks like a motion born of fatigue, but she knows better. The despondence that has become Chase's neutral expression is disrupted by a smile (or an attempt at one) when he notices her stare. "Hey."

  "Hi," she reaches out and nudges her hand into his and squeezes. 

  He holds her hand and their eye contact for precious few seconds before his grip goes slack and Zoey has to let go. Chase is in charge now. 

  She is learning to play by his rules. 

  Chase staggers back. Even in relative darkness, she can see how wide his eyes are. The gape of his mouth indicated by a span of black at his lips. Big hands ungrasp her upper arms leaving them prickling and smarting. "What the fuck?"

  It falls out of him on an exhale. Zoey can't even tell if he meant to utter the question- or quiet exclamation- or not. Again, she recognizes how unfitting and... bad this reunion is. "It's me, it's me, it's me," the blonde stammers and keeps her back firmly pressed against the wall. 

  Dumbly, he swats at the wall and the bathroom light comes on with a thud. The shock from the shove, fluorescents, and the disappearance of once familiar coils of curly hair hits Zoey hard. Her gasp is sharp. One hand releases his bathrobe and covers her mouth. They stare in shared stunned silence. 

  "You- you're here," Chase breathes. "Right?"

  That snaps her out of it. She nods and half-stumbles, half-rushes to him. It's the first time in years she has seen him without a shirt and, beyond that, the first time she has made full-body contact with him like that. Zoey throws her arms around him and draws him into a tight and desperate hug. She missed so much about him. Both consciously and unconsciously. 

  Chase smells like sweat and the ocean and grilled chicken. His body heat pours through her skin and into her nervous system. It shouldn't feel good- given the heat- but it does. The sound of his voice and the feather-light touch of his fingers resting against her shoulder blades. He was almost holding her back. Almost. Almost.

  Zoey breathes him in and feels the staccato beat of his heart. "Oh, honey. I'm so sorry."

  All at once, he pushes her away again and jumps back. He scrambles to cover as much of himself as he can with his arms and hands. "When did you- how did you get in here?"

  She hands over his robe and forcibly keeps her eyes focused on his face. He covers himself up past his chest. For modesty, she supposes, which is sweet but entirely unnecessary. Zoey takes a minute to explain herself from the second she got to Hawaii to that exact moment. 

  "Now I'm here," she gestures down to her feet on the floor, "and I- God I missed you. Honey-"

  "But you," he recoils. Confusion and distress scrunch his features, "left me. I called you-"

  Her insides twist. The guilt she felt before pales in comparison to what she experiences seeing the pain on his face. "I know-"

  "-and texted-"

  "-sweetheart-" 

  "-and I missed you." Chase finishes. His eyes glisten. He diverts his eyes away from her and tightens his jaw. A clear effort to avoid crying. Zoey thinks this is tied with the most devastated she had ever seen him. At least his last big heartbreak was just do to the laws of nature. Bubbe didn't leave him on purpose.

  But she did.

  It's hard to speak past the lump in her throat but she replies. "I know. You told me, and told me, and told me."

  "Please don't keep any of those messages," he tries to laugh, forces a joke, but's such a horrible and bereaved sound. He doesn't look up from the floor. "They're so embarrassing."

  "Chase-" Zoey would never call even one of them embarrassing. Her phone is at capacity with messages that were frantic, others dejected and sad, and at least one was furious. It was deserved ire. She hates that she never replied. That Chase was confused and hurt and alone with a relative of hers he had barely heard anything about. "I'm so sorry." 

  He nods and snuffles. When he clears his throat, it's a horrifically wet sound. She wants to cross the cold span of tile between them and hold him. Offer her shoulder for him to cry on, again. "Okay. I- you should go."

  "But-"

  His voice is hoarse but steady. "No. I'm tired and I need to shower and... Mister- your uncle probably needs to find a room to set you up in."

  Zoey considers arguing against that. Tim probably wouldn't care if she stayed with Chase in his room. Then, she takes in the sag of his shoulders and decides against it. She is not willing to even risk a fight with him. Besides, Zoey is determined to be a much better girlfriend on the second try. She wants to give him what he wants.

  Even if it's space.

  "You're right," she finally responds, "I'll see you tomorrow, okay?"

  Chase backs completely out of the room and away from the door. A clear signal for her to leave. She begins formulating plans for tomorrow. Starting with finding out what his current work schedule is and seeing if she can exercise a little bit of influence to get him some time off. They are almost out of vacation time, and Zoey can't stand the fact he didn't even get to enjoy it. He grunts. "Sure."

  He doesn't lift his eyes back up to her as she leaves. It isn't until she is passing him that he speaks. It's quiet and somehow more rough than last time he spoke. "I'm sorry. I, um- I'm sorry for shoving you. For hurting you. I thought you were... I don't know."

  Zoey is at a loss for what to say. Or feel. She recognizes that she probably scared the hell out of him by sneaking into his room in the dark. She wonders why his instinct lead him to fight back, and then if that was for his survival or... not. It hurt. Her arms still smart and her back aches, but Zoey finds forgiveness immediate and plentiful. "I know. You- didn't... I'm sorry I broke in and scared you."

  Chase hums in acknowledgment. A moment more passes where both teens face away from each other with eyes watering. When he makes no further noise, Zoey lets herself out and is swallowed hole by the drafty emptiness of the hallway.

Chapter Text

  The flyers show up all at once.

  A hoard of them in various neon colors all emblazed with the bold black silhouette of the Blix logo at the top. HANDS ON THE VAN in thick inky letters beneath. Zoey spotted one early in the morning on the way to the bathroom and shrugged it off. There was yet another on the paper towel dispenser and another girl found one in the showers. Then there were two more in the common room and even more posted on walls, posts, and in classroom windows outside. 

  She rolled her eyes at it. Typical advertising nonsense. Wheat-pasting a campus that was already thoroughly enjoying the products. A waste.

  It's nice and cool in the morning hours. Coastal overcast spreads across the sky like a sheet of slate. Because of the couplings in the friend group they have to choreograph their seating. Logan and Quinn sit side by side and so do Chase and Zoey. It's normally the only time of day that he kisses her. On the cheek. Perfectly charming and sweet.

  And pitifully disappointing.

  Michael already tore down one of the (likely) hundreds of flyers left overnight by Blix Fairies and brought it with him. "Don't get on the bus, Gus. Instead," he reads, "keep your hand on our van, man."

  "That fucking sucked," Logan scoffs.

  Chase comments, "I hate when adults try and write 'to the youth' and, like, apparently forget that they were young too. This would have been lame even in the 70's."

  "Maybe they were lame in the 70's. Lame teenagers probably become lame adults," Lola says.

  "God, I hope not," he mutters back. Zoey's heart might actually stop one of these days. Her instincts lead her to dead ends. Chase would not want her to "overreact" by getting upset with him for saying such a thing about himself. Especially over what could be (loosely) described as a joke in front of people. He also wouldn't accept any attempts to soothe or distract him with physical affection. 

  So she is forced to play it off like a joke. Lightly nudging him with her elbow, "well, I picked you so what does that make me?"

  He shrugs and goes back to his food. She wonders what goes on in his head.

  "Oh shit," Michael gasps, "the prize is a trip on a private jet to anywhere in the world. Anywhere!" 

  "They know this is a private academy, right," Quinn snorts, "I think half of the student body has flown in a private jet before."

  Not Chase. Neither has she, really, but she doesn't care. He probably doesn't either. But. "Anywhere in the world?" 

  Michael nods and squints to continue reading down the page. "There's a phone number on the bottom to text for more information." 

  He pulls out his phone and begins entering the number. Lola gently slides the paper across the table to read it. "It says one-way. That sucks."

  "If you were flying somewhere expensive, that might halve your cost," Quinn says, "like Japan. You would only pay for a one-way ticket back."

  "Japan?"

  "I've always wanted to go," Logan states, "Every time my dad has gone it's been during the school year."

  His girlfriend agrees with a hum and finishes chewing her eggs before responding. "Me too. The cultural sites and Mount Fuji and seeing the nightlife in the cities-"

  "-and the sick-ass vending machines," Logan continues, "my dad says they're awesome."

  Quinn rolls her eyes. "Can you believe this guy?"

  "You're dating him," Lola deadpans.

  The couple flash matching smiles. "Yeah."

  Zoey watches the exchange and silently begins wondering where Chase would want to go. 

  "Okay," Michael begins reading off his phone, "terms. Must be 18 or older to redeem the flight. This seems obvious, uh, but must land in an approved airport. Oh. It's two tickets." 

  Zoey decides then and there she is going to win them. "What day is the competition?" 

  Chase discovers it is much easier to drink his calories than to try and eat them.

  He has abandoned counting and calculating how much he probably needs to maintain his new weight. It's a horrifying number. At PCA his greatest expense has always been food. Once he got a job and had money he made, himself, Chase indulged his appetite in a way he would have been ashamed to before. Candies and strangely-colored pastries for his sweet tooth. Extra helpings at mealtime and snacking between classes all the time. When he returned home for summer after his first year, his mother and Bubbe still agonized over how skinny he still was.

  Playing basketball probably doesn't help.

  Alcohol did it. Chase can't tell if he was drinking enough of it consistently to have that much of an impact on his calorie consumption or, he thinks, maybe it is the type of sugar. He would love to run a little experiment on himself, but he obviously has no way of getting any booze now. 

  Chase might be a fucking idiot but he has good memory. 

  Zoey and the girls buy little tubs of ice cream from the student store once or twice a week. For girls' night in. The cold from frozen treats hurt Zoey's teeth and so she usually takes hers out well in advance. Sometimes, she even waits for smoothies to warm up a little. Chase swings by the store to peruse the shelves and shop. The whole ice cream container (probably) has enough calories in it for him.

  He buys one and takes it back to his dorm where he leaves it on his bedside table before going back to class. He waits until after dinner to drink the whole thing and does it again the next day. Then the next. Again and again.

  Logan recoils at sight. He shudders walking in on Chase chugging pistachio as if he witnessed something actually disturbing. "Why are you doing that?" 

  "I'm trying to gain weight," the taller boy shrugs and then gestures to his torso, "I'm tired of being a scrawny dude."

  His roommate looks genuinely perplexed, eyebrows furrowing and slowly repeating, "scrawny?" 

  Chase rolls his eyes. "Well not as much now. I have finally achieved average. It only took over 17 years of my life."

  "Who- what-" Logan blinks and then recomposes himself and his question, "what does Zoey have to say about this?"

  For once, Chase has no idea and doesn't care to know. He isn't an idiot, he knows girls notice guys' bodies just as much as the reverse. They are just classier about it and are way better at playing their cards close to the chest. Zoey liked his shoulders, mouth, and either his lower jaw or neck. All things he would never disclose to anyone so as to not embarrass her. 

  The first time she was all over him, he blamed it on her painkiller and promptly put a stop to it. Well, after he got over the momentary shock of her yanking him off his beanbag and almost completely over her. And the tongue. Chase is almost certain she does not remember any of that. She fell soundly asleep within minutes. He never brought it up. Ever. 

  Then they were actually dating. 

  The boys' dorm in Maxwell was packed away and ready to move out after the end-of-year party. Logan- for the first time since they all have lived together- was mostly ready to go, too. Movers had already taken his stereo, television and entertainment set, and boxes of his assorted shit. Chase was in the middle of packing his day bag for the beach when Zoey let herself in and closed the door behind her.

  She looked so nervous (and, in hindsight, a little scared) asking him to go with her to Hawaii. For the opportunity of a lifetime, a free trip paid for by doing a job he is an expert at with the woman he envisions spending the rest of his life with. all to himself. Chase said yes as quickly as he understood the question. Happily picking her up by the waist and twirling them both across the mostly bare floor. 

  Part of the reason why he didn't think to question if Zoey really wanted him to go- because with her, he's always had to ask more than once- was because she kissed him. Really, really kissed him. When they ran out of air she went after his jaw and/or neck. It's hard to tell with her height in relation to his. She audibly liked when he nibbled on her lips a little. Chase made sure to put a stop to things after that to prevent anything... untoward. That can wait. They had time, he thought.

  He thought. He thought. He thought.

  "Dude," Logan repeats. 

  Chase shakes his head, "sorry. I- just realized I don't know. I haven't told her about it." 

  The shorter boy rolls his eyes. "Whatever. Why don't you drink protein instead? That's what guys on the football team do."

  He considers the suggestion, turns his memory to the body types of the dudes on the team and slowly nods. "Where would I get that?" 

  "It's in the store catalogue," Logan strides past him to their computer, "I'll show you." 

  Campus is buzzing about the Blix competition. 

  Zoey is pissed to find there is an ever increasing number of names being entered. Not only that, but writing her own name on the sheet prompts most of her friends to do the same. Infuriating. Half of the people don't care. In fact, it's only a novelty to Lola, Michael, and Lisa. Doing it to say they did. Logan chuckles when he signs up and winks at them. 

  She seethes but keeps her mouth shut.

  It works out in her favor, she figures. If most of the contestants are just in it for the novelty then it reduces the amount of serious competitors she will face off with. Chase shrugs when he joins and then slings his arm across her shoulders. "We'll be in it together."

  Which is probably just a performance for their audience, but Zoey melts into him all the same. Michael laughs and does the same with Lisa. "Double date!" 

  Logan turns hopefully to Quinn. "What do you think? Triple date?"

  "Oh, absolutely not," she pats his shoulder, "but you have fun, baby." 

  He shrugs, "fine. I got this."

  Zoey narrows her eyes at him. He smirks, "game on, Brooks."

  Chase finds his last first shift at Sushi Rox exceptionally bittersweet. He expected that. He did not think the feeling would continue on for as long as it has.

  Kazu puts him up at the host's desk. It's a quiet and slow enough night that he alternates between seating guests and overseeing the staff. There is a freshman girl he worries about a little more than the other staff. She's nice but quiet and shy and small. Chase doesn't like her making deliveries on her own, but she doesn't seem ready for working in the restaurant. He makes a mental note of her name and decides to ask Dustin about her. 

  It's not like he wasn't also scared shitless when he started. 

  Kazu sends him out for his break and takes over the stand with a knowing smile. A pit forms in the teen's gut. He is almost certain he knows what's-

  Zoey is waiting for him out back. The sun is mostly set, leaving the last vestiges of hazy purples and blues darkening over their heads. A mild, cool breeze stirs across the freight driveway even as heat radiates up from the concrete. "Hey. What are you doing here?"

  "Waiting for you," she replies back. She shifts on her lawn chair and closes the book in her lap. There are two paper plates on the milk crate between hers and the empty chair beside it.

  His heart is torn between two equally strong feelings. How often, since he met her, had he dreamed of something like this? For Zoey to wait for him. For her to want to have dinner with him outside of how they all usually do. Their last dinner together was plain sticky rice and an assortment of ahi pieces. A kitchen mistake. The two challenged each other to mix increasing amounts of wasabi into the cold rice and laughed at each other's reactions. If it had been up to him, he would have been thrilled for that to be his forever. 

  But it takes two.

  All of his mother's love could not force his dad to stay. Like mother, like son. 

  The thought makes his eyes sting so he diverts his gaze up and away towards the dark silhouettes of buildings and the lights staring back at him in the form of windows. "Okay. Thank you, but-" 

  "I wanted to," she insists and he hears her pat the seat on the empty chair. "Please, come sit with me."

  Of course. "Okay." 

  The first few bites are in silence. Salmon nigiri and plenty of temaki. After a moment, she pauses to hand him a bottle of water. "Thank you." 

  "No problem," Zoey replies, "how are things here?"

  "Fine. It's just... weird. You know? I have been working here since, like, forever."

  She nods in understanding, "think you'll miss it?" 

  "Yes and no," he shrugs, "I guess it's like anything else in life that begins and ends. One day I'll leave here for the last time and I'll go on my way and this place will continue on with its."

  Silence settles between them before Chase works up the energy to ask the same question back. "How about you? Are you excited for the van-thing?"

  "I'm fine," Zoey says, sounding decidedly not fine. "I actually can't wait. I'm only mad that it isn't for another couple months." 

  That makes him almost chuckle. If they were to try and do it too soon, people would die of heatstroke or burn their hands off on the metal. He smiles and exhales. "What? Why? You have big plans for those tickets?"

  "I do." 

  Chase watches her turn fully in her chair out of the corner of his eye and set her plate down. He isn't hungry anymore. In fact, quite the opposite. His stomach drops like he's falling. 

  Or taking off in a plane. 

  "Where would you want to go," Zoey asks, "when I cash in on the prize?"

  And there it is again; that funny feeling. The one that rips him into two halves. Again, she offers him something even better than he dared to dream of. Just like she did with Hawaii. But it's just as much the stuff of nightmares. As painful as it is to admit to himself, he doesn't trust Zoey. Not like he did before. Not as much as he wishes he could. Chase can't come up with an answer. He misses drinking at times like this. 

  "Why don't you make a list," she rests her hand on his. He wants more but it also makes his skin crawl unpleasantly. He could scream at how fucking conflicted he is. "We will have plenty of time to work it out. Okay?" 

  "Will we?" 

  Zoey grabs his hand with both of hers and squeezes. Insisting, she leans into him to rest her forehead against his side, "of course we will, honey." 

  The end of his break could not come fast enough. 

Chapter Text

  There is nothing Zoey can do about Vince Blake attending PCA or living in Maxwell Hall. No matter how much she hates him, she can't stop him from going about his day or having classes. Nor can she prevent him from having extracurriculars around campus. Such as yoga. So long as he keeps to himself, Zoey is forced to conclude, there will be no issues.

  And then there is a knock at her door. 

  It's after dinner and Zoey finds herself alone- yet again- in her dorm. Quinn is galivanting with Logan. Lola is in the theater. Chase is at work and Michael is helping to grade the first set of Algebra 1 quizzes of the year. She nearly left her door open to encourage visitors to disrupt her loneliness, but chose not to. Lonely, but a little too tired for conversation.

  She has to stop doing her homework and hop up from the couch to answer it. "Coming!"

  Then freezes dead in place. It's Vince on the other side. He tips his chin up in greeting. "Hey. Um, is Lola Martinez here?"

  She blinks. Stupefied. 

  Her lack of reply prompts him to stand up taller and crane his head over hers to try and peer into the room. "So, uh-"

  Zoey shoves him back out of the doorway, slamming both her palms to his chest. He stumbles back and looks horrified. She snaps, "get the fuck back!" 

  Vince scrambles, "sorry! Sorry, that was rude to try and look in like that. I just- Lola left her water bottle at yoga and she wrote her room number."

  Zoey glowers at him and then snatches the thing from his hands. "I'll make sure she gets it."

  "Oh, I remember you," he shrinks a little more, "Zoey Brooks, right? Chase's girlfriend?" 

  She clenches her free hand into a fist. "You should go."

  "Jesus, you're scary," he mutters, "um, I know I-" 

  With a roll of her eyes, she slams the door and locks it. 

  Vince Blake's apologies mean absolutely nothing to her. It wasn't like he accidentally assembled a hit squad to beat Chase up. He didn't trip and fall fist-first into her man's face and body. No, Vince chose to stalk Chase until he was alone. Purposefully. 

  Until she left Chase alone. 

  "Would you notice if I started gaining weight?"

  Quinn is taken aback by the question. Enough to turn in her chair fully to face Logan. Between them, they share a set of headphones so they can watch their movie in the relative silence of the library. He's already looking at her in curiosity. "What?"

  He leans forward to tap the laptop's mousepad and pause the movie. It's one they already watched before, an overwrought slasher from years prior, but a fun watch. The visage of the masked killer freezes over the heroine as she flees down a flight of stairs. Dark and looming against the pale wall of the hospital. Logan repeats his question while pulling his earbud out. "Would you notice if I started gaining weight?" 

  Puzzled, Quinn removes hers. "Probably?"

  When they spent a week together over summer, Quinn, of course, stayed in a room separate from his. The Reese house is big. Much bigger than she anticipated. Before the end of the year, she sweated bullets making sure all of her laundry was washed and minimizing the amount of luggage she would have with her when going to LA with Logan. Especially anything that would probably not make a good impression on his parents. Basically, she applied Zoey's rules for 101 to her packing for the week. Minus one or two devices she smuggled on her person. Just for self defense should she need it while out and about in LA.

  In the end it didn't matter. Mister Reese was busy working away at something and Missus Reese was mostly gone. That big house felt somehow emptier and colder than her own. Even though they are both only children of busy parents and his house is in a warmer climate. Still, they stuck to the rules of not spending the night in each other's rooms and spent most of their days wandering and sightseeing. Most of them.

  Just because her roommate wasn't going to anything on her vacation with her boyfriend doesn't mean Quinn was going to follow suit. 

  So, they have had serious conversations before. Not on this topic, however. "What's this about?"

  Logan sighs and turns his head to glance about their surroundings. To make sure no one is listening in. She frowns. "I'd still like you, if you were worried about that. I mean, I'm a fan now, but I wouldn't be less-"

  "It's not about me," and then he smirks, "oh trust me, I know you like-"

  "Anyway," Quinn interrupts. He ducks his head to laugh into his elbow. "why are you asking me this? I think you look the same as you did before."

  Logan shakes his head and then comes back up. "It's not about me. Has Zoey said anything to you about Chase and his, like, new... new?"

  "His new new," she deadpans, "is that slang?" 

  Her boyfriend rolls his eyes. "No. I mean, like, the haircut and him trying to gain weight and stuff?" 

  "He's trying to gain more weight?"

  Logan's eyes widen a little, "you noticed?"

  She shrugs, "I thought everyone did. They both have been weird-"

  "-since vacation," he finishes. Quinn nods, thrilled to have someone else she can say this to. He seems equally relieved. "Thank God. I have no idea why, though." 

  "I have a few hypotheses."

  Chase runs basketball drills by himself after work.

  It feels better to have something to do rather than just wallowing. It's too early in the year to find tutoring gigs and he keeps accidentally playing sad songs on his guitar. When he's alone, it isn't a problem, but if his roommates keep catching him doing stuff like that they'll get suspicious. He never noticed how much Zoey figured into his daily life until he was trying to untangle his routine from hers. He tried playing video games, but she has profiles and saved files on their system and... 

  He just struggles to have fun. 

  Getting some of his melancholy anger out in the form of basketball helps. The prickling anxiety that lives under his skin is mitigated only by an increased heartrate and sweat. Coach says he is playing better than ever before. Chase is split between taking up an offer to play college ball or- increasingly- taking a year off after graduation to be home. He heard it's called a gap year.

  He already ran out of time with Bubbe. His only grandmother. Next (soon) it will be Zayde's turn. Then Chester. Mom sent him an email about how his beloved pet is now on a daily dose of joint supplement from the vet. The stairs did a number on his aging body. Chase will be transferring money to her monthly to cover it. The least he could do, since he isn't actually there to help. 

  In another life, he imagines he would carry Chester up and down the stairs to the dog's content.

  "Hey, Matthews!" A high voice startles him out of his mindless dribbling. Defensive boxes, going faster and faster with each successful completion. 

  The ball bounces away. Chase heaves deep breaths and looks up, suddenly forced back into awareness of his body and its need of oxygen. A sophomore boy and one of their newest additions to the varsity team. A tall and skinny shooting guard. The younger boy winces. "Sorry." 

  Chase waves him off and pants, "don't worry about it. What, uh, what's up?" 

  "The guys are going to apply for off-campus passes tomorrow so we can go into town after the game," he explains, "you want to come with?" 

  Normally, the answer would be no. Chase isn't much of a partier and after a game he is even less interested. Neither is Zoey. They both prefer to go back to their respective dorms for a shower, meal, and going to bed nice and early. But that was Before. This is Now. Now-Chase is just as aware as Before-Chase that there is likely to be alcohol at this party off grounds. He's heard that the staff of Bucky's Motel is more than willing to look the other way while rich teens pay cash to socialize and drink in the parking lot.

  "Sure," he agrees, "I'd love to." 

  The sophomore- Jefferson- beams. "Awesome. We're going to the office after school and then to practice."

  "Sounds good." Chase strides over to the ball and kicks it up into his hands. "I'm in." 

  "The guys said you wouldn't want to go, but I felt we should ask you anyway."

  "Well," the older teen shrugs, "to be fair, I usually do say 'no.'"

  Which means this will absolutely make its way around the team in the next few hours. Then to the girls' team where they will tell Zoey. He figures it's for the best if she decides to attend with him. It might discourage him from getting a little too drunk. If there's booze.

  God he hopes so. 

  Jefferson trots off towards the lower classmen dorms and Chase decides to cut his drills and head back to his. He cools down a bit on the walk. Maxwell's common room is crowded for the nightly airing of sports broadcasts from local teams or snippets of professional ones. This year they have a new RA that is much less strict and crazy than the last one. So the boys are louder and seem to have formed a weekly betting league. 

  The groans lead Chase to believe no one is winning this week. 

  Upstairs, Michael is huddled on the couch and half-asleep. He startles upright and snorts. "I'm up!"

  "No you're not," the taller boy rolls his eyes good-naturedly and offers his hand, "c'mon dude. Let's get you to your bed." 

  "You stink." With a grunt, Chase hauls him up to his feet. 

  "I know. I'm gonna shower and go to bed. Where's Logan?" 

  "Watching a movie or something," and then, sleepily, "did you and Zoey have a good game?" 

  "I practiced by myself for once. Trying to keep up, you know?" 

  Michael hums and then falls into his bunk face down with nothing further. 

  Chase would consider himself a courteous showerer. Some of the dudes around Maxwell wander around the shower stalls nude or strangely flash their junk to unwitting passersby. He does not do any of that. It might be because he was raised by a woman and two elderly people. He tidies up after himself, keeps covered, and never wastes water or time. He even pretends he doesn't hear what goes on around him. That's none of his business. 

  Even if he gets secondhand mortification. 

  Tonight the bathroom is mostly empty and the water comes out nice and hot. Chase scrubs his skin raw and checks out his newest scar. It healed puffy and strangely jagged. An oddly fitting mark on his body, he thinks, as if it was always part of him. Like a birthmark. He is momentarily swept up in fantasizing about giving himself another one. Perhaps make a matching scar on his other leg for symmetry or on his arm. 

  A guy starts singing and snaps him out of visions of his blood washing down the floor drain. 

  The roof of Gilbreth Hall is so much nicer than the roof of Butler. 

  Zoey supposes it is because the renovations to the girls' dorms are more recent. And a bit more haphazard. Their roof is unfinished and reeks of hot tar fumes. The old AC unit sits defunct and useless next to the new one. It's a mess.

  So of course the girls wander over to the roof of their good pals' dorm. In spring, it isn't yet hot enough to dissuade them from sunbathing up there. Besides, none of their peers tend to interrupt them. 

  Lola is reading aloud from some gossip rag while Nicole and Zoey listen. Well, the former is. The latter is lost in thought, peering up at the clouds through sunglasses. The sun feels good and the lawn chairs are surprisingly soft and yielding. 

  The door opens and shuts. Nicole mutters, "oh great. They're here." 

  Zoey frowns and turns her head to see Logan with his arms crossed flanked by Michael and a sheepish Chase. "Boys. Care to join us?" 

  "I thought we said this was our space," Logan says. "Like, for the guys, remember?"

  Lola mockingly lowers her voice, "preach dude. For the boys."

  Nicole follows suit and punches her fist in the air. "Yeah, for the boys!" 

  Zoey doesn't partake. She knows she doesn't have to. Instead, she directs her gaze to Chase. "Well?"

  He breaks eye contact and shrugs. "It's like I said before; this is where we go to have boy-talk. You know?"

  "Sure," she rolls her eyes, "like what? I already know you talk about me."

  Silence settles over the group. Zoey immediately regrets saying it like that. Flippant. Like she isn't thrilled to be his favorite topic. "Chase-"

  He sighs. A tired, deep exhale. "Yeah. Like you." 

  The boys at his side are strangely expressionless at the confrontation. Zoey turns her head and finds that Lola and Nicole are equally still. 

  "Zoey-" 

  "I want to know what you say about me. Is it," she hesitates, formulating her question, "do you tell them-" she gestures to Logan and Michael- "what you want from me? How long have they known about your crush?" 

  He shrugs. "I don't know." 

  "Is it that you're jealous," she tries, "that any guy could come up here and see me in a swimsuit besides just you? Would you feel better if I told you I would prefer if you came up here more often? There's plenty of space on this chair for you, too." 

  Chase shrugs again. "I don't know. You never asked me. I can't tell you anything now." 

  Despair washes over Zoey like ice water. She could have asked him in Hawaii. "Come sit with me." 

  "Jesus, what is going on with you and Loverboy?" 

  Charles sits himself down at the foot of the lawn chair. It shifts and settles like a mattress. He looks between the two in confusion. "This is weird and backwards. He's supposed to be dreaming about you in a bikini. You're supposed to be dreaming about... I don't know. Whatever the girl equivalent is." 

  "Get out of here," the blonde snaps.

  "Oh, what, like I'm interrupting something? You're definitely not getting any." Charles addresses Chase directly, "what's your damage, dude?" 

  "Out!"

  Zoey blinks awake. 

  It's too early to get ready for school but too late for much else. Like falling back asleep, she figures. 101 is hot and stifling even with the drone of the fan and the window being open. The ceiling is speckled in the stars produced by Quinn's nightlight. Uncomfortable and restless, Zoey slides out of bed and quietly feels for her phone on her nightstand and shoes by the door. She often sleeps with her key around her neck and this night is no different. Moving slowly, painstakingly so to not make too much noise, she lets herself out of her room and locks the door behind her. Then down the dark hallway and out through Cohen's doors into the cool nighttime air. 

  Lola is having trouble focusing in yoga.

  It was supposed to be a good new experience. She is not athletic by nature. Her mother and father both played soccer up to the collegiate level but such talents (and aspirations) were not inherited by their daughter. Lola has always been a performer. Her earliest memories are of singing for her relatives or putting on mini-plays with her cousins and friends. Her parents were always supportive.

  But they felt she needed other ways to get her boundless energy out.

  Lola was enrolled in soccer, softball, and basketball with her doing more poorly in each effort than the last. She wanted to try track, only to be horrified to discover she had to run the whole length of her event. Unlike Zoey, she has no talent or interest in tennis or other racket sports. She took to dance but struggled with the culture of team dance. Her mother also hated the other girls' moms, too. 

  Without her friends, she probably wouldn't play disc golf either.

  Yoga agrees with her. She takes to it like a fish to water. The opposite of her attempt at swim. She likes the deliberate movement and perfection of form. The meditative aspect and deep breathing feels good, too. Lola often has a lot going on in her mind. It's nice to have a regularly scheduled hour and a half of calm and quiet. 

  And then fucking Vince Blake showed up.

  If only he weren't such a dick. He's very good-looking and has a great physique. Enough that- if he were another guy- she would have already flirted her way into getting his phone number. Instead, she has to make concerted efforts to ignore him should he try to discuss anything but yoga with her. It takes him a few classes to get the hint but he doesn't stop setting his mat near hers. 

  And then he decides to irritate her further by bringing her water bottle to her dorm and pissing Zoey off.

  Her roommate seethes about it. She thinks she would be pissed, too. Zoey is just... scary and really good at holding a grudge. She has an extreme talent for being angry. The actress in Lola seeks to study and emulate that kind of quiet but pronounced fury. The teenager who has to live in the same space of said fury would prefer it to be extinguished peacefully. 

  But she can't talk to her closest friends about it. Michael and Logan got beat, too. Two of Quinn's boyfriends- one past, and one present- were involved. She considers consulting with her friends in Theater but then worries they'll snitch to Chase. Lola isn't sure how she should feel and- for once- how she should act. Which in turn makes her feel like a bad friend for wanting her friends to just get over what happened so she doesn't have to be placed in such an awkward situation. 

  So she decides to secretly petition Chase to calm his girlfriend down. Lola is surprised to learn he hadn't heard about Zoey's encounter with Vince in their dorm but then realizes that the blonde would absolutely keep something like that from him. Probably to minimize his stress.

  r u alne he texts.

  The Latina frowns at the message but replies yea

  And then her phone rings. 

Chapter Text

  Chase had meant to pace himself.

  He really did. When he got to the motel he dumped himself onto one of the poolside chairs to eat a well-deserved dinner of a burger, fries, and a tall chocolate shake that he and some of his teammates picked up on the way. Michael and Logan arrive with a gaggle of football players, yanking their shirts off and throwing themselves headlong into the pool to play chicken. Chase gorges himself and helps referee so everyone gets a turn.

  The first hour goes exactly how it should.

  And then beer makes its debut at the same time another set of PCA students do. Chase has no idea who paid for it, but two huge cases are brought to the pool area and left conspicuously unsupervised by one of the staff. He doesn't like beer, and this one is particularly watery and kind of gross, but he likes what it does. Like medicine, he supposes, you put up with the taste for the effects. James dives into the pool. Chase isn't sure what sport he plays or if he is a guest. What he knows is that the guy looks better shirtless than he ever will. Naturally bronze and hairless. Like Logan.

  He finishes off his first beer and quickly gets himself another. The sun set will be late, but not as late as it did a month ago. Chase sits up and cranes his head to the only view of a partially obstructed horizon. Using his fingers, he guestimates how many hours of sunlight they have left. With that in mind, he extrapolates the time and then checks his watch for accuracy. Another largely useless skill he has but one in which he is very accurate.

  Less than an hour until Zoey and her teammates will arrive. 

  Michael eventually drifts over and drops into the chair next to his. Soggy and tired. A stereo makes an appearance at the far end of the pool deck and there is a brief squabble about what music should be played. "Hey dude."

  Chase chuckles, "hey. Where's Lisa?"

  "Couldn't make it," he shrugs, "she has a brutal weekend assignment for Western Gov. I'm solo tonight."

  The taller boy hums and sips. Logan climbs up onto one of basketball player's- Martin- shoulders while another duo of boys do the same. 

  "I didn't know you drink," Michael says. 

  Amongst other things you don't know. Outwardly, Chase does his utmost to appear casual and not too invested in the topic. "Not usually. I kind of just wanted to say I did. You know?"

  Teasingly, his best friend nudges his arm with his elbow. The gesture is mild but hurts anyway having landed directly on a freshly-formed bruise. He tries not to show it. "I won't tell Zoey." 

  "Oh, you and I both know better than to keep anything from her." In another life, Chase imagines him and Michael talking about their respective wives over a beer on a Friday night. 

  But reality is much more lonely. They'll all split off and go to college. His best friend has already basically outgrown him, advanced education in another state will finish it off. He shakes off the desperately sad thought. "Speaking of, do you want one? I think it's mostly water."

  "Nah, I'm driving back." 

  Chase yawns and stretches, wincing at the pain in his sides. He bets his ribs are bruised up too. A decision is made with the stereo, and the blare of record skips and a thrumming beat elicits cheers. Michael absentmindedly drums his fingers on the worn plastic arm of his chair, bobbing his head as he does it. Suddenly, his eyes go wide as if struck by inspiration. "Dude! I just got a good idea for a double date! What if we both take our girls out dancing?"

  The contents in his stomach suddenly don't feel like they are sitting as well as they had been. Chase tries to force the muscles of his face to not betray how horrific he thinks that idea is. He thinks he mostly succeeds, and then Michael quickly adds, "I promise not to steal your thunder with the whole, you know, 'private ballroom by the fountain' thing you had with Zoey."

  He's haunted by how stupid he is. How obvious it was that she wasn't nearly as interested in him as he was in her. Every day he has to walk by that wretched water feature on his way to and from his dorm. Now, he may have an opportunity to change how he thinks about it. It can be the place he and his friends hung out and made fools of themselves. He can help Michael make it his and Lisa's spot. 

  "You know what? That sounds like a great idea," Chase agrees, "and you don't have to worry about stealing my thunder. It's not like me and Zoey own the fountain." 

  "Is that permission to do a little dancey-dance of my own," Michael asks hopefully.

  "Yeah," the taller boy laughs, buoyed- if only for a moment- out of his sadness by his best friend's excitement. When he pumps his fist, it makes Chase laugh harder. 

  And then he excuses himself to the bathroom for fear of actually throwing up. It gives him an opportunity to splash some cold water onto his face and examine his own reflection. He... thinks he looks a little off. Already. His movements appear slow even to his own eyes which, themselves, are a little glassy. Not that Chase can be sure. 

  A commotion arises outside. He hears loud cheering of male and female voices. Another dude enters into the bathroom and makes his way to a stall. "Oh," he says over his shoulder, "your girlfriend is here."

  "Thanks," Chase dries his face and exhales deeply into the paper towels.

  Holding in his grief is easier in motion than when he is stationary. 

  In fact, he can easily channel his loneliness into anger- which is already always at the back of his mind, anyway- and then unleash it. Turn both as two separate stores of energy onto basketball.

  The varsity boys' first game of the year was against the Phoenixes. They got a new basketball coach and almost a completely different team than they had last year. That's how things go for Ridgeway students, it seems. The varsity players have either all graduated, been sent to juvie or jail, or finished up their probation and went back to whatever their original school had been. 

  Chase couldn't wait to play them.

  He knows their game. How the Phoenixes beat teams by, well, beating them into submission rather than actually outplaying them. Unfortunately for them, Chase isn't nearly as invested in his well-being as the rest of his team. He also needed an excuse to get the malice out of him. This low simmering frustration and anger that has been poisoning his thoughts for days. Weeks. Pooling in his brain and burning like vats of hot tar and dragging all of his thoughts down into the dark.

  Even in practice, his style has been more aggressive and violent than ever before. 

  Coach Kar gave the PCA boys one final warning to not "stoop" to the Phoenixes' level before tip off. As if he sensed something was amiss. It was a home game for PCA and most kids from Ridgeway are not permitted off their campus. That didn't stop the ones who could from making plenty of noise as if the away side was full. To their credit, the orange-clad players still trotted onto the court like they owned it. All glowering or making threatening gestures. Loudmouth is the only player Chase recognized from last year. 

  The Phoenixes hit hard and often. Chase is fast and good at getting the ball away from the opposing team and back into PCA's control. That's always been true. He was willing to settle for just playing a clean- but rough- defense. Until elbows and knees "accidentally" smashed into his teammates. A full-body collision sent Jefferson sprawling to the smooth wood floor.

  Chase seethed.

  Now, sitting by the heavily-chlorinated pool he pays for his temper. 

  Zoey finds him almost as soon as he is back out on the pool deck. She is on him immediately, taking his hand in hers and leading him to a different set of pool chairs than the ones he had been sitting in. Warmth from her palm leaches into his and tingles in his fingertips as if he touched a live wire. "I have a seat for you."

  "How was your game," he risks the question, knowing she, like Coach Kar, probably disliked his.

  She doesn't answer right away. "Fine." 

  Chase is brought to a set of chairs with some of the varsity girls setting their bags together along the fence and hanging their towels on the posts. They rush to strip off the clothes they wore over their bathing suits laughing and joking. Zoey's grip changes so she can intertwine their fingers. His hand swallows hers. Becca spots him and calls out, "you hopping in, Matthews?"

  "Maybe later," he forces as jovial a tone as he can manage, "I just ate a big dinner so I gotta wait."

  She shrugs and looks to her teammate. "Zoey?"

  "In a bit." 

  And the girls hustle across the pavement and leap into the pool with a collective shout. Zoey tugs and directs Chase to a mostly empty chair and gently pushes for him to sit down. He does his best to avoid sitting on her bag. "Are you going to swim?"

  He had planned to change out of his basketball shorts and into swim trunks after the game. Instead, Kar called him into his office and chewed him out for so long Chase worried he was going to miss his ride. In a rush to get to the parking lot, he merely stuffed his trunks into his bag and changed his shirt. But there are way more people in attendance than he thought there would be. His own acceptance of what he looks like does not lessen his aversion to be on display. 

  All goofy and disproportionate. Big feet and hands on the end of broomstick limbs. Scrawny and pale with thick, dark body hair. He hates it but that's what he got. 

  "We'll see," he eventually replies.

  Zoey frowns and brings her hands up to his face. She feels his forehead with the front and backs of her fingers, then his cheeks, and finally cups his jaw. Her eyes bear into his with open concern. "You scared me today."

  "Okay," he scoffs. Chase makes a concerted effort to swallow back his flaring anger. What about when I was scared? and Oh, now you're worried? Instead, he asks, "why?"

  Even with him holding back, he can see the hurt in her eyes. She releases his face to dig around in her bag. Sunscreen. An off-brand one that he knows they sell in the student store. Zoey squeezes a dab of it onto her palm and then stirs it with her fingers. Like a painter stirs her brush in paint, he thinks. An artiste. To his surprise, she begins applying the cream to him. Starting at his forehead and working her way down. "You played too hard today."

  "Bah, the Phoenixes asked for it," Chase tries to keep as still as possible. Like a statue. "Those fucking assholes got what was coming to them." 

  There's too much venom in his words. He knows this because Zoey winces. She seems to be done with his face and wipes her hands off on her top. It's a coverup he has seen before. Not often, but on occasions when she sunbathes in her bathing suit or rarer instances of them swimming in one of the campus pools for a bit. It screams Zoey to him. Pink and cute enough she could probably wear it with normal clothes. She changed the neckline and the hem.

  In an effort to change the subject, he mentions that detail. "I think it's cool that you added that mesh-y stuff around the neck of this. Looks good."

  She kisses him and he wonders if she tastes the beer and burger on his lips. Her teammates catcall them from the water and Chase is disappointed when she pulls away. Even more so when she pulls off the coverup and leaves it with him to jump into the pool. 

  It's mitigated by a dude from the football team giving him another beer. It opens with a satisfying crack and he replies with an almost too genuine, "man, you're a life saver." 

  James breaststrokes up to the girls in the water and engages them in conversation. Normally, girls are much better at hiding whether or not they are checking someone out than guys are. The party atmosphere seems to hinder that ability, or maybe relax them enough to not feel the social obligation to hide their interest. Whatever it is, Chase watches as both Becca and Ellie give the guy a once-over and nudge each other with their elbows. 

  Zoey shoots them both a stern look when James swims away and the pair laugh.

  Chase figures there is no reason anyone would stare at him. They are too busy paying attention to whoever they think is hot. He's hot. In temperature. The combination of sunbathing and his body trying to burn off the alcohol is making him sweat. He's already done that enough today, he decides, and so he sits up and tugs his shirt over his head. When he gets up his body is stiff and sore and his head spins but light dances off the surface of the pool so enticingly that he moves towards it anyway. The pool is nearly empty in comparison to earlier. 

  He half dives, half throws himself in. The water is refreshingly cool. It feels almost as nice as the night he went in the ocean in Hawaii and, again, he almost doesn't want to come back up. When he does his head spins. Where he is the water only comes up to his chest. Belatedly, he remembers he never changed into his swim trunks. Chase shakes his head and tries to clear the water from his ears with his pinky fingers.   

  "Damn Matthews," Mel paddles towards him, "we were worried you wouldn't swim." 

  He's beset upon by more of the team. Chase only has enough time to process the sound of splashing before a pair of arms wrap themselves around him from behind. Confused, he lifts his arm to check who it is. Zoey. She squeezes him a little while navigating her way to his side and under his raised arm. It hurts but the pain is dull enough and his brain sloshes in his head. "Hey."

  "Hi," she beams up at him, "glad you finally joined us." 

  She can't stand where he is. The water would be up to her forehead or higher. It's a huge mental effort to process all of the things being said to him and try and come up with the correct solution for what to do so Zoey doesn't have to tread water the entire time. Distantly, he recognizes Mel is asking him why he is wearing a sweater to the pool. Ellie suggests they all play some kind of game like Would You Rather or Never Have I Ever.

  "What was it like being cabana boy for some old fogies?"

  Chase has no idea which girl asked the question. Zoey's hands slide up- probably unintentionally- his torso and leave chills in their wake. "Weird," he finds himself replying, "I found out I am very popular with adult women though."

  The scandal of the statement seems to delight the girls. Especially when they notice the blonde's obvious discomfort. He understands why. To them, he was being flirted with by women way out of his age range while his hot girlfriend seethed in a jealous rage on the sidelines. No real harm done, besides the awkwardness of it all. Chase is happily and hopelessly devoted to Zoey. There is no risk to their relationship on his end.

  It isn't like it's gross old men hitting on an underage girl.

  Chase laughs at their insistence on getting examples. Becca makes the remark- probably to annoy Zoey- that they were likely into his hairy chest. "It was a thing for a long time." 

  And he isn't sure why but he just starts unleashing instance after instance. The woman who reminded him of an older Nicole and another one who slipped her room number between his belt and belt loop while he was carrying drinks on the patio. It was written on a torn portion of cardboard packaging like from a cigarette box. He guessed as much by her smell and tooth color. He tries to keep some of it to himself so as to not embarrass his "girlfriend." Zoey keeps shifting around under his arm. 

  Chase backs up until he bumps the edge of the pool for her. So she can support herself using his body and the cement while he keeps talking. More teens listen in. He knows he shouldn't, but he gets a particular level of pleasure seeing James in their midst. Like, yeah he might be hotter now, but in thirty years Chase will be the hot one between them. Maybe.

  Zoey's heel accidentally makes contact with his shin while she is trying to shift her body. It doesn't hurt, but Chase is annoyed by how much she is distracting him telling his hilarious (and cleaned up) stories. He pauses in the middle of telling the group a tale of some guy who made goo-goo eyes at him for a week so he can pick her up and hold her halfway. He plants his foot against the wall so she sits on his thigh while one arm keeps her held to his chest. 

  That stops her, finally, from fidgeting around.  

  When he wakes, he wakes up drunk.

  It's after sunset. The sky is purple and pink and tiny blinking stars have begun to make their appearance. He's hot and sweaty. Chase props himself up and his head spins. Beyond the fenced-in area, he can see a couple of his peers loitering in the breezeways around the motel rooms. Music carries over the conversations- of which he catches only the barest of snippets- and makes him want to dance.

  So yeah, he's drunk. And still damp.

  In Hawaii, he usually drank alone in the confines of his room. Marissa, Melissa, and the rest of the hotel staff were grown adults. Even though they were work-friends, he knew they weren't actually friends. None of them have probably thought about him even once since he left. They have his number and he has theirs. Chase thanked them for their company and told them he got home safe and... never heard anything in return.

  Why is he so easy to leave behind? Should he have that checked out? Which of his features makes people not want him and can he have it removed?

  But here, surrounded by his peers and friends, he's much happier. In fact, he actively hopes he dies now. Goes out on a high note. That the ache in his stomach is a sign of some fatal defect or injury. That the hits to his side have caused an internal bleed such that he'll collapse to the concrete and never get up again. It makes him think about how quick he always is to jump back up when he falls and wonders what was the point. Why would he get up? 

  Chase tries to do a head count but can't keep his vision still enough to be entirely accurate. He checks his watch and figures Michael and Logan are probably back at PCA already. Maybe they have already showered and meandered off to find their girlfriends. He isn't sure how he'll get back. There will be staff in the student lot and if he is visibly drunk there will be hell to pay. Curfew isn't for several hours, though. If he doesn't drink anything but water for the rest of the night, he should be fine by then.

  "Hey dude," James quite suddenly appears next to him. He's dressed and shouldering a small bag- the same kind bowlers carry their stuff in it seems. "How have you been?"

  "Never better. How 'bout you?" Chase sits up and rubs his stinging eyes.  

  The blond laughs. "Great. Vince is actually a pretty cool roommate. I haven't had any problems with him." 

  "Good." Exactly as he had hoped. "I heard he's a yogi now."

  James nods. His expression is bizarrely serious. More so than Chase has ever seen from the Sunshine Boy. "I was actually thinking about joining in, too. It helps. You know? For your troubles."

  The dark haired teen rolls his eyes. Still, he is reluctant to say anything negative. "Whatever you say."

  "I just," James hesitates, "I don't know you very well but, from what I hear, this isn't like you. You know?"

  "It's a party," Chase retorts and sits up to find his shirt and bag. He's cold and he'll just have to wear his swim trunks. "Everyone was on my case because I didn't go out enough-"

  His stuff is gone. Most of the pool chairs are bare. Many of the parking spots empty. Shit. "Where's my shit?" 

  "Zoey has it. Anyway-"

  "Thanks, dude," It takes a bit of momentum, but Chase gets himself to his feet and staggers off through the fence. He takes a detour for the bathroom and then buys a bottle of chilled water from the vending machine and downs it before buying another. Twice. He sets off again with his third bottle of water. The contents of his stomach are cold and sloshy. His head is warm and fuzzy. 

  He passes by a few couples of PCA students making out. The sound makes him queasy. The majority of the rooms have signage indicating that they are Open versus Occupied. Chase dares not to try knocking on any. Not even the ones he can hear people in or see light in the windows. He just about gives up to go sit- or lay down- in the parking lot when a small hand captures his forearm. He jolts a little in shock. 

  "You looking for me?" 

  For everything he has trouble with processing right now, he has no difficulty with being struck with just how beautiful Zoey is. As always. It used to take his breath away and make it hard for him to focus. Some nights, under the campus lights after a late practice, he would have to forcibly monitor his own mouth to keep himself from blurting anything stupid. From telling her how he felt. Now he finds himself doing it all over again but finding it even sadder than ever before. More depressing.

  He really is a god-damned stupid idiotic moron. 

  "I don't want you wandering around like this," she continues. Zoey steps in closer and releases his arm in favor of settling her hands on his waist. Chase blinks slow and shakes his head. She is still there, peering up at him and sliding her hands over his torso.

  "Huh?" 

  She giggles and takes his hand to tug him after her. If he weren't having such trouble keeping up, he would have believed he was dreaming. It takes him a minute to recognize she is in a PCA bathrobe and doesn't smell like the pool. He assumes that means she rented a room to shower and change in before going back. That sounds like a Zoey thing to do. Maybe that's where his stuff is. "Where is everyone?" 

  "We have time. Don't worry."

  They come to a door that was left ajar. Zoey nudges it open and then gestures for him to go in. He isn't sure what it is, but something feels off. Amiss.  

  Chase has just enough of his mental faculties about him to pause before entering the room. There is light and movement inside. 

  His senses are so muddled and foggy that, the harder he listens, the less he sees. And he is really straining to hear any signs of human life inside. Zoey lightly pushes him and Chase's feet carry him through the threshold and into the small room. The air is stale. He has trouble discerning much else in the darkness. Two strangely flickering lamps sit atop the nightstands flanking the bed. He blinks and stares harder.

  The lights are many. They dance and shiver. Each casting warm-toned glow on the wall up to the ceiling and across the sheets where the wrinkles pit like tiny canyons. Chase is drunk, but he can't possibly be that drunk that things are multiplying.

  He manages to hit the sticky old light switch just as the door closes. In a flash of light that just about scalds his eyes, the tiny culprits are revealed. He recognizes- after a moment or two of blank staring- that they are the electric lights like the ones Logan bought forever ago. His decorations and scheming. Chase shakes his head and wonders just how many people own that kind of crap.

  Then he belatedly realizes what they probably mean. "I think this is the wrong room." 

  Zoey 's voice is quiet. "I don't."

  Chase's anxiety can't handle this right now. His brain spirals at all of her negative reactions when he tells her he thinks the setup is a poor attempt at romance. At being sexy or something. To make it less terrible that whoever it is will be fucking in a motel room from a horror movie on the world's nastiest sheets. They probably won't care. Who is he kidding? Then, he worries the couple will be in at any moment and that will be it's own nightmare. Outside he can hear muffled laughter and a bit of conversation. Meaning, whoever is out there could hear inside. 

  He pivots, hands out and ready to set them on Zoey's shoulders to lead her- gently but quickly- out of the room. "We should go." 

  The turn and his already swimming vision work in tandem to blur his surroundings into a beige and shadowy mudpuddle. Their bags are on the dresser. They disappear when the lights go back off. Zoey takes his hands while he is distracted. Intertwining the fingers on one, she sets the other kind of on her shoulder. The sensation of a part of his body being moved without his looking or meaning to makes him nauseas. The lights dance in the reflection of her eyes. "What are you doing?"

  She shrugs. "What do you want to do?"

  Chase inhales and exhales deeply. He thinks about dying on the pool deck having made everyone laugh and surrounded by friends. When he was a boy, maybe the second or third time his father left and made his mother cry, he thought about walking down the street and standing in traffic. Because when he wasn't around, his father was and Mom was happy. 

  "What did you just say?"

  He startles at Zoey's intensity. Her hands are warm and the way she holds his face is nice. Gentle but firm. He grunts in confusion. She repeats her question. "What did you just say?"

  "I don't know," he mumbles, "I don't feel so good." 

  Zoey wants Chase to sleep for a bit longer.

  He threw up a few times in the bathroom. Which- she hopes- served two purposes; helping him sober up faster and buying her time to put away all of the stupid nonsense she hauled to the motel. The fake candles and the variety pack of condoms go in the absolute bottom of her bag and she buries those beneath her wet towel and swimsuit. She'll face the humiliation of finding a place to stash the latter in her dorm later. While he continues to evacuate his stomach, she rushes to put clothes back on under the robe.

  She had plenty of water for him when he staggered back out. His face and hair was wet but she heard him scrubbing and splashing under the shower faucet. "Feel better?"

  He shook his head. "I don't think I've ever gotten sick like this before." 

  And there was so much she wanted to ask him but she decided against it. Instead she waited for him to change his clothes on the bed. When he finished, she motioned with her arms for him to lay with her and- to her extreme surprise- he did. He even let her hold him so he stayed on his side while he napped. She thinks that made her the big spoon.

  Or a backpack.

  She isn't stupid. He muttered something about dying when she asked him what he wanted. Maybe the ramblings of a drunk man, but she was told drunk ramblings are sober thoughts. That worries her.

  After a half hour she woke him up with kisses to his shoulder and rubbing circles over his chest. His beating heart. By then, they were the last at the motel- which was not the plan. Zoey had arranged for them to ride back to PCA with one of the basketball boys. The parking lot is dark and empty. "Oh shit."

  "We can walk back," Chase suggests, "it's a shorter walk than when you broke it off with..."

  "Lance." She winces. Zoey doesn't like mentioning other guys she was with before him. 

  He doesn't seem to notice or care and only shrugs. "Yeah, that dickhead let you walk back by yourself. At least this time you'll have company." 

  It isn't like they have other options. He doesn't hold her hand, but he does walk on the outside edge of the sidewalk. Ever the perfect gentleman. Her very own personal prince charming. She misses being held and swayed enough that sometimes she dreams about it. Zoey misses his kisses and the way he'd look at her and being carried. When he sat her in his kind-of-lap earlier, it was as close to him as he had allowed her to be in months.

  And she cherished every second even if she had to listen to him joke about some nasty adult touching him. Harassing him. 

  The cool nighttime air seems to do wonders for his nausea and she hopes a couple more drinks of water along the way will help flush all of that alcohol out of his system. Even if he is hungover, tomorrow is still a Saturday. Or, the next couple hours will bleed into Saturday. Chase only disrupts the silence between them to ask how her game went and again how she feels about walking. Fine to both. Zoey finds her mind occupied with the alternate path her night might have taken. Equal parts of relief and regret wash over her at how her plan fell apart.

  Chase never needs to know about that. 

  "The next time we go to the motel, you should drink less." 

  He grumbles. "Yeah. That's probably for the best." 

Chapter Text

  Michael arrives to 220 late.

  He's exhausted and ready to throw himself into bed. He took a particularly harsh blow to the chin of his helmet and he still feels it in his jaw. An awkward hit in the tumble of bodies. During the game, he hopped right back up and rolled out his neck before preparing to go again. Michael always does that.

  Check in with his head and neck.

  Michael has a big, strong chest to go with the arms and torso. The muscle sheathed in a healthy amount of adipose tissue and wrapped in layers of dermis. A fortress of padding protects the stuff of his being. But he hits hard. His opponents do, too. In training, he is extra sure to devote nearly as much time to shoulder shrugs as wrestlers do.  

  He's paranoid about that. Always. 

  In the dark and quiet, Michael fishes lanyard out of his pocket and sticks the key haphazardly into the lock. He misses on the first and second attempt, blind-tired and impatient, but gets it on the third. Chase will scold him for that later. Only one of them leaves scratches and gouges in the doorknob like that. The door opens to a pitch black room. Michael stares into it, squinting in his effort to see. 

  With careful steps he enters the room and feels with his hand along the wall to find the tv console table, then along the smooth surface to the tiny push-button light on top. The click is as small as the lamp is but muted light explodes outwards from it. In the hazy halo, he is surprised to find neither of his roommates in their beds. That isn't entirely unlike Logan- if he can get away with it- but it is unlike Chase.

  Michael turns on the room's light and turns off the lamp. 

  Logan mentioned something about seeking Quinn out when they got back to campus. So, that's probably where he is. Zoey stated she and Chase were going to stay a little longer. He imagines them chatting with other couples at the moment. Maybe with Zoey still tucked securely under his arm while the pair stand amongst the cars in the parking lot. A day well spent and a night well partied. The scene is so grown up.

  He hates it.

  Time is moving too fast. Michael is not excited for adulthood. He does not want to leave PCA and his friends. The only suitable tradeoff would be if he lived in an apartment complex- or a set of college dorms together. All on the same campus and within walking distance. As it stands currently, Lisa is going to be moving to New York and so many of his other friends will also be going across the country or even across the world.

  Logan, Lola, and possibly Quinn will be staying with him in California. Zoey might, too. If he and she stay close, then Chase is sure to follow. Right? 

  But he is too tired to deal with the stress of the situation. The anxiety of being separated from the best friend he has ever had drains him of the last vestiges of his energy. Michael strips down to his boxers- the only way he can stand to sleep in the heat- and sets his alarm before clambering into bed. Lisa texts him a quick goodnight that he replies to with x's and o's. Needy, considering he saw her about a half hour ago, but Michael has never pretended to be anything but.

  He dreams PCA is dotted with houses and neighborhoods. Chase and Zoey live next door and they host dinner parties and split their friend group into teams for games played between their lawns and driveways.

  They just barely beat curfew.

  It was such a narrow margin that security yelled at the couple to run to their dorms rather than do the normal rigmarole of checking ID cards and shining lights in their eyes while asking a dozen questions. Chase would not have passed any scrutiny. Even with all the time that had elapsed from his last drink he was still noticeably tipsy. 

  Zoey tiptoed into 101. Lola was sound asleep on the couch. On their television was a menu display of the DVD she had been watching and the quiet loop of the menu music was just loud enough for Zoey to start putting things away and get dressed for bed without disturbing her. Quinn wasn't back, but the blonde had expected that. She got a text message with a picture of Logan curled up on his side and asleep on a lab table. im dating a cat accompanied the image.

  Her wet swimsuit and towel went atop her hamper, draping over the rim so they didn't sit in a mildewy heap on top of her dirty laundry. Shoes by the door and the props stayed in her bag until morning. 

  Zoey isn't sure if it's a California thing or a PCA thing, but students were actually given condoms during the STD/STI unit. She was confused as to why she needed one, but held onto it for a few months. Some of the girls in her dorm had the bright idea to make water balloons. Others blew theirs up full of air and tacked them to their whiteboards or displayed them on the wall. She donated hers to the festivities. Under no circumstances would she risk going home with that in her luggage. 

  But then- and this likely is a PCA thing- she discovered they sell condoms on-grounds. No questions asked. Zoey stalked the student store for a week until only one of the adult staff members was working the register and there was next to no one shopping. The boxes are sky blue and white with information blurbs about disease, pregnancy, and instructions on product usage all over it. Distinctive. Anyone in the know would recognize it immediately.

  She makes a mental note to find a different box to hide the package in. She would get rid of the original entirely, but she is too nervous about not knowing how to use the damn things. For now, she keeps the little cardboard box in the bottom drawer of her nightstand under some art she has yet to finish and hopes it's good enough. 

  In the morning she wakes up groggy and grumpy. Her roommates are both sound asleep in their bunks. It's early by their standards and earlier still due to the fact it's a Saturday. Zoey slides out of bed and quietly puts her shoes on. 

  The air is crisp and cool. Coastal fog hangs thick in the air and dampens the light from the lamps along the way. The moisture in the air collects in fat glistening droplets on the benches and tables. The grass shimmers with dew in the lowlight of morning. Zoey can hear the wheels of breakfast carts being rolled into position and the metallic clunks of window bays open to prepare for meal service. The visibility is too poor to see it, though.

  Maxwell Hall is as asleep as the rest of campus. There are a handful of guys in the common room huddled on the couches and watching a sport fishing competition. They are so engrossed in the program that Zoey thinks the cushions could be on fire and they would have no idea. She treks up the stairs into a mostly empty hallway. There are some student athletes standing around in their running clothes. Their quiet conversation is disrupted by her entrance and all look surprised to see her. Michael trots past Zoey to join them and freezes mid-stride. He takes his earbuds out and asks in a whisper. "When did you and Chase get back?"

  "Late. Very late."

  He nods but his brow stays furrowed. Zoey wonders what's going on in his mind and is about to tell him the truth of how they got left behind- since she has no reason to lie- when he finally says, "I left our door unlocked. Logan sleeps like the dead and Chase, well, you saw."

  "Hungover," she concurs quietly, "I'll try and be gentle when I dump them both onto the floor." 

  He doesn't laugh at the joke. Instead, he puts his earbud in and continues jogging past her and joins the others down the hall. Momentarily, she worries he doesn't think she was kidding. And maybe she earned that reputation. Zoey has been very abrasive and, well, harsh. 

  Not to Chase. Not ever again. Her plan is to coax him out to breakfast with softness and affection. She thinks about him bringing her food when her ankle was broken. Even when she was fussy.

  The boys have two fans. One is a tall, oscillating fan and the other is a stumpy desktop one. They are arranged to work in tandem to blow cooler air around the room. The window's makeshift curtains are drawn shut but she can see that it's open. Logan is practically hanging off the side of his bunk but his face is still and serene. Chase, by contrast, is sleeping in a straight line up and down one side of his bed. Neat and tidy. He is on his stomach with his arms crossed under his head but over his pillow. His fingers are gripping his shirt sleeves. Tense even in his sleep. 

  Zoey closes the door behind her and toes her shoes off. 

  It's only a few steps for her to climb into his bed. She even is able to reach over him to take a book off his nightstand to read. Her shifting moves the mattress, or some other noise or motion in her effort, wakes Chase. He huffs deeply into his pillow. "Dude, I said I wasn't running with you." 

  "Okay," Zoey answers and cracks the book open to the first page, "I wasn't asking." 

  He inhales deeply. Zoey watches his legs move around under his sheet. "Are you actually here or am I dreaming?"

  His head is still buried in his arms and thus he does not see her frown. She switches to holding the book with one hand so she can run her fingers through his hair with the other. He's hot to the touch and damp. The skin of his neck is covered in sheen of sweat. "Go back to sleep, handsome." 

  And he does. It's only a minute before he is back to breathing softly. His hands relax.

  Quickly, her eyes tire from the strain of reading. Her late night and early morning conspire against her and Zoey is less inclined to search for any other forms of amusement while she waits. Chase has a bottle of water on his side of the bed that she considers sipping out of but then she remembers his vomiting and quickly decides against that. She gets out of bed and is makes her way to the boys' fridge. 

  Unfortunately, Logan is asleep and can't watch her dig around in it for snacks.

  She fetches herself a water and heads back to lay down next Chase. When she does, he groans and slings his arm out and over her body. "Stop moving around." 

  "I was thirsty," she whispers back.

  "Okay." And he's asleep again.

  Zoey yawns and stretches. Slowly and carefully, she sets the water bottle on top of his alarm clock so as to not disturb him again. Chase's grip is loose, arm slack such that she could probably unsling it from her body. If she wanted to.  

  Lola wakes up well-rested and excited for Yoga. 

  When she climbed off the couch into her bunk both of her roommates were in 101 and asleep. Upon waking up, Zoey is gone and Quinn is still out cold. She happily changes into her yoga attire and practically skips down to the dance studio in the Theater. They moved meetings there from the lawn during the peak of a heatwave and- while she prefers being in the sunshine- she also does not want to be sautéed in warrior form.

  Chase gave her permission to talk to Vince. 

  It was not as much of a surprise to Lola as she would have thought. Chase and the other boys moved on from what happened quickly. It helped that Vince was expelled and their peers were repulsed by him taking the whole thing too far. Afterwards, the subject was dropped completely. Almost. Zoey did not get along with anyone in the quarterback's personal orbit and she is still disgusted with the guy himself.

  Her boyfriend doesn't care. "That was last year," he said, "it's done. I have other things to worry about." 

  Lola wasn't sure what to make of the statement. "You sure?"

  "Yeah, I haven't thought of that guy since, like, November. I have real problems, you know?"

  Which is such a sick (unintentional) burn that she puts it in her back pocket for if Vince misbehaves. Or if Zoey gets annoyed with her she can tell her exactly how Chase feels. If he doesn't do it preemptively, of course. 

  The studio is cool and dim. Lowlight gives an additional level of calm to the meditation. Vince rolls out his yoga mat almost directly in front of hers and stretches his arms over his head. It feels pointed. Designed to catch her attention. 

  Game on, Lola smirks to herself. 

Chapter Text

  Logan gets the surprise of his life when he wakes up and rolls over to find Zoey Brooks in Chase Matthew's bed.

  He knows she wasn't there when he dragged himself into the room for bed. Even if Logan hadn't seen that with his own eyes, her laying on top of the sheets and in completely different clothes than what she was wearing the night before are good indicators. Chase has one arm strewn across her stomach.

  Logan raises his eyebrows. Then he shakes his head and rubs his eyes to be sure. He mentally weighs the consequences of waking and then teasing the couple for the remainder of the morning. The day. What would Chase do? He has no idea anymore. What would Zoey do?

  Get right back at him. 

  Unwilling to lose another "point" in their game, he decides to be a good boy and go get himself breakfast. They'll wake up and stagger down to where ever it is they plan to go on their own. Logan inhales deeply, and exhales just as much, before swing his legs over the side of the bed to get out and about.

  His rivalry with Zoey Brooks is not something he was actually- he wasn't kidding at first. He hated her. Not every time they "pranked" one another but often enough. On impulse, Logan thinks. Sometimes he had trouble controlling his emotions. His behaviors.  

  Starting from before he even met her- when Chase was already head over heels and rambling to Michael about her- Logan was skeptical at best. There was no way any girl could ever be as special as this guy was saying. He considered her description, and then eyed his new roommate, and figured Chase was- for lack of a kinder word- horny. It also sounded like she was a way hotter girl than this gawky dweeb was used to talking to.

  It pissed him off.

  Logan felt his roommates and all the girls on campus were supposed to be fascinated with him. The son of the man who produced just about every show worth watching from 7 to 10 at night. They weren't. In the privacy of their dorm room, Michael often found himself in the middle of the fray. An unwilling mediator. Just as much as he felt Chase was a dork barely cool enough to be seen with, Chase found him obnoxious and stupid. 

  The latter statement is untrue. Logan concedes the former.  

  And it might be stupidity, but he can't help but wonder if the couple is lying to the group. If way more happened between them than Chase conveyed in his messages. Quinn says it is borderline impossible, but he thinks they had a pregnancy scare. It isn't likely Zoey would return to PCA is she were with child- least of all at the beginning of the year. Unless they went with termination. In California, minors can get abortions without adults needing to consent.

  Quinn thinks any such scenario is unlikely. Under no circumstances would either teen do anything that kind of risky. Beyond that, she doesn't think Zoey would abort.

  Logan is sure she is right. Still, it makes for an interesting scenario. He mulls it around in his mind. It would make a good sitcom or reality show. Teen parents raising their child in a wild world with an eclectic friend group supporting them. He is sure an audience would eat that up. In his test groups, Dad found that viewers have an appetite for couples where the man absolutely adores the woman. It endears them to both parties. 

  Meaning, Chase and Zoey would probably make for good television. With or without the sordid topic of teen pregnancy. 

  He is extremely careful to tiptoe to the closet and quietly opens the doors. It's hot and a Saturday, so he picks a tank top and shorts and practically holds his breath while changing into them from his old basketball shorts. Logan grabs his phone, room key, and wallet to stuff them in his pockets. Before he leaves, he snaps a picture of the pair on his phone.

  Chase wakes with a splitting headache.

  He opens his eyes and then promptly squeezes them shut. It's too bright. He recognizes that he probably slept in much later than he meant to. With a deep breath, he works up the gumption to sit up and slowly begin his day. Zoey is peacefully asleep by his side. Chase is extra careful to get out of bed slowly and quietly as to not disturb her. Mainly, he is not ready to talk to her about last night and make whatever apologies he has to do.

  Instead, he grabs his towel and shower kit before tiptoeing into the hallway. With his roommates gone, he locks the door behind him so no one else barges in while Zoey is alone. He scratches his cheek and feels as well as hears the bristle of stubble scratching right back. Nausea is a horrendous companion to shower and shave with, it turns out. Chase's headache throbs in rhythm with his heartbeat as he tries to keep focus on his breathing as well as on his reflection.

  But somehow he does it and there are no nicks or cuts to show for. Bruising on his side and arms from where he and the Phoenixes were beating and battering each other, but otherwise unscathed. Chase rewards himself with an ice cold shower to try and reduce his body's heat or at least numb deaden some sensation.

  His memory from the night before is fuzzy, but he remembers showering after vomiting. He was embarrassed by how sick he felt off of not much alcohol and so he stripped of his shirt and pants to rinse off. To be sure he didn't accidentally puke on himself. Not when Zoey went through the trouble to rent a whole room so she could wash all the chlorine out of her hair..

  He didn't want her to have to sit next to him on the ride to campus if he was a mess.

  Chase is quiet when he unlocks his door and lets himself back in slowly. Zoey is awake, spreading jelly from their mini fridge on two pieces of freshly toasted bread. The room is fragrant with it. It was Michael's idea (and begging) that they got a small toaster for their room. Chase was fine with it so long as they dumped the crumbs out every week and keep it on it's own table. Logan wanted it away from his TV, too. Now it has it's own little folding table. "Morning."

  She glances up at him. "You okay?"

  "I feel like shit," he shrugs, "but that's a hangover for you."

  "You drank a lot." Zoey takes the bread and sets them on a paper towel folded in half to double its thickness.

  "Not a lot. That's probably more embarrassing for me." Chase hangs his towel up and casts a quick glance at his bed. He wonders how rude it might be if he decided to just lay down even with company over. He wants to. Still, it's a little different with a girl in his room, especially one the entirety of Maxwell knows is his girlfriend. 

  She frowns. "You're not supposed to be able to drink a lot, Chase. That's for when we're 21."

  We she says. His brain hurts almost enough to overshadow the painful little throb in his chest. Zoey likes to fix things- people, situations, everything- and he's sure "they" are no different. He just isn't sure why she feels the need to fix this. Chase already promised they could be friends again. It just would take a few (seven) months. Long enough to play out a whole relationship from beginning to end. 

  He grunts. "Okay. If you're hungry, you can go get yourself breakfast-"

  "This isn't for me," Zoey stoops back into the fridge and retrieves a bottle of lemon-lime sports drink. "I wanted to make sure you eat something."

  "Thank you. You didn't-"

  "Of course I don't have to, but, I should," the fridge door closes with a light rattle and she turns to look at him. "I want to. Why don't you lay down. You need rest."

  Chase shifts his feet and looks between her, holding the food and drink, and his bed. "I will but... I should eat at the coffee table so I don't get crumbs or something in my bed."

  Zoey accepts his reply and seems happy to set him a place at the table. He takes it as a small victory and feels emboldened to say, "I know we don't really have a whole lot, so, if you were hungry and wanted to-"

  "I'm fine. I made myself toast, already." She sits down on the beanbag opposite the table from where he sits on the couch. "You were gone for a while."

  He nods. "Okay. I'm sorry I made us miss our ride."

  "Wasn't your fault."

  But Chase isn't so sure. He thought she said something about arranging a ride for them because he fell asleep. In fact, he wonders just how much time he was out for. There was a conversation with James and then some weirdness around the motel room. He must have been wasted since his whole recollection of it is so shadowy and odd. Somewhere inside, Chase feels a twisting sense of anxiety about the situation. 

  "What happened last night," he decides to ask, "in the room? I didn't- I wasn't, like, weird, right? I know you probably went through the trouble of booking it but I don't really remember much."

  Zoey tenses, "what do you remember?"

  "The room. Kind of." Chase inhales and exhales slow. Firstly to soothe some of his rising nausea, and secondly to calm himself down. Zoey Brooks, always answering a question with a question. "I was asleep for a bit. How long were we there for?"

  She shifts in her chair to sit more upright than reclined as she was before. A litany of thoughts pass behind her eyes. Not that he can read any of them. He can determine they aren't good from the troubled look that scrunches creases into her face. "How much of the room do you remember?"

  Again, he inhales and exhales. "It was dark and I threw up, showered- thank God- and went to sleep. Now, how long were we-"

  "Is that everything," Zoey asks. "Everything you remember?"

  "I asked you first," he responds. His head throbs and now his increasing heartrate doubles and triples the pressure. In fact, the sting in his eyes and ache in his head and face completely draws his attention away from his churning stomach. Chase fights to keep his frustration and anger under control. "Please, can you just-"

  "It's important," Zoey insists. There is something like panic in her eyes. Like during the Secret Balloons debacle. 

  Because she doesn't trust him. Everything he does is met with scrutiny or more questions. Chase knows she has every reason to think he is a liar. It isn't like he told her the truth about the TekMate and the spring dance in freshman year. He hid the fact he dug up the time capsule and lied in a million tiny ways since he met her. Maybe it is his fault that she gets so nervous and flighty all the time. Cagey in her answers.

  Because he was always so secretive, wasn't he?

  For the first time since September or October of last year he thinks about Rebecca and genuinely wonders if he made the right choice. Whatever he and Zoey might have will always be poisoned. Dead on the tarmac. "You know what? I can't do this."

  "Wait, okay, you're right," Zoey begins backtracking, "you did ask me-"

  "No," he shakes his head and swallows, both of bile and lemon-lime, "I don't feel so good and-" 

  "I got the room so I could have you all to myself," she sits up more and leans across the table in a motion to reach out. Chase draws all the way back into the couch and crosses his arms to avoid her. "I just wanted to spend more time with you. We weren't there for long, maybe an hour at most. I promise. That's- that's everything."

  Somehow he feels that isn't true. Everything hurts too much to dwell on it for long. He thinks about holding her in the Planning Committee room when she was so obviously upset. How many times she had brushed off his inquiries with even more obvious lies. But there Chase was, too dumb and dense to recognize he was probably a big part of her problem. Too stupid to notice he was always the one reaching out and seldom getting it back.

  "You should go," Chase finally says. He stands up and gathers up the paper towel to throw it in the trash. He downs his drink in one final swig. 

  "Chase, please. I-"

  He doesn't want her pleading with him. It isn't her fault that he's... him. That they tried to fit in a way that was never meant to be. "It's okay. I am just going to sleep some more and-"

  Both their phones go off. Vibrating almost simultaneous rhythms in different areas of the room. Hers in her pocket, his on his nightstand. Chase squeezes his eyes shut in barely contained frustration. Gritting his teeth, he strides over to check the message. Zoey groans. "Fucking fuck."

  He finds her reaction surprising but focuses on squinting at the text on his screen. Coach Kar. Matthews get yourself down to my office ASAP. "Fuck."

  Zoey finds herself standing in the coaches' office in the girls' locker rooms. 

  It isn't the first time. For both praise and penalty, she has been summoned to the small, blocky room to stand in front of the cluttered desk. Along the walls are filing cabinets crowded close to broad bulletin boards and white boards. The air is cool and the room is quiet. Basketball practice isn't for another few hours. Out in the gym, Zoey spotted another team running laps around the courts rather than out in the sun. 

  Coach Blancet eyes her disapprovingly. The blonde's late night encounter with security did not go unreported. Especially not with a disheveled basketball boy in tow. "You know curfew is set by law, Brooks?"

  "Yes, ma'am," Zoey replies. "We hustled to make it to campus by then."

  The woman scrubs her palm across her forehead in irritation. "I can't have one of my star players walking on the road at night, Brooks."

  "I know." She opts to just admit to the wrongdoing. It is a lesser problem than what could have been if her bag had been searched. "I'm sorry. There was a miscommunication. It was my fault that I didn't make the timing clear."

  Zoey's mind wanders to Chase similarly standing in front of Kar in his locker room. She hopes the man is speaking calmly like Blancet is to her. After the boys' game against the Phoenixes, she heard from his teammates that Kar threw a fit at the normally mild mannered guy. She was upset too. He could have gotten really hurt or gotten penalized out of the game. Serious trouble like suspension.

  It's easier to face Blancet's scolding than being kicked out of Chase's room. Again. 

  "Well," Coach sighs, "at least you and Chase got back safely." 

  The walk to the gym was brutally quiet. Around them, the sun was burning bright and the walkways were populated by peers walking to and fro, chatting and happy. Her hand was pitifully lonely without his but she tried turning her mind to ways she can make it up to him instead of dwelling on it. Ways to fix her latest screw up. 

  But there isn't anyone she can talk to about this stuff. Her friends aren't supposed to know anything is amiss between her and Chase. Zoey highly doubts her parents have any helpful advice for her. In fact, she is sure they only have the opposite. The prospect of calling her cousins is hideously mortifying, and her grandparents seem risky. They might tell her parents.

  Zoey thinks she might still have old emails from Forester.

  "Well?"

  The teen blinks. "I'm sorry?"

  Coach rolls her eyes, "are you even listening?"

  Zoey tells the truth with a shake of her head. It will mean extra laps at the next practice, she knows. Extra practice for both her relationship with Chase and basketball. 

  Again, she does as he asks and does not try to get back into his dorm room when she is released from the office. However, she does wait for him outside the locker room doors- not entering them, this time. It's almost a half hour before he finally comes shuffling out. Chase tilts his head a little when he sees her sitting on the ground. 

  "I wanted to walk you back to your dorm," Zoey says, quickly getting up, "since you walk me to mine all the time." 

  He blinks and slowly nods once. "Okay. You know you-"

  "I know," she takes his hand. "I know." 

  By the afternoon, Cohen Hall's common room is just about full to bursting. Karaoke is in full swing and there are so many teams of students attempting to play pool that a mini bracket-style playoff series is formed between the tables. Meanwhile, the couches are crowded with those lounging and making conversation with one another. 

  Lisa has set up a small team of girls to run and coordinate karaoke. Two boys from Maxwell are half-singing, half-shouting lyrics from a song Zoey doesn't recognize. Michael is sitting close to the stage. Ever the dutiful boyfriend. Quinn and Lola are sitting at a table with Logan and a couple other boys playing cards. 

  A wave of loneliness crashes over Zoey worse than when she was in the emergency room.

  Somehow, someway, she managed to get from the park to her house. The world felt like it was teetering and tottering in all directions, but she stumbled and persisted down the street. The front door was unlocked and Zoey staggered down the hall and into the bathroom. Her overheating brain was still aware enough to know there was something wrong. That there was danger in her shuddering chills and complete lack of sweat. In the bathroom mirror, her mouth was crusted white.

  Deciding to handle it on her own, she turned on the bathtub faucet and set the temperature as cold as it would allow. She stripped off her clothes and dumped herself into the tub before the water was even high enough to reach the shallow side. Her heels were hardly submerged. The water was painfully cold to her skin. The lines in the tile spun like an optical illusion. Zoey closed her eyes and breathed deep while the water continued to rise.

  For a second, she was again being grabbed and shoved, forcibly hoisted up. As in all dreams, her resistance was nigh on futile. Her attacker slammed her spine into the wall such that air escaped her lungs. Hands- as if continually multiplying- not only pinned her down but grabbed and clawed at her. In a flash of clarity, as though in light cast by a stroke of lightning, she saw his face. Saw it was Chase.

  Which snapped her out of it. Immediately, her mind rejected the thought as impossible. He would never do that. The boy who made her laugh about rotten sandwiches and library tours on her first day. The one who scooped Dustin up for her and slung him over his shoulder to run after the group in their effort to make it to the last bus for the beach trip. Patient, sweet Chase. Nothing like Tommy.

  Or Lance. Or that stupid upper classman that she foolishly-

  The water was finally up to her shoulders and freezing. Mama would find her shaking and shivering before the faucet was off. Dad would be hauling her out to the car after Zoey dressed herself as best she could. 

  In the emergency room the nurse clamped a monitor to her finger and stuck adhesive and wires to her chest. Her skin was red and splotchy and dusted in a layer of goosebumps despite her fever. After the initial rush of screenings and sticking an IV into her arm, Zoey was left to drowsily watch her room's curtain sway or her heart monitor. Despite the noise and commotion around her, and her own parents huddled in chairs by her side, she couldn't help but feel alone.

  And that she had made a horrible mistake.

  She considers forcing herself to join the noise and the crowd, but is fatigued by just the idea alone. In silence, Zoey slips along the wall and down the hall to her room. She locks the door behind her and throws herself down on her bed to stare up at the ceiling. 

  Zoey had never considered how much Chase figured into her daily schedule until he started to distance himself. She was so accustomed to his constant presence that she fooled herself into counting it as a guarantee like the sunrise and going to classes. The persistent and steady efforts he put into trying to get past her walls had, themselves, become part of her routine. 

  Which must have been exhausting for Chase. Especially when she was so often the opposite. Hawaii just drained him of his patience. And energy. 

  Through the wall and door, the sound of fun and frolic drifts in. Dulled and muted by both the distance and the obstacles but there all the same. Her room is cool from the fan and AC and lit from the sun pouring in the window. She hopes his room is cool, dark, and quiet. 

Chapter Text

  Sunday begins with a morning practice for Chase.

  Coach Kar begins to execute his particular brand of discipline; physical punishment. Extending Chase's conditioning in both the distance and time. The rest of his team finishes suicides on the outdoor courts and are inside for drills while he is still sprinting in the morning fog. After those, he is made to do squat jumps, duck walks, bear crawls, and crab walks from courtside to courtside. They hurt but he doesn't mind.

  Physical pain is so much better than emotional pain.

  Besides, basketball is worth it. His relationship with the sport began by playing with a plastic novelty hoop and mushy silicone ball at his grandparents house. On rainy and cold days he couldn't go play in the garden or woods, the hoop on the back of the pantry door was his outlet. Chester was his loyal opposition. Both would bound around the linoleum in the kitchen and snatch the ball from each other or out of the air. Zayde upgraded them to a hoop over the garage door after a second or third instance of Chase crashing into the heavy kitchen table.

  Which also meant he could play with a real ball. In PE Chase learned to dribble and his enjoyment of the sport only intensified. He practiced whenever he could. At school, he started sitting and watching games or volunteering to play. Writing stories might have helped exercise his mind, but basketball did wonders for his physical energy. It was also easier on his grandparents to watch him if he wasn't riding his bike up and down streets or running into misty woods.

  The girls' team drifts onto the indoor court just as the boys' practice is drawing to a close. Kar allows Chase to come in and take a break for the waning minutes to think about his actions. And catch his breath. He can feel rivulets of sweat spilling down his face and adhering his clothes to his body. Sticky and uncomfortable. Zoey is at his side quickly, offering him her water bottle and insisting that he sit down. He does as she asks and is surprised when she rests her hands over his chest and kisses him. She must feel the pounding of his heart. He does his best to keep from breathing hard directly in her face.

  "You don't have to do that," Chase lowers his voice to a whisper. He wonders what they look like to outside observers. For a moment, and only just, he imagines all of the things he might have said to her had things gone differently. Rather than, "you can act like you're waiting until later. After I clean up."

  "I want to." Zoey kisses his lips again. Her hands slide up to his shoulders and then a little more to his neck. As if she would want to drape her arms around him and his soggy body. "What are you doing later?"

  "I work this afternoon but I should be off by dinner. Why?"

  She hesitates. Dread builds in his stomach. He watches her mouth open, then shut, before she says, "do- do you want to go out with me? On a date?"

  The unclenching of his heart and gut is an immediate relief. He could laugh. He could roll his eyes and mock her, too. Of course he wanted to go on dates with Zoey-fucking-Brooks. That was an ever present issue for years. A huge problem. The whole of his summer was supposed to be one long date broken up only by periods of work and sleep. The rest of his life, too. Now, Chase isn't so sure he wants that. Then again, he has had trouble wanting to do a lot of stuff lately. 

  Still, he takes a look around and sees both sets of their teammates watching between warmups and stretches and knows what he has to do. "Sure. What do you have in mind?"

  "Casual," Zoey assures and again he is forced to reckon with the earth tone of her eyes, "text me when you get off work, okay?"

  "Yes ma'am," Chase nods.

  He is rewarded with another quick kiss before Zoey trots off to join her team. A couple of the boys on his give him raised eyebrow looks and shoot him covert thumbs ups. As if he is doing a good job. Killing it with a girl decidedly out of his league. He knows his perception isn't exactly nonbiased but there is a little vindication in their approval. PCA has come to the conclusion she is one of the hottest- if not the hottest- girl on campus. Male classmates have made it their mission to tell him all about it since they started hanging out in freshman year.

  It went from "dude, there is no way she would ever like you," to "how on God's green earth did you win her over?" With vulgar comments made either to him or in his earshot in between. Dickheads voicing their opinions and fantasies to piss him off or- probably more embarrassing for them- legitimately. 

  Chase rushes back to his dorm to scrub the morning off of him. The skin between his shoulder blades prickles and crawls. He suspects it is from more than the cold water. 

  Melanie waits until Blancet is gone to ask, "did you and Chase fuck?"

  They are doing passing and shooting drills. Three girls at a time stationed around the paint. Zoey's shot falls short. A brick that barely skims the rim of the hoop before plummeting to the smooth wood floor. Breathless from the exercise and white-hot panic she nearly exclaims. "What?"

  "Yeah, alright, we get it. To be fair," Yvonne jogs to retrieve the ball, "you were very handsy just now and at the pool."

  "Credit to him for not getting-"

  "That's enough," Zoey cuts Melanie off, "why are you asking that?"

  She made sure that no one followed her to the motel office or the room after she got the key for it. When she left it to go find Chase, she made extra certain nobody was around and kept the blinds and curtains closed to hide what she had set up from outside eyes. Just like the reunion at the resort, Zoey felt the fake candles and the wrinkled sheets were entirely lacking. Insufficient.

  To be fair, she didn't know what to expect. Just a broad outline of what was likely. Next time she will be better prepared.

  "I don't know," Mel shrugs, "you just act different around him now. Like, before you went to Hawaii you basically acted like friends still. Besides holding hands sometimes."

  Guilt twists her insides. Chase wanted to be more affectionate and she...

  She was worried what people would think of her. What they both would look like having gone from casually letting themselves into each other's rooms whenever they pleased to dating. They probably would have drawn the same conclusions Melanie did. Or her own parents. Zoey couldn't bear to face anything like that. Never mind that Logan and Quinn did (sort of) the same thing with very little issue.

  Zoey figured cuddling on the couches in their rooms and kissing in private would suffice. Instead, they both were disappointed. Chase probably thought she was embarrassed by him.

  Everyone who knows my son knows about you, said Missus Matthews. 

  And -damn it- it's her new mission to make the same true for him. Zoey motions to pass the ball and restart the loop. "Chase carried me back to campus when I broke my ankle."

  Yvonne passes the ball back to her and she redeems her earlier miss by sinking the ball through the hoop. "What?"

  In their efforts to keep their stories straight and perfectly aligned, Quinn suggested minimizing the amount of details they gave about their ill-fated hike in Redstone. The less they say, the less they have to remember. Zoey was happy to do it. Finally a lie that was a group effort rather than the lonely ones she normally told. As such, they never specified how or when everyone got back to PCA that night.

  Her teammates eye her curiously from various points on the court.

  "When I fell on the trail, I landed hard." Zoey continues, "There's a lot of rocks up there and I really busted my ass. He picked me up and carried me back."

  She thinks about him putting on her shoes and kissing the scar on her ankle. In the shower last night, she was disappointed to see it was almost entirely invisible and she doesn't think she can have a do-over of that moment. There are others she probably could recreate. 

  But she will discuss that with him on their picnic.

  Michael is pleased to see his friends doing well.

  Even if it was fun harassing Chase through his hangover. When his best friend lets himself back into their room after his shower, he seems energized. They don't have as much time to work on their show as they did before, but Chase is always cooking something up in his mind. Lately, for all of his quiet contemplation, ideas for bits and jokes do not fall out of him like before. 

  But their workshopping is still fruitful. Usually.

  Chase is sprawled across his bed. He had been on his stomach and scribbling in his notebook but he has since abandoned the endeavor and instead lays on his back, palms flat over his eyes and elbows pointing upwards to the ceiling. "Fucking... we already did the penguin sketch right?"

  Michael, meanwhile, lounges in the beanbag chair with his notebook and a bag of baked chips. Lisa's suggestion, of course. There is no salt, added sugar, fat, processed anything, and they are exceptionally bland. But it gives his hand and mouth something to do. "Which one?"

  "We have a lot of penguin bits," the taller boy sighs, "the tap dancer?"

  "Yup. What if we just do a Q&A episode, dude? We have never done one before and our audience wants us to."

  "Because what would we say," the tall boy raises his hands away from his face for long enough to twist and crane his body to shoot a look at him, "the kind of camera we film on?"

  Michael gestures towards the closet where the box of their equipment is held. They still have their original camera- as awful as it was- partly as a backup and partly as a memento. It was a huge deal that the made enough money to actually get a better one. Logan was the one to suggest the one they have now. It was pricey, but Michael agreed it was a good investment.

  "I'll think about it. I just don't want us getting into," Chase drops his hands back over his eyes, "bad habits. You know?"

  "I get it," the football player shrugs, "we don't have to get personal, either. Like, it could be just us two answering and we can leave Lola and Zoey out of it."

  He seems to consider the offer for a minute or two. Michael is already back to drumming his pen against his chin when his roommate replies, "I'd like that."

  "Cool. Nothing crazy. Just our equipment and what editing program we use and all that shit."

  Chase murmurs, "Mike with the mic. We could do man-on-the-street interviews with classmates. When the weather is less miserable."

  Michael beams. "Now you're thinking!" 

  They cut their writing session there. Basketball practice was in the morning, but football is in the afternoon. Fortunately (and sensibly) today is just a weight room day. If he could, he would invite his best friend along. When they do workout together, it's just like what is was like when they were younger. That was one of the downsides of switching from basketball to football. Two different sports mean less time together.

  Especially because Chase would linger around the gym for Zoey and come back as if his shoes were full of helium. Now, Michael understands the feeling. 

  Lola knows it's a little risky, but she agrees to meet Vince at Sushi Rox.

  Zoey and Chase both have practice in the morning and she bets the latter won't be by until his shift in the afternoon. Quinn is going to a mandatory safety audit for students who use the labs outside of class. Michael and Logan are almost assuredly not ordering sushi before noon- they refuse to make "lunch" or "dinner" meals into "breakfast" ones- it's a thing for them that she isn't sure she understands.

  So she is not likely to be seen by her closest friends. Friends from theater or other classes might spot her out and about with the former football star, but she is willing to risk that.

  Vince is waiting at one of the rearmost tables close to the doors back into the hallway she knows is employees only. Lola is pleased to see he is dressed as casually as she is. She fretted over what to wear all morning until her roommates left, and then a half hour longer. It's definitely shorts and tank top or tee shirt weather. 

  "Hey," he grins and dimples stud his cheeks and chin, "good morning."

  "Morning," Lola greets back and then slips into the chair opposite his. The Formica surface is cool and smooth. Clean. "How are you?"

  Vince shrugs, "fine. I stayed up probably later than I should have. Me and James got really into playing Blastmon and were playing local matches in our dorm."

  "Blastmon," the Latina repeats with a raised brow. She had never heard of such a thing. 

  Her semi-date laughs a little. "I know right? Childish."

  "What is that?"

  "Oh, it's uh," he he averts his gaze to his hands with continue to gesticulate along the table surface. "One of those fighting monster games. Like, you get creatures to fight each other."

  Lola nods, though she remains unfamiliar with the game. "So, like, Extreme Crash Brothers?"

  "More or less," he teeters his hand in a so-so fashion and then raises his gaze back to meet her eyes. "But, uh, how about you?"

  She has been great. Her senior year is going exactly as she expected it and then some. All of her struggling through subjects she hated before have paid off in the form of taking only the easiest, preferable classes until graduation. If her grades coming into PCA had been better, and therefore she had more credit points, she might have even had an off-roll. Lola curses that she went a little extra crazy (even to herself) in her freshman year.

  "I'm great. This is the first weekend since attending PCA that I haven't had homework. It's awesome."

  Vince hums thoughtfully, "how'd you swing that? I'd love to not have to do FRQ's for Am Lit."

  "I planned ahead, Blake," she taps her finger to her temple, "it was all strategy and scheming."

  He rolls his eyes good-naturedly but smiles. Her heart skips giddily. "Alright then, Martinez. Teach me your ways so that I may one day be as cunning as you."

  Lola slides her menu to the edge of the table- as if she even needs to read it anymore- before responding with, "the art of plotting takes much finesse and patience. Few make it through to be a Master Schemer."

  Vince chuckles and continues to peruse his menu. "I have time." 

  Chase decides he doesn't want the freshman girl- Maggie- making any deliveries by herself. She is still too new and flustered by navigating such a large campus with only a printed out map. 

  When he was starting off with deliveries, there were plenty of times he felt there was real danger posed by the assorted weirdos on campus. And he's a boy. 

  For a short time Logan was his buddy. Those months are hazy and a lot of details have since been mushed into the recesses of his mind, but he thinks Logan had made an unapproved purchase on his father's card. Mister Reese has allowed various types of penalties and punishments befall his son. None are more effective than taking his access to money away.

  Now, Chase realizes the purchase might have been the bear-camera. The closer he gets to adulthood, the less he understands how Logan only got a month of detention. Maybe Mister Reese had something to do with that. 

  But that's besides the point. There aren't any employees available to assist in making deliveries tonight, so he takes it over. With his position, he can shift and move employees around to suit the needs of the restaurant. Maggie will be bussing tables for one of the relief staff, Henry, who has wanted to be bumped up to waiter since last year. The second most experienced waitress, Brit, will be boosted to hostess since she is already trained and eager to try.

  The weekends are chaotic for Sushi Rox. The restaurant is full to the rafters all day Saturday and the lunch to early dinner hours of Sunday. The pressure is compounded by additional delivery orders and an expanding client base and menu. Chase doesn't mind. He could use the fresh air and the exercise. His mind feels as if it is full of something thick and gelatinous. His thoughts mired down and almost physically fatiguing to dredge up just the motivation and memory to do as he needs to do. Luckily, he has lived on campus long enough that he can find his way on autopilot.

  Even to specific dorm rooms.

  Though, most orders are large and for groups. A big order for Butler Hall and an even bigger one for Maxwell. There is a shocking (to Chase) number of people ordering plain rice bowls or pieces of fish with nothing else. The Library, and Cohen Hall, and some of the Lower School buildings are all on his routes, too. When he returns to Sushi Rox with his box empty, he takes a minute or two to check in on his coworkers and ensure everything is going well. Brit is bored as the afternoon progresses to night and the flow of customers trickle to a stop. Maggie babbles her thanks to him again. Still obviously stressed but grateful all the same.

  "I needed to get out for a while," Chase assures, "don't worry. I see you've got it covered here."

  They do. The staff is competent and the kitchen is in peak performance. 

  Maggie averts her gaze downwards to her feet. Normally, it is a nervous action for her to break eye contact. This time, he is pleased to see her smile as she does it. Bashful. Encouraged. Chase read a book on management styles and how to create intrinsic and extrinsic value for employees. He hopes he is doing it right.

  Cause he isn't exactly nailing anything else, is he?

  Chase hands off the next set of orders to the incoming delivery guys and then loiters in the outdoor area for a few minutes. It's hot and the units that run the refrigerator rattle and groan. The building casts a long, angular shadow down the driveway. He closes his eyes, inhales deeply then holds his breath to count to three, then exhales. It probably doesn't do anything. Lola said she did something similar in yoga.

  Zoey said casual. He takes his phone out of his pocket and stares at her contact before selecting it. The phantom sensation of selecting call makes his thumb itch. Chase texts, im off n 10. will shwr n chng b4 i mt u.

  He doesn't check his phone again until he is in his dorm room. Even if she replies almost immediately.

  Zoey paces along the pond's shore. The late afternoon sun stretches the shadow of the neighboring peppercorn tree over the shallow water. Dark, hazy green is reflected in the surface as willowy bows stir and slightly sway in the wind. Here, it's quiet and secluded. The golfers only practice in the morning or in the immediate hours after school.

  It didn't feel right to take Chase to his place of work for a date and she didn't think other options were suitable. Not for the amount of talking and affection he deserves.

  She can practically taste her heartbeat and her fingers shake. It's similar performance anxiety to what she feels before a basketball game but on steroids. She reexamines the picnic blanket and feels the contents of the basket. A nice, warm dinner she is less and less confident in with every passing second. Zoey worries that it isn't food he wants- even after years of watching him place the same order the same way.

  The stakes for this date are higher than just about any basketball game she ever played. In her mind, she imagines the dark-haired, dark-eyed daughter and a husband who tugs her away from her work desk to bed with, "you need sleep too, Zo." For both of those to exist, she needs to win the latter back over.

  Chase makes his way over. She is delighted by the rose in his hand even if it is just for show. All part of the act. Zoey swallows against the lump in her throat and exhales. "Hey."

  "Hi." He slows down and looks the scene over. "what's all this? It looks great."

  Her heart skips at the praise. "Thank you. It's just dinner. I wanted us to sit and talk. Alone, you know."

  Chase keeps his gaze averted from hers and to the spread. It's a split second, but she sees the way his shoulders sag and his face falls. He nods and quickly turns to face her to offer the rose, "sounds good. For you, ma'am." 

  "Thank you," Zoey takes it delicately from him and gestures down to the blanket. "I hope your hungry."

  "Starving." The boy drops to sit. He's wearing shorts again. Athletic ones that are different from anything he owned previously. She imagines he bought them to replace whatever pairs he rid himself of in Hawaii. 

  Zoey kneels down to start pulling the food out from the basket. Thick fibrous paper plates wrapped in aluminum and labeled with their contents. Potatoes and chicken tenders and mixed vegetables. Sides of the baked green beans he likes and corn kernels. He reaches out to helpfully take some of the plates and unwrap them before setting them out. Suddenly bashful, she shrugs, "I was hoping you'd say that."

  "I bet," he smiles a little. "This looks awesome. You didn't have to do all this, you know?"

  "I want to." The reply falls out of her earnestly. Maybe a little too much so. Zoey wonders if her desperation is obvious. "You were really good at this and- I want to practice."

  Chase sighs. He does that a lot but she isn't so sure he notices anymore. He takes a paper plate from the basket and a fork and knife. "I don't think I was that good. Not at PCA at least."

  "I didn't let you carry out all of your plans," she reminds him and again feels the icy grip of regret, "here or- or Hawaii." 

  He shrugs. "Well." 

  Zoey waits for him to be done assembling his plate to grab her own only to be stunned into silence when he hands his over to her in exchange for getting another plate and starting over. Belatedly, he asks, "you liked the green beans, right?"

  She nods stupidly and then replies aloud. He gave her a lot of food. "I do."

  "Good. Glad I remembered," he murmurs while quietly piling chicken tenders onto his plate. "We need to put weight back on you, Brooks."

  Not knowing what to say or if he's joking, she tries to be as casual in her tone of voice as she can manage while grabbing sauce packets from the bottom of the basket. "Is that so?"

  Green eyes flicker up, serious and intense, "absolutely. It isn't as obvious as it was when we first got back to PCA, but, I know you lost a bunch over summer."

  If they were in a better place, Zoey imagines she would tease him- good-naturedly, of course- for noticing fluctuations in her body. It took her consistently observing her clothes not fitting how she wanted to notice and she is apathetic at most. Lisa was and might still be curious about what Michael thought of her and now the blonde finds herself curious about being curious. Stuck in the same step as she was last year as a wrestler, but on much worse footing. 

  Her lack of reply prompts him to continue, pausing only to take a bite and chew thoughtfully. "You looked so different when- that night you got to the resort. I- your uncle was really worried. We both were."

  "I wasn't taking good care of myself."

  "Was- was that because-"

  "Yes." Zoey admits. "I was sick over what happened. And what didn't. I felt so guilty."

  "Was it-"

  "No," she shakes her head. Immediately rejecting what she knows he is about to suggest. That it could ever have been his fault is almost absurd. In a bad way. Like a nightmare. "It wasn't your fault. I- it just wasn't."

  Chase's eyebrows furrow. It's hard to distinguish if what she says makes him sad, or worried, or disappointed. Perhaps all of the above. Zoey stares back, contemplating what to say- divulge- next. Besides the biggest stuff she keeps to herself. 

  Or maybe she should start there. Rip the bandage off by telling him about Tommy and The Other Girl. Let him decide for himself if he even wants to be associated with her after he hears about all that. Zoey suddenly isn't hungry. To buy herself time and to distract from the fact she is merely pushing her food around, she asks, "how was your day? I heard Kar had all kinds of punishment for you this morning."

  "It wasn't that bad. Just some cardio. Michael was coming back from practice when I was leaving to come here," he chuckles, "now that guy, I love him, but any cardio kicks his ass."

  "I thought he took up jogging. Is that not helping?" 

  Chase shrugs, "to be honest, I think the struggle is more mental than physical for him."

  "I get that," Zoey takes a bite of her chicken. "Sort of. I like running, but I know most people don't."

  "How has your ankle been?"

  "Sore, but getting stronger." Appetite slowly returning, she picks and nibbles around her plate. 

  Chase pauses before taking a bite. "Good. I'm glad."

  They sit and eat in continued silence. Relative silence with the rush of wind and the song of birds. Zoey turns her attention to the small ripples expanding and bending across the pond's surface. It's calming. Soothing her anxiety into allowing her to breathe a little deeper, easier. "I've been thinking about yesterday. What you said."

  "Sorry." Chase says quietly, "about pushing you out. I shouldn't-"

  She absolutely does not want him to do that. "You were right. I should have just told you the truth up front so you didn't have to worry."

  That prompts him to raise an eyebrow. "I wasn't worried, per se, Zo."

  "Well," Zoey sets her plate down and pivots to sit facing him directly. "Maybe not worry. I just, I know I'm not good at telling you what I'm thinking."

  He shrugs. "No. You tend to just do and I follow. But I'm getting good at guessing. I was."

  The amendment cuts like glass. I was. She supposes that is deserved. 

  "I want to be," the blonde admits, "I am serious about being a better girlfriend this time." 

  "I'm only making you do this until Christmas Break," Chase argues, "it doesn't matter anymore." 

  "It matters to me because-"

  "Not this again."

  "-I don't want to breakup with you."

  "Again."

  Zoey frowns and nods. "Yeah. I want for us to be together."

  She is hesitant to add "forever" to her statement. Not yet. Chase doesn't look up when he says. "I'm afraid of that. Doing all this over again. Sometimes I don't even like pretending."

  It hurts to hear. That he is both scared to try- and be rejected- again and to get the verbal confirmation that he doesn't like their little ruse. Or he finds it unpleasant at the very least. All she can manage is a sad, "I know."

  They go quiet again. This time, Zoey watches his hands as he sets his plate down and starts rewrapping the leftovers in foil. Torn between letting him do as he pleases or pleading with him to stay a bit longer, she does not move to help. Chase doesn't ask her to.

  In fact, there is something painfully familiar in the sensation. In wanting to be comforted and not getting it. Alone in her big, dark bedroom huddling Bubby against her chest and shaking. Suddenly, she is being told to be a "big girl" over the phone while Mama and Dustin cry in different rooms. In stereo concert with the gusts thrashing against the windowpanes. 

  "Zo?"

  It's gone. She shakes her head, back in the present. "Sorry."

  Chase has packed everything away into the basket. He's leaning forward a bit. Curiosity and concern guild the jadestone of his eyes. "Are you okay?"

  Finally, Zoey shakes her head slowly. "I don't think so." 

  Despite everything between them, he still cares. Enough to frown and reach out to lightly touch the back of her hand with his fingertips. Her eyes sting too much to keep contact with his so she diverts them first to the basket, and then to the picnic blanket beneath her knees. "Do you want to head back?"

  She wonders if Chase was a lonely child like she was. He had no siblings to fill the silence or occupy his time with. He had only his mother and his grandparents nearby, and a father who outright refused to be involved and thus had almost an entire half of his family cut off. Almost. His uncle kept in contact but not much else. Guilt and grief lump in her throat at the thought of him abandoned the whole way to Hawaii and then through most of his "vacation." 

  In her imagination, he sits on the edge of his bed alone in the dark. Phone in one hand, bottle in the other, then turning to the latter for comfort when the former has none to give. 

  "Will you stay with me?" Zoey finds herself asking, eyes squeezed shut and face directed solely to her lap. Reduced to the little girl with big secrets pleading with her parents to not be- for one night- a big girl with her own bed. "Just for a little?"

  Chase doesn't reply right away. Not aloud, then not at all. Instead, she feels and hears him shift and move. When she opens her eyes to discreetly wipe away any residual moisture, the basket leaves her peripheral vision. It's replaced by Chase's light grey shirt and arm. His hand turned up and open as an offering. She takes it immediately and is equal parts thrilled, relieved, embarrassed, and saddened by how quickly he allows her to do so. He lets her lean into his side and under his arm. Her taking what she refused to give.

  "Let's just sit a minute," Chase finally murmurs.

Chapter Text

  Chase closes his eyes and sticks his face directly into the stinging, cold stream of water.

  The showerheads in the locker rooms shoot out five very intense streams with laser precision. As if to cut tile rather than wash a human body. It makes him shiver and makes his bruises ache before they go numb. He doesn't particularly like it, but it is another new habit of his. Michael used to hit the showers after practice and games but Chase never did. In part because they suck and are cold and what guy would willingly dunk himself in ice water and then be visible to an audience?

  This year he just doesn't care.

  Besides, he has a strategy for avoiding most of his team seeing him naked. Every day he and Zoey have practice he still walks her to her dorm. It wouldn't make sense for him to stop after they just started dating. She holds his hand on the way and silently begs for kisses when he drops her off at the doors to Cohen. He acquiesces and then heads back to the locker rooms to shower before doubling back to go to his dorm.

  His days drag. Every minute is an hour and every class period is a year. Some are worse than others and he curses Junior Chase for his ambition and not taking any off-roles. The only point of his day that is much to short are the hours he spends sleeping. He never feels rested, only that he blinked for a long time and has to start over. 

  Which leads him to a new problem; if he lays down, he falls asleep. Even sitting on the couch in his dorm room is enough to knock him out. Chase has been woken up at the computer desk by Logan twice. Sometimes, in doing homework on his bed, he dozes off still in his clothes and on top of under his books and notes. If he wakes up in the night, he drags himself out of bed and down the hall to take advantage of the lack of witnesses to strip, wash, and stagger back to bed in a towel. If he doesn't he just changes his clothes and goes to school.

  And that doesn't go well for a teenage boy who plays sports and works with sushi.

  Besides, the ice water feels good against his eyelids. He knows people press spoons or ice cubes wrapped in towels to their eyes to reduce swelling and look younger. Chase isn't sure if he looks better or not for it. Some nights, the reduction in pressure seems to affect his tear ducts and prompts him to shed tears. Not quite crying, because he doesn't feel any emotional effect from the action, but purging. The cold water washes them away between his shower shoes.

  He misses the ocean. Craves drowning.

  But he has no time to dwell on it. Tonight his eyes don't spontaneously leak and he's glad for it. Chase turns the water off and the metal handle wobbles and creaks a bit with the twist. Silence slowly descends over the locker room, increasing and increasing as he stands motionless and the final droplets from the showerhead fall. There isn't anyone left. He checks his watch and sighs at the time. He meant to go to bed sooner.

  There's a lot of things he meant to do but didn't.

  The ambient quiet of the empty room is a welcome companion as Chase towel dries his body and changes into clean clothes. Shorts and a tee that can also be his pajamas when he returns to his dorm. His backpack feels extra heavy as he slings it up on his shoulder and then checks his phone. Zoey texts, good night. His heart twinges but he sends her the same thing back. When he leaves, he turns the light off behind him.

  Zoey gets to hear all about her hot boyfriend.

  He was always regarded as cute. She knows her classmates thought that, because so did she. It was those lopsided grins and verdant hue of his eyes. The dark and expressive eyebrows and long, lean silhouette were healthy contributors, too. The fascination with Chase was slow-simmering and quiet. Sometimes there would be anonymous notes taped to a bathroom mirror asking anyone with time to vote Cute or Not for a small list of boys. It was rare to see his name on there but, steadily, there were more tallies under the former than the latter. Going from a tie to decidedly not. Zoey was both pleased to see it to- again- decidedly not.

  Now he has been given the coveted title of "hot." No secret notes required. Lisa brings it up to her soon after they get back to campus, nudging her with an elbow and wiggling her eyebrows. "So, how was it?" 

  The trip, Lisa meant, but the double meaning was intentional all the same. Zoey lied just as Chase asked. 

  Girls on the team, in Cohen Hall, randomly out and about, tell her that Chase is hot. With a congratulatory air of, "nice catch," except with a human man and not a ball. Zoey detests it all for an obvious reason that she can never share with anyone and so they won't stop. Also, she didn't even do anything to "get" him. It wasn't like they were strangers and she flirted her way to his number like Lola does, nor did they go from casually disliking each other to dating like Quinn and Logan. Even Lisa and Michael put in more work. Zoey just stepped out onto the pavement and Chase came crashing into her life. 

  Not that it would have mattered. 

  In her mind, she imagines an alternate timeline where she got on the plane. That maybe she held his hand in a clammy, white-knuckled grip and Chase worried and fretted at her side. They get off the plane and then to the resort where Chase quietly holds her against him again. He asks her what's wrong and- since it's her own fantasy- something about that magically cures her anxiety. They spend the afternoon on the beach and she kisses him from sunset until dark. In fact, she would do that at every opportunity.

  "Hey Zoey?"

  The blonde shakes her head and realizes she has probably been staring blankly into her portfolio book for some time. She had meant to design an interesting fabric pattern for review for Machado. A men's button up shirt, she envisioned, maybe with colors and rounded shapes. Not her usual, but that's the assignment. "Huh?"

  Lisa looks concerned and sits down across from her. "You okay?"

  "Tired," Zoey replies, "I can't believe I made such bad choices for my senior year."

  The artiste laughs a little, "me neither. No off-rolls? Girl, you're nuts." 

  "I know. I got all ambitious and for what?"

  "At least you can drop a bunch of classes after this semester," Lisa offers and leans closer to look at the designs. "I like the second one."

  "Me too. I took some inspiration from you on the colors."  

  "I don't blame you," she teases, "I have great taste."

  Zoey rolls her eyes good-naturedly. "And such humility."

  They go back to sitting in silence. Zoey tries to return her attention to drawing grids in which to make an additional pattern. Distantly, she considers utilizing bold complimentary colors or using subdued hues of each. 

  "Can I ask you a question?"

  "Sure," anxiety rises in the blonde despite her word. She grabs a pencil- one of the ones Chase got her- to begin thickening her outlines.

  "Michael told me about this dance-thing you did with Chase. By the fountain. He suggested we do the same but," the girl hesitates, "I wanted to ask you first. I know he means well, but he's also a boy and that sounds extremely romantic and personal. I don't want to step on any toes, you know?"

  Zoey frowns, troubled. It makes sense for the boys of 220 to know about that. She likes to think Chase came to their room in such high spirits that they pressed him for details. That he managed to control his tongue to somehow not blurt that they kissed and that she had instigated. Grief for that Chase clenches her heart. The poor guy had no idea how much of his time and energy she was about to demand. Sap him of it all. The hoops she would ask him to jump through only to-

  "It's okay if you don't want us to do that."

  "I just," Zoey shakes her head to clear it, "I don't know. Has he asked Chase?"

  Lisa nods, "he gave his blessing. Like I said, though, he is a boy. They don't always know romance if it bit them."

  The statement is crushing. It was exceedingly romantic and sweet. He planned and worked so hard to make it so. "I'll talk to him about it. I just... I don't- I don't want-"

  "It's okay if you don't want to share that," Lisa assures, "it's not like me and Michael don't have our stuff. Plus, well, I'm shocked Chase agreed to it."

  "Me too," Zoey replies, "I'll discuss it with him. It's not that I don't want to share it's just... complicated."

  Her friend doesn't look like she understands (how could she?) but she doesn't seem offended either. With a shrug, the girls go back to their assignments. 

  Lola loves to sing.

  A lot of the musically inclined members of Theater do too. Sometimes it's great fun to spontaneously incite them to join in with her by singing a well-known tune. Especially one that they have worked on before. Chase has recorded a few of those impromptu numbers and clipped them into the end-of-semester video compilations of their highlights and little behind-the-scenes moments and inside jokes. 

  But sometimes she just wants to sing by herself to herself. Going for full drama or doing silly voice affects she finds amusing. Utilizing the acoustics of the stage to have fun with her voice in a way she doesn't always want to in front of an audience. She just wants to have fun, not receive criticism from a peer for annunciating a word oddly. Lola did it on purpose and she doesn't want to explain herself to people.

  Least of all Theater Dorks.

  With an off-roll that gives her free time in the middle of the day and this period being reserved for Theater writers all holed away in their office, she can warble tunes to her heart's content. Starting quietly, sincerely, engaging seriously in song while doing some of the accompanying choreography. She wishes she had stuck with her piano lessons and retained any ability to play. Twirling and kicking her way across the smooth floor will have to do.

  Applause from a single set of hands erupts from the pit. Lola freezes and turns to face her audience. Vince smiles up at her. "What a performance! I think it's called avast guard." 

  She giggles and corrects with, "avante garde."

  "Gesundheit," he jokes. 

  "What brings you here," Lola asks and makes her way over to the edge of the stage where she sits so her legs hang over the side. 

  Vince smiles, eyes alight while he shrugs. "Figured you'd be here."

  "Good guess." 

  His smiles softens as he approaches, stopping just at her knees and tilting his head at her. "What song was that, by the way?"

  "Steamboat Suzy, specifically the reprise near the end of the musical."

  That prompts him to hum thoughtfully and bring his hands up to rest against the stage on either side of her body. "Don't think I've seen it."

  Lola rolls her eyes and teases, "have you even heard of it?"

  He scoffs in feigned offense and then surrenders. "Okay, fine, I haven't. Are you guys going to perform it soon?"

  She doesn't know. There are a set number of both plays and musicals throughout the year with smaller productions interspersed between. Lola isn't sure how the department choses which ones they do and she has never really cared. Her job as an actress is to perform. To be liquid and take on roles- even challenging ones- as they present themselves. "No, I don't think so." 

  Green eyes flicker down to her lips and back up to her eyes again. "Shame. I was digging the performance." 

  That's a feature of his that she was similarly attracted to Chase for. Both cute guys with completely stunning eyes. Momentarily, she wonders what Zoey thinks about in the second before her boyfriend kisses her. He's always chaste and gentlemanly. Lola assumes she likes that. For herself, she needs a little more than just a kiss on the cheek.

  She is about to lean in when a throat clears and makes both teens jump. It's Chase. Her heart drops, even knowing he has given his permission. Vince winces and makes himself smaller. "Oh, hey."

  Chase rolls his eyes good-naturedly. "Relax. I'm just letting you know the writing session is up and you two have," he checks his watch, "four-ish minutes before the bell rings. As you were." 

  And he turns on his heel to head back from whence he came. Vince huffs a small laugh and drops his face against Lola's shoulder. "Wow. To think I am actually afraid of both Chase Matthews and Zoey Brooks."

  "He's cool, usually. It's his girlfriend you have to worry about."

  "Don't I know it." 

  She giggles and tugs him in with her fingers under his chin. "I'll protect you." 

  Chase envies.

  It's white-hot and bitter. Acrid, like someone poured various bottles of chemicals into a puddle and set the mixture alight. Toxic.

  He envies, envies, and envies.

  Besides witnessing Lola and Vince's canoodling, Michael and Lisa pass by on their way to the Civics building for class. He has her books in one hand, hers in his other and they beam. Overjoyed. She's stunning. Michael is a lucky guy. There's also Quinn and Logan who have some strange fire between them he has zero interest in hearing about but the painful desire for. He wonders what his relationship would have looked like if he hadn't been dumb and turned Lola down. Over, most likely. She would have come to her senses eventually.

  Or if he pretended he didn't notice that other girl from Cohen flirting with him last year. Chase agreed with the consensus that she was, in fact, beautiful. Way out of his league but oddly interested in him. He wonders what dating her would have been like. If she would have also been pleased with flowers like Lola had been and where they might have gone. He likes to think they would have gone slow with casual study dates in the library and basking in each other's company by one of the fountains. 

  Maybe Chase could have fallen in love with her. The tall girl who inexplicably always had a jar for him to open and smelled like vanilla. But no. He felt it would have been wrong of him to jump into dating one girl while having such strong feelings for another. Unfair. Maybe he is too much of a romantic that he has gone fully into the realm of being unrealistic. Besides just being a moron.

  For God's sake, he was thinking about marrying Zoey even when she was still partially occupied with James.

  But that just adds fuel to the flame. Caustic and sticky. He scrambled to drop Intro to Fashion as soon as he got back to PCA. He had a naïve, ridiculous fantasy that he was going to learn the basics of sewing and putting together sheets of fabric so that he could occasionally surprise Zoey with the most rudimentary crap. Like a random pot holder or some other space-wasting nonsense. Like all of his handmade gifts he gave his mother for mother's day, her birthday, and eventually father's day, too. 

  Chase sees couples everywhere. He has an eagle eye for them now. It makes him sick with jealousy. Highlights, underlines, and prints in bold just how... embarrassed he is. How he was humiliated when he made quiet pleas with the airline staff to search the airport for Zoey. That the fight attendant looked at him sadly when they landed in Hawaii. That Mister Brooks patted his shoulder awkwardly and made halting excuses for his niece. And- dear God- his coworkers at the resort itself. 

  She left you, brother. She don't want you no more.

  And Chase had thought he grew out of staring out a window with his bag packed at his side. Waiting to be picked up and loved by someone who didn't want him. He's so ashamed of himself.

  However, there is something mildly redeeming in helping Lola keep her budding relationship with Vince from the rest of their friends. A little secret between the two of them, expressed only in momentarily holding the other's eye contact whenever she is late or "disappeared" for a bit. Chase has been dealing with intense writer's block, but he can still fake like he has no idea what Quinn or Zoey are talking about. Wave off speculation with improvised excuses.

  The only people who might argue against the alibi are the other playwrights. He is confident they won't risk it, though. With his lack of new (good) ideas and utter lack of motivation, Chase had to invent a way to keep in accordance with his scholarship. He considered writing dark and sad stuff for the rest of the team to pick and scavenge through. It ultimately seemed like a risk. A one-way ticket to the school therapist.

  So he did something he never would have dreamed of; sign up as Lead for The Writer's Room. 

  He's a senior now, and therefore there is an entirely new and inexperienced team. Chase easily takes charge, volunteering to lead and oversee the other writers. It's more editing and revision work and much less regular crew and tech. The trade is that he has to attend meetings with the English Department and Dean Rivers and a random Board member or two.

  At least twice a week he has to pep talk the underlings (which is weird to call them, even after being called one for so long) and storyboard group or individual projects. Work them up into actual productions and coordinate with Schwartz for approval.  

  Chase just can't shake how he always feels now. Even if he disallows himself to have much time to sit and smolder in it. 

  Quinn has been reading fiction lately.

  Not science fiction, but pure, simple, fiction. Magic castles and dragons and vampires and westerns featuring outlaws and rancheros in the southwest. In the PCA library, she scours the New York Times Bestsellers lists and teen magazines for stories to read. Some are classics like The Great Gatsby and Where The Red Fern Grows. Others are... less classic. 

  Lot's of teen romance books. Many about two opposing magical creature factions or future societies under domes or whatever. Quinn has been giving them the benefit of the doubt and has even been pleasantly surprised by a few. Others have been a very not-pleasant surprise. 

  With Logan, she goes on a theatrical mission to watch all of the classic cinema they can get their hands on. He is a great help, finding uploads of them for free on the internet or using his know-how to get his hands on "custom" DVD's. Quinn has been pleasantly surprised by a few of them, legitimately engrossed. Others have been a very not-pleasant surprise.

  Some are so boring she and Logan distract each other for several minutes at a time only to check back in to find little to nothing has changed for the film.

  After a prolonged make out session Logan asks, "why are we even doing this? We can do this without wasting your laptop battery."

  Which is true. As far as kissing goes, at least. "What? You don't love the movie?" 

  He raises an eyebrow but says nothing. On the screen, another prolonged sequence of nothing is happening. To be fair to it, this one was made just around the time films had sound. She realizes that the people in charge would have no idea how to make a movie and they utilized what they knew from classic, live theater and novels to cobble together...

  This extraordinarily boring media. 

  Quinn sighs and taps the pause button. Logan sits back up. 

  "I- I'm not very cultured," she begins, "I kind of knew that, but dating you has really opened my eyes."

  The statement furrows his brows. "Quinn, you and I watch movies all the time."

  "Horror," the brunette reminds him, "but that-"

  "Do you think it doesn't count?"

  "No," her answer is immediate and certain. Horror movies are fun and some of them have legitimately interesting production or backstories but... well. "They're fun but-"

  Logan looks even more perplexed, "but?"

  Quinn sighs and contemplates her response. Her next statement. They are all soon off to college. Well, not Logan, but he is keeping that a secret for now. She thinks about how different their academics are about to look. At PCA, they are required to have the same basic credits and courses. Next year, she is pretty sure most of her time will be hyper focusing in various hard sciences. A lot of universities have even attempted to sweeten their scholarship offers by finding ways around Gen Ed for her.

  Like they probably have with Paige Howard.

  She thinks about the younger scientist all the time. Wonders how she is and peruses publications and journals for her name. There are so many talented and brilliant people out there. Quinn read an article about a pair of biologists who discovered a whole new species of moth and named it after their favorite pop star. She had to look up who she even was. It happens. All the time she finds the scientists making references to pieces of media they have loved and bonded with their lab mates over.

  Quinn had never had that. She has two sets of distinctly different friends and she isn't sure if either knows the true... her. Suddenly, she isn't sure she knows either. Too much time with her head down only to look up and see her childhood gone and, with it, a lot of opportunities and experiences. Experiments within herself and her own tastes unconducted, horizons unexplored. 

  "Quinn?"

  She has just the thing to say. "When I was dating Mark, I really thought that... he was it. Like, that I was only going to be with him forever."

  Logan frowns. So she is quick to add, "because I didn't know better. He was okay, but I didn't get to do stuff I wanted and we had such different mindsets on," she gently brings her hand up to his face and brushes her thumb over his cheek, "this kind of stuff."

  Slowly, he nods, "okay?"

  "But now I know I like this stuff. Because I was able to try. I- I guess-"

  "Experiment," he interjects, as gently as his laying his hand over hers.

  Quinn nods. "Besides, I want more stuff to talk about. Hobbies and interests besides what I already know."

  "What about performing on stage," Logan suggests.

  "Um," she shakes her head, "I wouldn't go that far."

  He laughs. "Fine. Should I start this up again," he nods to the screen- still paused- "or this," he gestures between the two of them, "again?"

  "Why not both?"

  "And what a brilliant idea, Miss Pensky."

  He barely has enough time to tap play again before she is throwing herself back at him.

  Senior Zoey curses Junior Zoey for her ambition. Her schedule is full with no off-roles. Despite having all the credits- and then some- necessary to graduate she added to her workload. Some of her classes aren't even AP's meaning she can't even apply the extra to her college. Like Stats and Physics 2. Immediately upon the schoolyear starting, Zoey finds herself being routinely fatigued by her class schedule and the coursework that comes with it. 

  Her academic advisor assures her she will be able to have almost half of her daily schedule, up to three periods, as off-roles next semester. Which she hopes will coincide perfectly with her renewed relationship with Chase. He doesn't really talk about his grades, but she knows that he is a very good student and she figures they are probably on parallel trajectories. For now.

  It won't be long until their time at PCA will be up and the rest of their lives begins. Zoey had been set on a plan, had her university picked based on whether or not she could study business but also take on more fashion-oriented work to at least minor in it. Her parents would be pleased, and she determined that having an education in both might give her an edge. It would be in California, but a few more hours away from her parents- not that distance matters, she lives less than two hours from them now and doesn't see them ever. Still, she was close enough to Dustin but far enough to only see them when she so chose.

  Plus, she wouldn't necessarily still be attending with any of her friends, but most of them would be in her area. Weekend visits would become the norm, but she could still see many of them sporadically during the week. 

  Except- maybe- Chase. It was an area they differed. Zoey was already eyeing neighborhoods and apartment complexes she wanted to look at for their proximity to school, friends, and potential employment even years ahead of needing to. He didn't even know what he wanted to major in. Before this summer Chase would only shrug and say, "I'll come up with something." A luxury afforded to him by having so many talents in very different areas. His creative writing versus his self-taught media analytics, for example.

  Chase was going to stay with her. Zoey knows that had been his plan. 

  Had been. She isn't sure anymore.

  Right now, he always seems exhausted. Michael texts her on nights they have practice and asks what's keeping them even after she is already back in Cohen and in bed. So she knows he is going to bed later than he usually does. Besides that, she sees his schedule is packed. Wherever there could be free time, he slots some new obligation in. Zoey is jealous of all of them for eating up his focus and time like how she should be doing. 

  Since their picnic, she has coaxed more than just morning kisses out of him. Zoey is greeted with one almost every lunch period. A doubling of rations and yet she still starves for more.

  But this weekend they will be going back to the motel. He skipped the previous week. Chase is smart enough to know what... making a pattern of intoxication like that would look like. Zoey would argue it would look like, at best, binge drinking. At worst (and her fear) that it's the sprouts of alcoholism. Besides, he is a busy and responsible guy. People to see. Places to go.

  And so many people see him doing that.

  There is a quiet, shy freshman at Sushi Rox who is smitten with him. He's sweet and charming to a fault and so wonderfully unaware of it that just about any girl would want more of him. Chase is oblivious to how she gazes up and then after him. Zoey should just let it go. Under no circumstance is it a good thing to be jealous of a young girl's harmless crush.

  But it makes her think of all the ways they could have gotten together that she missed out on. It makes her wish he would look at her like that again. Like how he had after she got back from Spring Break and he would rub her shoulders and fret over her. Kiss the top of her head and tell her she was beautiful. Zoey wants Chase to have the same experience but he rarely lets her catch him before he is off to do something else he has crammed into his schedule.

  However, she has already gotten an off-campus pass. This time, she'll be better prepared. More ready.

Chapter Text

  Chester bounds down the muddy slope, barking the whole way down, his tags jingling. Chase recklessly follows. The wheels of his bike don't so much leave tracks as carve ruts into the thick, slick muck. His speed is greatly reduced and he stands on the pedals to facilitate his ability to keep up with his dog. Luckily, the slope is gradual though narrow. Sticks and shrubs scratch at his arms and rattle against his helmet. 

  The trees accumulate stores of rainwater in their leaves like little cups. At every brush and sway, cold water dribbles down onto the boy. Not that he notices.

  Chase is behind when they get to the bottom. Chester is an additional shade of brown up to his chest, mud spatters the wiry fur of his snout. He bays and barks. Small paws drum against sodden earth. His boy skitters and slides to a halt, squinting to see ahead at just what they are pursuing. It's small and dark. It's the wrong color for a raccoon, but it could be something like a cat. 

  "Chester, no," the boy finally shouts. He feels it's weird for his dog to give chase to a house cat. He likes them. Even the ones who do not like him back. "Stop it! Come here!"

  As if both animals believe they are being addressed, the dog halts but looks between both Chase and the creature, whining and snorting and pacing. Hackles on end. The animal whirls around on both. The tawny body speckled with spots of darker brown, stubby tail and sharp, keen ears. The bobcat lowers its body to the ground as if to pounce, wild eyes focused and clear. "Oh shit!" 

  Chester snaps at open air. Folded ears perked and teeth bared. 

  "Chester, no!" 

  "Dude. Dude!"

  Chase startles awake, lifting his head up from the arm of the couch and looking around. "Huh, what?"

  Michael holds his hands up, palms facing out. "Hey, woah, easy."

  If he were fully aware, Chase would probably have noticed that his best friends tone is quiet and soothing. But he isn't. All at once the time and day and location have to be rediscovered to the taller boy one after the other. He checks his watch. "Oh shit!"

  "You missed practice," Michael drops his bookbag down on their coffee table and then steps around it to throw himself down into the office chair. "Coach Kar asked me where you were."

  Chase sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. "Fuck."

  "I told him you have a headache. No telling if he bought it or not."

  "Thanks. He should, I don't think I've missed a practice since last year."

  Michael nods in silence. Agreeing either with Chase's assertion, or that he knows his roommate keeps his obligations, or both. Maybe neither. His eyes stay focused on the wall behind Chase, almost offset from the television. 

  "What?"

  "Are you good, man? Like, actually."

  The taller boy sits upright with a grunt. Fatigue pulls at the stuff of his being like each of his joints are weighted. His eyes already ache to be closed again, "yeah. Just tired."

  A beat of silence follows, dark eyes peer into his. Digging, searching, scrutinizing. Chase doesn't think Michael believes him, necessarily, but he certainly wouldn't be able to guess the correct answer. Zoey has faithfully held the line. Even if she questions him in private about where he goes or what he is doing constantly. Meaning that Michael is snitching on him to her.

  Chase stretches his arms up over his head and then rolls his shoulders. "Anyway, enough about me and my bad decisions. What about you, dude? How was your day?"

  Michael looks hesitant to answer. He continues his close regard of his best friend for a minute- or what could be an hour- before replying. Chase tries to not be visibly relieved by the topic being dropped. For now.

  This time, the girls' basketball team beats almost everyone else to the pool.

  The benefit of having an early game. Zoey played hard, harder than she has in months, and pays for it. Her ankle is sore and weak. Tingling as if asleep and impedes her walking. A new phenomenon she's noticed from time to time. She hopes suspending it in cool water and rest will help.

  Shortly after arriving, Zoey makes as though she is heading into the bathrooms to change but sneaks into the motel office again. It's tiny with small white tiles covering the floor and halfway up the wall. The fluorescent lighting gives the space the air of an abandoned psych ward. Like something out of a horror movie. There are bulletins and pamphlets on the non-tiled section of walls indicating sites and activities nearby.

  At the desk, the portly clerk she spoke with last time greets her with, "staying with us again, Miss?"

  Zoey feels significant unease in the way he immediately opens his reservation book. "Did you enjoy the room last time? I have it available again."

  "Sounds good," she nods and then reaches into her bag to dig the cash hidden under one of her towels. "Let's do it."

  He smirks and her skin crawls. The man is quick to snatch the money. "By the hour?"

  "No." 

  "I see, the stay last time was to your liking." He scribbles with a halved pencil in his book and passes it to her, "sign here."

  She uses a fake name. Last time, she lacked creativity and just put Jane Doe. It doesn't really matter. Zoey is almost certain none of these records are truly kept for later use. In fact, there are other names above the line she is meant to sign that are obvious fakes. Such as Crystal River and Ben Dover. Even now, the blonde fails to come up with anything more creative than last time.

  Zoey signs and is handed a tarnished key dangling from a battered plastic tag. She is quick to leave and stuffs the key in the bottom of her bag as she goes. Back on the pool deck, no one noticed her absence. There are too many distractions between swimming and socializing and she wasn't gone very long. 

  In the water, two teams are forming to play volleyball. Someone- or maybe it was a group effort- has stretched a nylon net across the center of the pool. On either end it is tied to pool chairs. She recognizes some of her teammates on both sides of the net. Logan sets the ball and Mel spikes it back. On a table positioned (fittingly) on the deep end, is a case of beer. 

  Michael isn't on the pool deck. Zoey spots another football player fiddling with his bag by one of the chairs. "Hey, where's Barrett?"

  "He isn't coming." The guy's eyes alight when he spots what he's after and quickly retrieves a mass of foil from inside. It mushes into a dark brown ooze as soon as he does so. He whines, "aw man! My candy."

  "That sucks, anyway-"

  "Which one of you," he turns to the partiers at large but points out each of his teammates, "sat your fat ass on my bag?"

  The best he gets is a shrug. "Son of a bitch."

  "So, did Michael say why he wasn't coming?" Zoey tries again.

  The guy shoots her a mildly irritated look. Fussy. "No."

  She rolls her eyes. "You know they sell those in the vending machine next to the office. Cheaper than on campus, too."

  The transformation of mood is immediate. "Sick! See, you are a cool chick, Brooks," he pats his big hand on the top of her head. Like one might do a child. Or a dog. Then he trots off, taking big, bounding steps with bare feet over hot pavement.

  "Why are you cool, all of a sudden?"

  Logan. The blonde shrugs and turns to face him, "dunno. Probably for all the reasons you'll never be."

  "Ha, ha," he snorts. A towel is draped across his shoulders, "can you quit being lame and hop in? I need another player on my team. Chase will get here when he gets here."

  They lose.

  Not for lack of trying. In fact, they managed to tie and then hold off the opposing team until overtime and kept it up through most of the first period. It was a close, close game. A small loss, but a loss all the same. 

  Chase is pulled from the game between the first and second half. Coach says he is playing too rough. He would beg to differ. He was pulling all of his efforts back, playing with only half the intensity he does drill with in practice. Still, Kar wasn't willing to risk any penalties or easy scores for the opposing team.

  The teen feels that's why they lost but would never say such a thing aloud. It sounds too conceited. Besides, he doesn't feel he is a more or less valuable player than any of the other guys on the team. 

  It's on his mind through the post-game meeting and in the showers. Chase remains distracted by Kar's words even as he gets into his teammate's car and heads to Bucky's. Harsh. Brutal.

  Brutal is the one he gets stuck on. Chase knows he has a temper. He has prided himself his whole life on not letting it flare out of control. He didn't shove his classmates, or hit them. He has rarely hit walls or objects and does everything he can to not raise his voice. It makes his rare instances of actual rage more effective because they are unexpected. His friends know he is being serious.

  None of his teammates have said anything about whether or not he plays too rough during practice. He hasn't played a pick-up game with Michael or Logan in weeks. They would tell him.

  Chase wonders if the cumulative effect of little lapses in self-control is enough to change their perception of him. If it is true for the guys, could it be true for Zoey? Did she offer him the trip and then decide to hang back because he scared her? The nightmarish thought gnaws at his brain.

  Nothing a little booze can't fix.

  Zoey is waist-deep in the pool when the basketball boys show up. Her eyes, like magnets, drawn immediately to Chase as he tosses his bag down onto a pool chair along with a few others. This time he is already in swim trunks and immediately strips off his shirt to stuff it in his bag, too. She can see trouble in his eyes. Some of the guys mutter about the loss as they get ready to jump in the water or mosey over for a drink. 

  To her dismay, Chase does both. Someone tosses him a beer and he cracks into it while hopping down from the poolside and into the shallow end. He takes a big drink, tipping the can nearly vertical before slowing to a stop and drifting to her side. Zoey can't help but think he is being reluctant. Like he doesn't want to touch her even as her wraps his arm across her shoulders and kisses the top of her head. "Hey there, sweetheart."

  "Hi," she swings around to face him. Greets him by wrapping her arms around his neck and kissing him on the lips. "I'm sorry about the game."

  He shrugs. "Nobody to blame." Even if his eyes betray him. 

  "Hey, lovebirds," Logan shouts from his side of the pool, he waves the ball over his head, "we playing a game or what?" 

  Zoey rolls her eyes and then searches Chase's face. "Well? What do you think."

  He fakes a smile. Her heart breaks. "Let's kick some ass. You're on, Logan!" He chugs his drink. 

  In health class, they were taught about alcohol. How a drink can vary between types of liquor. Beer and wines are generally more fluid ounces compared to vodka. It has everything to do with the overall ABV or alcohol by volume. Zoey cannot possibly know how many drinks would be too many for Chase's height and weight, but she is already anxious with him completing one. 

  But batting a volleyball around in the pool is enough of a distraction. He swims on the deep end and relieves Logan to join her in the shallows. It's silly. The game devolves from the almost-volleyball it had been to just teens spiking the ball back and forth and splashing. Laughing. Zoey subs another girl in her place and silently prays Chase is having enough fun to stay in the water a little longer.

  She finds her bag and takes it with her. 

  Chase clambers onto the pool deck. He's too tired to keep treading water and now he's hungry, too. He peers around the crowd, searching for either Zoey or Logan. "Hey dude."

  James. Again. Chase wishes these trunks have pockets like his other ones did. That way he can hide the fists his hands want to be. Instead, he breathes deep and turns, "hey! How are you?"

  "Good, man," the blond has a bottled juice with which he gestures to the water, "I think you missed your calling with volleyball." 

  Chase snorts a laugh. "Yeah, I always felt it was the rules that held me back, too."

  James smiles. "That's how I feel about basketball. I'm really good until I have to dribble and move. Standing still and shooting is my talent."

  "Between us we're a full basketball player." 

  Pretty Boy rolls his eyes. "Whatever. Hey, me and Justin are going to walk down the street to go buy some pizzas. Wanna come with?"

  No. Chase doesn't know why he so dislikes such a nice guy. James didn't do anything to him and Zoey has sworn that she was never interested in him. 

  Then again, she said she liked him and that proved false.

  "Sounds good," Chase nods, "I'll get my shoes."

  He conveniently "forgets" his shirt so he can wait outside the shop. Just for the extra quiet. He'll make it up to the boys by volunteering to carry more stuff back. "Awesome, Justin is figuring out the order and we'll meet you in the parking lot."

  When Zoey returns her bag is half the weight it had been and her boyfriend is missing. Mild panic sets in as she asks around. It takes three tries before one of his tipsy teammates tells her he went with the boys to get pizza. She has no idea which boys he speaks of. She checks his bag and finds his shoes gone but his shirt still there. Frowning, she wonders if a few months of sober living on campus weakened his tolerance that much.

  Why else would he go to a restaurant with no shirt if he weren't a little drunk?

  She forces herself to be calm and mingle.

  Logan has a decent group captivated by his story telling. His proximity to Hollywood combined with frequently being behind the scenes with his dad combine to give him all kinds of "inside scoops." Most of which she doesn't quite believe, some are probably the truth, but all are fun to listen to. Zoey squeezes in to sit on one of the pool chairs nearby and waits. 

Chapter Text

  Chase has never gotten to walk around town before.

  When his mother took him to lunch, they went to the cozy little diner and talked for hours. Mostly catching up. He was finally old enough to implore her to consider her own future and for her to take him seriously. Chase worries about her all the time. Maybe he is unique amongst his peers for this, but he wants his mother to find a nice man to settle down with.

  They made a list for her to keep an eye out for. Her age or older, rich (Chase's insistence), handsome (Mom's insistence) either retired or in a position that gives him lots of leeway with time management, and kind. Bonus points if he's also Jewish. 

  "My dad isn't Jewish," Chase reminds her, "and you hooked up with him."

  "Goodlooks forgive many sins," she jokes. Then adds, "I was also very in love."

  Now here he is, out on the sidewalks and absolutely regretting leaving his shirt behind. He feels stupid the whole walk. Chase doesn't think he looks too out of place, for it being a literal beach town, but his embarrassment lingers all the same. Justin is the point of their triangle. In one hand he wields the directions to the pizza shop and in the other he has the orders written in messy scrawl that borders nonsense.

  Another block and then a left on Gull Street. 

  The boys are mostly quiet. Chase has no idea what to say to either of them about anything. Justin is too high-energy and James seems like the type to just go along with anything. Get along with anyone. Chase feels like he is a dark cloud in their presence, despite his efforts.

  "So, uh, what sport was it that you play, again?" He grasps for conversation with the blond.

  "Oh," he chuckles, "technically none at the moment. Track and Field doesn't start until spring."

  The dark-haired teen hums thoughtfully. "What's your event? Or, well, what is your favorite?"

  "I'm a distance guy," James answers, "I can't sprint to save my life. Like, I've seen you and Michael around campus jumping over benches and I envy that."

  "You have crazy ups, dude," Justin agrees. "You should train me. I'd pay money to get even half that vert for fielding."

  James bumps the baseball player with his hand. Joking he says, "what do you need extra training for?"

  "Getting recruited," the boy chuckles, "I think I could make it in the majors as a shortstop, eventually."

  Chase is slightly more relaxed than he had been when they get to the pizzeria. The front is a large glass pane floor to ceiling broken only by the red-framed glass doors. White, scroll lettering across the top of the pane advertise the name and phone number of the shop. The door has a little blackboard sign hanging from inside reading "OPEN." He slows to a stop and thunks the heel of his hand against his forehead. "Ah, damn. I don't have a shirt. I'll wait-"

  Justin throws the door open. A little bell plinks from somewhere unseen. Loudly he says, "nah, you're good. There's already some shirtless dudes in here, too."

  James gestures for Chase to go ahead of him. Great. 

  Inside, the air is pleasantly chilly and fragrant with baking pizzas. The woman at the register greets them cheerfully. Most of the patrons are adults or families with young children, however, there are a couple booths taken up by teens about their age. Local kids, Chase thinks, and then feels like such a jackass for not just grabbing his damn shirt. Some of the other boys are also shirtless, sun-tanned and lounging tiredly against the vinyl seats. 

  He has upgraded embarrassed to mortified.

  Justin reads the order to the lady at the register while James scrounges around their packet dispenser to grab fistfuls of red pepper flakes and parmesan. The local teens keep peering over at them. Chase feels their stares prickling his skin like a thousand needles. Now he looks like some rich, private school douche.

  All he wanted was to avoid conversation.

  "Are you PCA dudes," one of the guys asks, loudly. Obnoxiously.

  "Yeah," Justin nods to the group in greeting, "'sup?" 

  "All three of you," one the girls clarifies.

  "Yeah," James replies and then he shares a quick look with Justin. "We're having a pool party down the street. You guys wanna come with?"

  Chase's heart slams into his ribcage. Quietly he mutters, "guys, we aren't-"

  "Shut up," Justin whispers back, "the Mexican chick in the back is cute."

  Most of the local teens hop out of the booths and approach. A couple of the shirtless guys and a few girls in bikini tops and shorts. The one Justin has taken a shine to stays the furthest away. She is beautiful, Chase thinks, and she is smart enough to eye them with skepticism. He shuffles up to the counter to let the boys chat with the local kids. The woman at the register looks him up and down. "Your burning. Don't you have sunscreen?"

  "It's mortification," he answers, "I didn't think they would make me come in."

  She laughs. "Sorry kid."

  Suddenly a hand nudges his forearm. "What's your name?"

  "Chase," the boy tries to mask his panic and come across as normal as possible. As socially capable as he can. The girl- surfer, he thinks- has thick, curly locks that roll down her shoulders like midnight waves. Up close, he catches a whiff of the ocean on the teens and her rash guard has some grainy sand caught in the seams. Dark eyes, bright smile, skin a deep earth tone. "What's yours?"

  "Alicia."

  "Nice to meet you." Two more girls flank Alicia. One taller with straight, black hair and the other shorter and brunette and light-eyed. "Hello."

  The tall one looks him up and down slowly. His skin crawls and he would like to evaporate on the spot. "I'm Tanya, you're hot."

  "Yeah, what's in the water at PCA? How come all three of you are so fucking hot?" The brunette sidles along the counter's edge to get closer. 

  Chase's face must be tomato red. He can feel heat rising to his cheeks. It's flooding his system, carried on blood rushing from a pounding heart. "I- uh- thanks but," 

  "Order ready!"

  He could not be more relieved. For a moment, he is beyond grateful to finally be able to leave. It's shattered when he realizes they will be followed back by all of these people. Tanya is very forward. Her hand settles on his bicep as he is scrambling to grab boxes. "You must workout."

  "I have a girlfriend," Chase blurts. To his horror, she shrugs.

  "Is she at the party?"

  "Yes." He nods.

  "They don't go anywhere without each other," James interjects.

  And suddenly Chase is back in Hawaii and being felt up by a guest. Sometimes he would still declare that he had a girlfriend and back away. A few times, he would hear, "well I don't see her." 

  Only this time he isn't even being paid for his distress.

  "Well, now I have to meet her." Tanya is close to him the whole walk. He feels the brush of her hand and feels a pathetic wash of anxiety because his hands are occupied and he can't stop her from doing that.

  Back at Bucky's Chase is the first to set his pizza boxes down on wire mesh tables. PCA students whoop and then shout questions for their additional entourage. He hopes the fuss is enough distraction than he can slip away without being noticed. 

  Chase just needs to calm down.

  He is split between going for a beer first or his shirt and then prioritizes the beer. He is halfway down the deep end (an apt place to put the alcohol, he thinks) when another hand catches his arm. Somehow he knows it's Zoey. Maybe it's the grip or the size of the hand. It's the same way his brain knew a stranger grabbed him in the pizzeria. "Chase, aren't you hungry?" 

  Not anymore. "I didn't want to get crushed by the masses. I'll get a drink first."

  "But, honey," Zoey looks up at him with imploring eyes. "I think you should eat first. It's not good to drink on an empty stomach."

  Chase sighs.

  Her hand slides down to hold his and she steps in closer. With a kiss on his shoulder she adds, "also, you haven't had any water since you got here and you should put more sunscreen on."

  "Yes, ma'am."

  Zoey kisses his the same spot again and leads him back to the chair where she left their bags.

  The local kids are absolutely fascinated by stories from PCA.

  The PCA students are absolutely fascinated by stories from public school.

  Zoey is pleased to hear that she isn't alone in fantasizing about a life where she goes to a home after every class and not a dorm room. Or that she has (theoretically) free reign of her time outside of her obligations. However, she was a public school kid and she knows that isn't actually how it goes. Plus, neither of her parents would have ever allowed her to live like she does now.

  Like spending several minutes rubbing Chase's shoulders and neck while also applying sunscreen. She is a little too nervous to go lower than his collar bones, so he does his own chest and stomach while she gets his back. He apologizes at least once a minute for- in essence- his whole body. Zoey plans to assuage his fears in a few hours. She does like what she sees. And feels.

  Maybe more than she would admit to anyone but him.

  But he flinches a little with her first few caresses of his skin. "Tense." 

  "Sorry," he squirts a quarter-sized blob of sunscreen into his palm and moves on to rubbing it into his legs. 

  "Why?" She can see a tall girl watching from the poolside. One of the football boys seems smitten but she only has eyes for them. Chase. A possessive flare sparks in the blonde. She decides to slide her hands back up his back to just massage his shoulders. 

  "Rough day," he mumbles. 

  But he has been a good boy. Eating pizza and obediently drinking all the water she offered him. Zoey can worry about him like he does about her. Make him a plate and ensure he eats like he did with her. She kisses the side of his neck and feels him tense again under her hands. "I'm sorry."

  Chase stays quiet. When she is done she sits back and allows him to get the beer she knows he craves. Says nothing about it when he returns to her side and puts his arm across her shoulders. She does, however, lean into him and is both delighted and surprised when he kisses the top of her head.

  Sunset begins its steady approach. Warm and cool colors haze opposite edges of the blue sky. Leading and following. It makes her think about Lisa and Michael dancing by the fountain as Chase had said they could. In reality, Zoey has no reason- or authority- to deny them anything. She just... 

  It's a painful spot for her. She often wishes she could go back to that night and let Chase hold her until sunup. They would be found cuddling on a bench somewhere and there would have been no reason to put off the conversation about them. No need to pretend there were no feelings. She thinks that means he would have officially been her boyfriend and she would not have hopped down the ledge in Redstone.

  With no broken bones, Zoey and Chase would have spent a week in Yosemite together. 

  Some of the athletes begin leaving. Logan and a couple other football players dip early on. The local kids hop into the pool as more and more PCA ones drift out into the parking lot. In peaceful silence, Zoey watches poor Justin desperately flirting with a girl who looks absolutely disinterested. James is having a great deal of conversation with one of the surfer girls. 

  "You guys play 'Never Have I Ever?" One of the local boys cracks into another beer. Zoey can respect the ethics. Get drunk off someone's rich daddy's dime. She probably would do the same if she were still in Louisiana and if her own father wasn't the rich daddy.

  "What's that?" Kenzie and Mel lounge in the shallows, propping themselves up against the concrete. 

  "You hold up two hands," Tall Girl answers and shoots a devious look the couples way, "and you say something you have never done. Everyone has to be honest and if you have done the thing, you put a finger down."

  "Do you win or lose if you put down all your fingers?"

  She shakes her head. "Up to you."

  Justin volunteers immediately. Some of her teammates hop up onto the pool deck to join while a couple of the local kids decide to converge on the area next to where Chase and Zoey are sitting. Again, possessiveness drives her to lean more into him. Practically climbing into his lap. Chase grunts. "Oof."

  "Sorry," she winces. "I-"

  "Here," he pulls away to grab both their day bags. He sets them side by side on the ground next to their pool chair and the slides himself further up to rest back against the back of the chair. He rolls his neck and she hears it pop. "My back was starting to hurt."

  Zoey frowns. 

  "Now, c'mere," Chase holds his arms open like a hug.

  She does as he asks. Slowly and a little awkwardly. Unsure of where he wants her to go or how to sit. He sits up enough to loop his arms around her and pull her back into his chest. His legs on either side of hers, her back to his chest. When he exhales, she feels it on her ear and neck. "That's better." 

  Thrilled that her night is going as well as it is, she nods and snuggles back into him. It feels good to bask in his body heat after an afternoon of swimming. Zoey also enjoys how well they slot together and that his skin in contact with hers doesn't make her afraid. Or nervous. Doctor Forester warned her ahead of time that it was possible she would  have a negative... intimate experience. Residual damage from Tommy.

  But that has so far been proven untrue. 

  In fact, she could close her eyes and fall asleep like this. Chase might have, already. Zoey watches the oranges and pinks grow paler and paler in the reflection of the pool. The sky continues to darken. Justin fucks up the Never Have I Ever game, and then James follows suit two rounds later. The former thinking you must say something you have done, the latter forgetting if he is supposed to keep his fingers up if he hasn't done something. The local kids retry the game.

  Everyone climbs out of the pool. Some completely to dry and change, others sit on the still-warm concrete by its side. The night cools the air but doesn't chill it. Justin is permitted to sit next to the girl he was mooning over earlier. And continues to.

  The local teens grow frustrated when another athlete messes it up. "What do you guys play on your campus, then?"

  "Confess or stress," a chorus of PCA students reply, immediately. 

  That is an easier game to explain. Truth or dare, essentially. Chase inhales sharply and looks around. Zoey can feel it. "Huh?"

  "They're playing Confess or Stress now." She is quiet in her answer. He grunts.

  "What happened to the other game?"

  "Our team kept fucking it up." Chase shifts a little and pulls her along with him. Big hands flat across her abdomen spanning its entire width. Zoey thinks about the picture she just got of one of her childhood friend's pregnancy announcement. They are all too young for babies now, but she imagines the future. Graduating college and getting married and having a good job. Something she can sustain a decent living on. 

  And a house with a yard for the dog Chase picks out. Space enough for him to garden if he wants.

  "Alright, Chase, your turn."

  "I'm not playing," he grumbles. 

  "Yeah you are," Kenzie dips her legs into the water. Mel sits next to her to do the same with a towel draped over her shoulders. "Everyone on the deck is."

  He sighs heavily and rests his chin on top of Zoey's head. "Fine. What now?"

  "When was the last time you jerked off," the kid who incited the 'Never Have I Ever' game shouts. Zoey's heart stops. Embarrassed immediately by such a loud, vulgar, disruptive question. She didn't even ask it.

  "The hell is wrong with y'all?"

  Bickering arises from the crowd. Mel declares, "it's about time we get something interesting."

  Tall Girl raises an eyebrow. "Calm down, girl. We're all embarrassed here."

  Zoey is about to argue and force them to back off through pure stubbornness when, to her horror, Chase responds with, "forever ago. I don't even remember when that was. Definitely at home, though."

  Silence settles like a fog. One of the few remaining PCA boys breaks it with, "yeah. It is kind of hard when you live with people in one room."

  "Unless you make some kind of arrangement with your roommates," James tilts his head thoughtfully, "or utilize the showers."

  "Lots of dudes do it in the showers," Chase says, "and they are literally never as quiet as they think they are. I'm not a monster, I pretend I don't know, but like-"

  "I feel you," Justin replies, sounding utterly relieved to get this off his chest, "I get so freaked out and like, bro, it's humiliating. I feel like a fucking weirdo for knowing that shit about the dude five doors down when I don't even know his name."

  "Exactly!" Chase is now fully awake. Zoey can't see his face but she watches him gesticulate his hands. "Dude, it's just too much! Like, do you remember what happened with that Wilcox boy-"

  "-back in middle school!" Another boy, she thinks either his first or last name is Ryan interjects. Also practically shouting. "That was so wild! I was just thinking about it!"

  Chase explains, "when we were- when was that, eighth grade, seventh? It doesn't fucking matter. There was a freshman boy who got caught," he makes a vulgar gesture with his hand. Zoey almost stops him, mortified, but he only does it for a second to illustrate his point. Too much illustration for her liking. "His roommates must have told someone or something because within the same week every dude knew about it. Even upper classmen."

  "And it was brutal," Justin nods.

  "Because, like, this was before girls were at PCA," Chase continues, "and dudes are way more... mean and like, catty. I think we are worse than girls when left to our own devices. Anyway, a bunch of upper classmen made it a sport of bullying this kid in every way possible. It wasn't even like he was actually doing something bad but they made fun of him, put him in trashcans, left hotdogs in his backpack, tried to ban him from the shower-"

  "I heard they would kick in the door of whatever bathroom stall he was in. Like, they would look in to make sure."

  Zoey's heart breaks. The cruelty of it is absurd. There were so many times in her early days at PCA where she would ask a question about the boys' time on campus that they would tell her she was better off not knowing. Many haunted looks from Chase and Michael especially. "But, you just said guys-"

  "I know," he says gently to her, "I know." Then he continues to the group. "It got so bad he just transferred out."

  "That's fucked up," Kenzie mutters.

  "It's bullshit," Mel agrees, "what assholes."

  "Damn," one of the local kids says, "I thought it would be less psycho at a private school." 

  "Nah," Chase shakes his head. "I did too. It's just psychos with money."

  That makes Zoey flinch. What an apt description. Big hands rub her arms comfortingly.

  "What about you girls? What's the 'alone time' policy?"

  "Not that," Mel scoffs, "we don't do Lord of Flies bullshit. You just... strategize."

  "Time management," another girl (she thinks a soccer player) laughs from the chairs, "right Brooks?" 

  "Woah, woah, woah-" Zoey squirms, "now hold on."

  "Yeah, now I'm curious." Kenzie says, "I have a bet to settle."

  "You don't have to answer if you don't want. I'll tell the vultures another story." Chase murmurs and continues his ministrations.

  But that wouldn't be fair. He already had to talk about that and then some. She feels she suddenly knows and understands way more about him than ever. Now his protective secrecy over Dustin's situation with his roommate makes sense. It is the same twisting sensation inside that she felt when they do "hate week" in history class and discuss bullying and discrimination. Race, ethnicity, gender, orientation.

  Michael is black and Chase is Jewish. She isn't naïve enough to believe that rich white boys wouldn't have done to them what they did to her.

  Then she contemplates how to tell the truth.

  Because is there anything she can say that isn't humiliating? That she didn't actually know it was an option- much like she didn't know homosexuality was possible in women, too- until she was in high school. Zoey was given no education on the subject and never felt she could bring it up with anyone. Zoey never brought up what happened with Tommy again to anyone except during Christmas Break. She damn sure kept her mind away from the topic.

  She was too scared. The lack of response from either family and the lack of punishment for the older boy led her to believe that maybe... maybe that was just how it goes.

  Especially with her parents in her ear warning her constantly that most anything could be perceived as an invitation. Zoey concluded it was, in part, her own fault. Shame drove her to silence. Even her fear was left unspoken. Buried always in the back of her mind to rear its ugly head in her nightmares. Awake, it manifested in her suspicions. Anxieties. The ones that Zoey followed out of the airport and away from Chase.

  The control of escape felt good until the loneliness and heartbreak set in.

  "Whatever," Tanya rolls her eyes and pivots to the next person. Zoey shivers and Chase rubs her arms faster.

  "Cold?" 

  Only inside, my dear. "No." To him, and then to the group, "I didn't know I could until I was already at PCA. I live with people and I wouldn't even know where to start."

  Two of the local girls burst out laughing. Her own teammates look surprised. Behind her, she feels Chase lean his upper body over the side of their chair and peripherally spots his arm reaching for his bag. Zoey tunes out the question being asked to the next person as her boyfriend wraps his towel snuggly around her. He resumes rubbing her arms.

  "How's that?"

  Perfect. He's sweet and he's perfect. Zoey tilts her head back and kisses the underside of his chin.

  The game fizzles out after a few more rounds. The PCA athletes are too lethargic to be intrigued by scandal and the public school kids are disappointed by the lack thereof. Zoey is in and out of the conversation. Alternating between falling asleep and waking to hearing and feeling Chase speak. Soon, they are among the last lingering on the pool deck. "You awake?"

  She nods.

  "We should get up," he kisses the crown of her head. "So we don't get left behind again."

  "I thought ahead this time," the blonde murmurs and then moves to sit up. Her ankle hurts. She winces and presses her thumbs into it. That combined with the chill brought on by leaving Chase's arms makes the notion of getting to the motel room entirely unappealing. Going anywhere is suddenly much less desirable.

  "Are you okay?"

  "My ankle," Zoey sighs, "it hurts today." 

  "Can you put any weight on it," Chase slides off the chair and offers her both his hands to assist her. 

  "Um," she grabs both and hauls herself up to her feet. A twinge of pain runs down the top of her foot to her toes and spreads up the back of her leg. "Yeah, I think-"

  He sighs. "Zo."

  "I know," Zoey scowls and looks down at the source of her pain. It feels like it should be a vile purple like a bowl of crushed and mashed blueberries but only her own tan shows. No external sign reflecting the hideous sensation inside. "I don't know why it hurts so bad all of a sudden."

  Chase stoops and gathers their bags. He slings the strap of hers over her shoulders and his over his own. "I'm going to carry you, then."

  Immediately, she raises her arms to wrap them around his neck. "I booked a room for us."

  With a grunt he hoists her up. "You know, I'm sure you can wait until we are back at PCA for you to wash the chlorine out of your hair."

  Zoey brings one of her hands up to cup his cheek. Chase is careful to sidle through the gate and off the pool deck. "Maybe. I want more time with you, though."

  He has nothing to say to that. She directs him along the concrete patios outside the motel rooms. "Can I ask you a question?"

  "I don't think it could be any worse than the ones we were being asked already," Chase nods, "go for it."

  "The last time you, uh, used your hand-"

  "-oh never mind-"

  "-were you thinking about me?"

  Chase looks horrified in the dingy grey light. Eyes wide and focused on anything but her. Zoey notices the are approaching the door of their room. "I wouldn't be upset if you were."

  "Why are you asking that?"

  "This is something we should talk about," she fishes the key out of her bag preemptively and points to the door it belongs to. The window is dark. Zoey will turn on the candles in a few minutes she thinks. Once they are both showered and she has Chase sprawled on the mattress. "It's important."

  "Not really," he replies, shortly. 

  "Sex is part of relationships, Chase."

  "We aren't in one," he huffs and sets her down gently. Half supporting her while her good foot makes contact with the concrete and she unlocks the door.

  Zoey wishes she understood why he sometimes insists on their relationship being fake. Who is he trying to fool? His eyes always reflect such anguish and anger when he says it. Like, of course he is mad at her, but now she thinks he is upset with himself too. She appreciates he is being more defensive, more protective of his heart. Zoey is happy to show him how she feels. "Chase."

  He helps her into the room and uses the light from the open door to guide her to the bed for her to sit. He changes the subject. "You should shower first. I don't have a change of clothes so-"

  "The first time," Zoey cups his face in her hands. She is firm in her hold. He stoops to bow his head to her level, hands catching himself on the bed on either side of her lap. He's only a silhouette but she can sense the shock on his face. "I realized you were hot- like way, way, hot- was when we were freshman."

  "Zoey," he warns, quietly. 

  "It was at the beach." She brushes her thumbs over his cheeks. "You had no way of knowing, but you were killing it with me all day."

  "My scrawny ass did it for you," he scoffs, "don't lie-"

  "Don't say that," she insists, "it was the whole thing. Like, you carrying Dustin's unconscious ass across PCA and then when we got to the beach. For months I figured it was some kind of primal thing. That some vestigial instinct in my brain was pleased to have discovered a mate able to nurture and protect potential offspring. That you were such a great help in keeping our tribe unified and motivated and happy. Hunter-gathering with me and even offering me some of your food."

  Chase chuckles, "you make it sound like I had my shit together. I remember being just as freaked as everyone else."

  "That just makes you brave."

  He sighs heavily and brings his hands up to pull hers away. "I don't want to hear this right now."

  "Why?"

  "Because I don't like... wondering what made you-" he draws further back, releases her hands, "how I fucked it up."

  "Nothing, baby." Zoey blinks against the sting in her eyes, "it wasn't anything you did."

  "I don't need you to lie to me," Chase replies sternly. "I've had a lot of time to think about it and I know you too well. You know, for years I convinced myself that the guys teasing me about you was just a guy thing. Their way of annoying me and getting under my skin. But, even my own best friend didn't believe I genuinely loved you until after Rebecca and that whole mess, and he lives with me. He and Logan and everyone else thought I just wanted to fuck."

  "Chase-"

  "You must have been so scared of me," his voice shakes, "with me constantly being all over you and grabby and too fucking stupid to notice-"

  "Persistent and sweet," Zoey argues, "I wanted you to hold me. I was too proud to say it but I always let you, remember?"

  He paces and shakes his head. "I don't think so."

  "Chase, I started staying behind in the Planning Room just for that. The highlight of my day. It was again today."

  He shakes his head more violently and paces the width of the room. The boy seems to struggle with what he is trying to say. She wonders if it is one of emotion or semantics. Or both. Abruptly he stops. "I don't blame you. Maybe I wasn't ever clear enough, or maybe I was too eager. Too... too much. It was a lot for me to immediately blab to you that I loved you and then got annoyed when you stopped kissing me in your room. Like, what else would that have made you think? That I would react negatively to any withholding of-"

  "Or like a normal person," Zoey interjects, "No one was more disappointed in me for not kissing you than I was."

  "There's like," Chase continues as if she hadn't spoken, "this expectation that if a guy does something, his girl owes him. Physically. I know we are too far away from it now, but I would have learned to dance even if you hadn't kissed me. Even if we just stayed friends."

  "I believe you." Though, she does wonder in what world she- or any girl- could be swept of her feet like that by this guy and not kiss him. If there is a version of reality where they play by the fountain that night and somehow remain purely platonic afterwards. 

  "And I don't want you thinking you owe me a relationship to make up for Summer Break. That I would ever even- that it would work, you know? Like, I loved you enough to fight the whole pacific ocean for you," he chuckles mirthlessly. "Which is both stupid and embarrassing."

  All of a sudden, the little plastic candles on either nightstand behind her feels like eyes. Each its own, individual, kaleidoscope orb searing holes into her spine. Like a pair of giant spiders looming in the dark and Zoey is exceedingly grateful he hasn't turned on the lights to see them. They will not be well received. Maybe she was even more clueless than she ever even thought. 

  She also has no idea what that means and can immediately sense he is probably being literal. Again, Uncle Tim putting the locks on his balcony doors flash in her mind. Like warning lights. 

  "Have you ever been to Doctor Forester's office?" 

  Chase's shadow turns to fully face her. "Who?"

  "The school therapist," Zoey supplies.

  "Oh, I remember now. That's where you and Quinn went after the generator-thing." 

  She nods, "I just started going again. I think you should too."

  "Why are you seeing a therapist," it's not judgmental, but worried. "Are you okay?"

  Zoey considers just spitting it out now. Utilize the darkness and solitude to her advantage, but then wonders what she would say. She isn't even good talking about it to a professional. Too rambling and disorganized. Instead, she settles on shaking her head, "no. But I think I'm getting better. I want to be better."

  "Here, let me," Chase moves towards the door and the light switch.

  "No!"

  He jumps.

  "Sorry, I uh, I want to sit in the dark for a little." She fidgets and hopes he can't tell she's lying again. 

  "You're afraid of the dark." 

  Zoey feels two competing sources of warmth flood her face. She is not exactly pleased he thinks (remembers) that she has such a fear and yet she kind of is. "Only when I can't see. This is okay, for now."

  "But, I'm going to close the door for when you shower."

  "I think you should go first," Zoey makes a show of putting her sore ankle up on the bed, "I want to rest it for a few minutes before trying to stand in the tub."

  "Oh," Chase winces, "right. How about, after I dry off, I'll leave my towel on the floor so you won't slip. That's what I do at work, put a wet towel under a cutting board."

  Sweet and thoughtful even after his rough day. Zoey silently thanks God for not letting her fuck up again tonight. "What do you cut?"

  "Seaweed," he chuckles, "into squares. I'm not allowed to prepare raw fish. It's against Rox policy."

  Without any further ado Chase heads to the bathroom and feels along the door for the handle. The light is a hideous yellow and the bulbs rattle. He shields his eyes and closes the door behind him.

  Zoey waits until she hears the water running before scrambling to shove all the stupid candles under the bed. She catastrophizes a scenario where he carries her bag and notices them inside. Or they roll out onto the floor on the cab ride back. There is no excuse and no way to explain them away in conjunction with booking a motel room early enough in the afternoon that he wouldn't have seen her do it. 

  Spared herself the humiliation and him the insult. 

  If Logan asks, she'll buy him a whole new set.

Chapter Text

  Zoey is up before the sun is. Carefully, quietly, she slides out of bed and makes her way to the window. A cool, moderately strong breeze sways the curtain and blinds and makes her shiver. The sky is lightening and suddenly Zoey wants to watch the sunrise. She doesn't think she has enough time to put her shoes on and go find a nice place to watch from. It makes her think- for the first time in a year or longer- about the camera bear.

  Nicole named him Quincy Q. She made it her mission and chore to go hike around campus with him to find good views. It was only a few weeks before the webcam began to die. The battery life diminished to nothing and it regularly lost wireless connection even in their dorm room. He became just the Butler Hall bear. The webcam cannibalized and used by Quinn. 

  He is still there, Butler Bear. 

  Zoey pulls aside the curtain and opens the blinds just enough for her to look out onto the lawn and pathways. The sprinklers kick on with a light rattle and hiss. A squirrel bounds straight through the droplets, pauses to clean itself in the water, and then continues up a tree. The building across the quad is tall enough that the rising sun soon casts the upper portion in orange-gold light. 

  She closes her eyes and imagines what it might look like in Louisiana. Not her home, but Mimi and Papaw's. Suddenly, she is nine and on her toes at their sink. Cast iron covered in porcelain which caused a bit of rust to form around the faucet and drain. Zoey imagines the woods a full choir of crickets and frogs and the pasture laden with dew. The neighbor's rooster crows. The long, light figure of an egret takes to the wing. 

  "Where is this?"

  Zoey doesn't turn around to face Charles so much as she does to grab one of the kitchen chairs to stand on. Delicate ceramic deer figurines line the windowsill. Linoleum sticks under her bare feet. "This is my grandparents' house."

  Charles waves her off and gets the chair for her. Looming over her child-self as he carries it to the sink and sets it down. Then he stays beside it, leaning on his hands against the tile countertop and gazing out the window. "Did you grow up here?"

  "I spent a lot of time here," she answers and climbs up. Together they watch the sun continue to rise. "This is Louisiana, by the way."

  "Huh," he looks around the kitchen, floor to ceiling, and then back outside. "I have never been. I went to Arizona once, I think. I can't remember. Either there or New Mexico."

  "With your parents?"

  He's quiet a moment. "I don't remember."

  "Sorry." The boy shrugs but his eyes look troubled all the same.

  Zoey considers asking why he is in her dream or kicking him out, but he is behaving like a normal dude for once. That's worth something. She's also so tired and aware of her actual body's fatigue.

  "I remember I went to a place where the rocks were red and the sky was endless and blue," Charles says, "like, there were no clouds or anything. It was so hot. The ground was only smooth stone and lined with something. They looked like waves. It was like one of those movies where people live on Mars or something."

  "Arizona. You went to Arizona." 

  He hums thoughtfully. "When I died, that's where I wanted to go back to. I guess Redstone is second best."

  She frowns. 

  "Where would you go? Is this it?"

  Zoey shakes her head. She has given it some thought, as morbid as the topic may be. Most of times she has narrowly avoided death has been at PCA. If any of those near misses had become hits, well, there are worse places to be. "I-"

  A lawnmower startles her awake. 

  Chase has yet more nightmares.

  He's embarrassed by them. Confounded, too, but mostly ashamed to be so frightened by dreams of his own grandmother. Of Bubbe.

  They are all in different locations; on campus, at his old house, at his grandparents', his former schools, or an amalgamation of many smashed into one place. In some of his nightmares, Bubbe follows him, silent and still like a photograph, but always nearby always around the corner or over his shoulder. She is a corpse- as he last saw her- with eyes moving and watching, daring him to acknowledge her. Somehow, he knows not to. Knows he must pretend he cannot see her.

  In others, she is actively chasing him. He only barely outpaces her. Or the thing that takes her shape, it sprints and moves quite unlike anyone he has ever seen. Chase is bogged down as if running through an invisible sludge. Bubbe shrieks after him like a banshee. Cries out that he wasn't there for her. Reminds him that it was Zoey who invited her to PCA, not her own grandson. "Where's your pretty shikse now? Has she left you again?"

  However last night he dreamed he was back at the resort. A recurring nightmare of being lost in an endless maze of hallways and closed doors. Hounded and pursued, touched and grabbed by hands like stepping through a spider's web. Water sloshes across the floor as if the land itself were sinking into a bottomless sea. It's dark and he is so pitifully lost and turned around. 

  Chase immediately thinks about the school therapist as soon as he regains composure. He knows that there is no evidence of dreams having magical, deep meanings like he had believed as a child. Symbols from the Divine to parse and translate for knowledge are completely unproven. That doesn't mean his brain can't put together his thoughts, feelings, and the stuff of his surroundings to brew something awful. Humans dream for a reason.

  He sits up and checks his watch, then his alarm clock, and then the boys. Sound asleep. He exhales and shivers. Cold sweat lingers at his temples and brow. Chase is grateful he either made no noise or Logan and Michael slept through it. 

  With a huff, he gets out of bed and winces at the stiffness in his shoulders. It's an effort, but Chase quietly puts on a shirt, socks, and his running shoes. Michael will wonder why he left so early but he can cross that bridge later. If Lisa or something else doesn't distract his best friend first. The hall is cool and quiet and dark. By memory he finds his way to the stairs to the first floor. 

  Spurned on by the prickling feeling in his spine as if being watched. Again.

  Outside it is foggy and lethargic. Some groundskeepers unfurl coiled hoses or tote tools around. An electric cart whirs past Maxwell driven by a security officer. Chase trots off.

  On his way, he somewhat impulsively checks on Cohen Hall and deviates to pass along the wall to 101's window. He is only aware of the creepiness of his actions in the same instant he sees the window is open. Through the blinds' slats he sees Zoey is resting at the back of the couch, head resting on her crossed arms and asleep. She's dreaming. Her eyes visibly move beneath the lids and her face scrunches a little. Chase worries and he isn't sure why. 

  Hopefully, Zoey didn't sleep like that all night. He'll ask her about it.

  He sets off again when nothing else seems amiss.

  Lola has decided she is going to tell her roommates about Vince.

  He is as close as she has ever come to having a boyfriend- if he isn't in the role already. There is only so long she would be able to hide him from them, anyway. She just would have liked a good opportunity and, if possible, Chase there to reiterate his approval. 

  Saturdays are nice enough. As schedules settle and habits solidify, the girls of 101 can be found out on a morning walk for half of them. The year is cooling as they approach autumn and so they can go out later and later before the temperature spoils the fun. Lola just isn't willing to wait for fall to openly date Vince Blake.

  She can soften the blow with coffee and a nice breakfast. Vince offers to meet them and be present for the news. Lola cannot stress how bad of an idea that would be. Quinn might be armed. Zoey might get violent. He would be screwed. 

  Zoey is lethargic and sleepy. Subdued all morning by an apparently restless night. She got back to campus and was in her bed before curfew. Lola stayed up in the low light to play some games on her laptop. She likes the silly ones that allow her to make sandwiches or pizzas for hungry customers or waddle around as a penguin. Vince teases her (lightly) about making her play a "real" game sometime.

  With any luck, she will be able to kick his ass in Smashmagedon in the boys' dorm. Prove him wrong.

  Lola just needs to get them past this little hurdle. 

  Quinn is wide awake and energetic. Zoey doesn't speak much, but she seems to be engaged in her roommates' discussion. The brunettes steer the conversation to the goings-on around campus. Various squabbles around Cohen Hall or happenings in classes. Quinn brings Logan up to talk about how she is encouraging him to engage his curiosity more. He has an intelligent mind and he ought to use it for more than just mischief.

  "What about Chase," Lola asks, feigning (with great talent) nonchalance. A natural passing of the proverbial "talking stick" so she can go next. "How's the bad boy doing?"

  Zoey blinks rapidly. Whatever had been processing behind umber eyes comes to a screeching halt. "The what?"

  "The Bad Basketball Boy," Quinn jokes, waving her hands for spooky emphasis. 

  The blonde's face draws up in confusion, her eyes shift between them. Lola, to Quinn, to some spot between them, then back again. "Are we still talking about Chase?"

  Lola nods. "Yes."

  "My Chase," she asks again, for clarity, "Chase Bartholomew Matthews?"

  Which is a delightfully sweet thing for her to say. The pair are so reserved and- in Vince's words- old-fashioned that Lola has barely heard them call each other by affectionate terms. She knew Chase was dying to do so. For the last few weeks before summer break, he was testing all kinds of them on Zoey. He openly loved "sweetheart" because she sounded so southern when she said it back. My girl and My Zo, too.

  He must call her that so often in their private moments that Zoey is lapsing into using it on him. My Chase. 

  Quinn waves off the moniker. "He probably is still adjusting to his new... level of fitness. Like an additional puberty."

  Zoey frowns. "He didn't tell me Coach pulled him from play."

  "I wouldn't worry," Lola shrugs. "Chase is a good guy. It's not like he's some 'roided out monster. He just needs time to adapt and stuff."

  "Exactly. Besides, basketball players always flop for fouls, like you always say."

  And suddenly one of the two people she was most worried about receiving the news being so distracted by her own boyfriend's "drama" loosens Lola's tongue. The Latina had an artful presentation prepared. A story. A monologue about her year thus far and how much she has changed since meeting everyone in Sophomore year. How people grow and change and blah, blah, blah. Then she would give her sales pitch on Vince- middle-name-still-unknown- Blake.

  Her boyfriend.

  Instead, Lola just comes out with it. "I've been seeing a guy. You both know him, well, you knew him. He's different now. It's Vince."

  Quinn's head whips to face her in her periphery. Zoey slowly looks up across the table. "Vince Blake?"

  Lola nods. "For weeks now."

  Tense silence descends on the table. Without thinking, and in the panic brought on by the withering stares of both her roommates she blurts. "Chase gave us his blessing. He has been covering for me."

  Lola regrets it the next second. Mouth closing audibly while Zoey's eyes narrow. "He what?"

  Chase can't actually believe how much he disclosed.

  It hits like a freight train on his run. There is only small consolation in the fact there wasn't very many of his classmates there to hear any of the things he said- and even less that were sober. Any relief is quickly wiped out by the fact that Zoey was one of them. She probably slept through most of it. Not enough to keep her from asking for details.

  Maybe he should just walk off a cliff. Pete shouldn't have fished him out of the waves in Hawaii. Chase thinks he could climb both sets of fences faster than anyone could stop him.

  He is suspicious about Zoey's lack of response to anything he confessed to last night, in fact. The sun is out and it is Saturday morning, he imagines she is already awake out with the girls. The three are either getting coffee or on their way to do so. Walking around before the heat sets in. He supposes Zoey might already be in Portfolio Club. 

  She is so squeamish about anything even remotely sexual. Why was last night any different? What changed to make her curious about- 

  Chase doesn't want to even think about it. Too mortifying. 

  Logan is still out cold on his bunk. Michael is half awake and stretching on the floor. He shoots Chase a puzzled look when he enters and throws his arms up in a gesture of confusion. A silent "dude, what?"  To answer, Chase holds on hand flat, palm up, and the uses his index and middle finger on the other to mimic the action of legs running. Michael nods in understanding before making the same gesture as before. This time, the tall boy perceives it as a "why?"

  He shrugs. An honest answer, if abbreviated.

  His best friend eyes him with serious skepticism. More than a few seconds pass. It feels like minutes under the weight of the scrutinizing gaze. Eventually Michael continues stretching. Chase grabs his towel and trudges down the hall. Too terrified to tell him about what he did and said the night before. His stomach churns. He scrubs and scrubs under ice water streams. Dunks his head and tips his face into them.

  It isn't until he begins drying off that he realizes he forgot clothes. Chase thumps his forehead against the tile. Once, twice, and then thrice. Emblematic of the morning he has had. Chase stalks back to his dorm room in his towel like an idiot and walks in on a perplexed Logan and an even more concerned Michael. "I fucking forgot my clothes," he grumbles.

  Logan props himself up on his elbow and rubs his eyes with one hand. "How did Zoey react?"

  "To what," Chase's blood runs cold. 

  "This," the shorter boy gestures to the whole of his body, "you and your fitness journey. Isn't that what she got the room for?"

  "Zoey got a room?" Michael is completely on his feet and quickly paces a complete circle around his best friend. "What are you two-"

  "Nothing," Chase rolls his eyes. "She rented one last time, too. To wash the chlorine out of her hair. I took a shower too-"

  At Logan's open mouth, he is quick to add, "separately. We got a ride back in a cab. She says pool chemicals fuck up blonde hair or something. I know better than to argue."

  "Happy wife, happy life," Michael notes. Chase feels his heart painfully clench and unclench out of time with its normal beat. It takes all of his self control to not break and he isn't sure why.

  Instead, he shrugs. 

  When finished with his exam, Michael tilts his head. "No hickies or scratches. I don't know if I'm relieved or disappointed."

  Me neither, brother. "Calm down."

  Logan sits up slowly, frowning, eyebrows furrowed. Chase fists his change of clothes and feels his pulse jump into his neck. There is something in his roommate's gaze that is more than just suspicious. Both their expressions convey some general disbelief. Chase considers looking up ways to fake a convincing hicky or just never taking his shirt off ever again. The latter is probably best for everyone.

  Suddenly, two phones go off. Logan flops backwards to wrest his from his bedsheets. Chase sidles along his mattress for his own. Michael mutters something like, "weird start to the day."

  "You could say that again," the taller boy huffs and sees Zoey's contact on his phone. Reflex implores him not to answer. That is not what a boyfriend would do, however. Logan is already babbling in a way that suggests it's Quinn on his line. With a deep breath, he accepts the call. "Hey, Zo."

  "Why didn't you tell me about Lola and Vince Blake?" He winces. She does not sound pleased.

  "Uh... hang on. I have to call you back." Chase hangs up and darts back down the hall to change and head outside. If she wants the truth, she will get the damned truth. No matter how bitter.

  He did not anticipate Lola being dragged into their meeting. Zoey didn't seem to grasp (probably because he was too self-conscious to make it clear) that this was a private conversation. Chase is often careful about what he says and does in front of people and, most especially, their friends. God forbid anyone hear him ask to talk to Zoey in private about him sympathizing with a relationship he can't have.

  But Zoey totes Lola along like a mother might do a disobedient child. The blonde looks at him with absolute disapproval, arms crossed and face stern, eyebrows up and challenging. Lola gives him a quick, whispered apology through her grimace. "Sorry."

  "Don't be," Chase is shockingly calm. What's the worst that can happen? They "break up" a little ahead of schedule. Oh well. It's not like she can break his heart when it isn't whole to start with. "C'mon, let's go somewhere cool and quiet."

  Zoey is seething silently as they get to the doors into Theater. They are unlocked, meaning something is happening inside. He wracks his brain for the all the concurrent scheduling, but he comes up with next to nothing. His memory fails him. The voices coming from the stage area sound young- freshman or middle school- and he wonders if maybe it is a club meeting.

  Without thinking- because his brain is still in a hazy fog- he reaches into his back pocket for his wallet and digs out a comically old-looking key from the coin pouch. Chase continues on to the narrow door into the basement and unlocks it. An updraft of cold, damp air hits him as he opens it. 

  "Wow," Lola peers down the steep stairs, "I have been dying to see what's down there since, like, forever."

  Chase snorts. "Get ready for disappointment."

  And then he turns and crashes face first into a huge-fucking-problem. Zoey's eyes fixate on the dimly lit stairwell. Fear breaks her expression. He wonders if she notices her arms cross tighter as if to hug herself. 

  Because she is scared of him. More than anything else. He is inundated with a deluge of memories of her hesitating around him. Chase thinks about the night he walked her out of here and to the courts in the dark. How her hands stayed out and defensive. The distrust in her voice. 

  "We don't have to," he begins, endeavoring to ease her worries. He will take them to well-lit places with lots of-

  Zoey shakes her head. "I'm curious, too."

  Liar. Her eyes betray her. "Okay."

  Chase makes it a point to go down the steps first. At the bottom is a boxy room with three more doors branching off into slightly smaller rooms. Storage of old parts and defunct equipment from years past. The main room smells heavily of laundry, something slightly acrid, and wet. Industrial washers and driers straight from the 80's line the rear wall. One of the washers is gutted down to just a metal tub to hand wash delicate costume pieces. 

  Out of an abundance of caution, he heads straight to the back wall and hops up on a drier to sit. That way, he isn't blocking either of them from the exit. The motion sensor light rattles over their head. "Welcome to the lamest secret on campus."

  Lola doesn't seem to agree. She eyes the decorations and pictures hung on the concrete walls in fascination. "It's like a time capsule. These guys graduated in the 50's."

  "The oldest Troop photo in here is from '54. It's crazy."

  Zoey is suddenly quiet and subdued. She follows her roommate around to look at the pictures and banners. Old newspaper clippings in slim wooden frames and signed letters from previous graduates turned professional actors. Chase makes himself smaller and waits patiently to be scolded. 

  Michael knows something is wrong with his best friend.

  He just doesn't know what it could be. When Chase's grandmother died, the guy was so transparently bereaved. Erratic and acting out of character. Lashing out at anyone- even Zoey- for anything until it culminated in the debacle over that stupid radio. No amount of arguing or tough love from Michael was setting Chase straight.

  They both know Zoey was the one to snap him out of it.

  She has an almost supernatural power over him. A magnetism that has kept them stuck to each other for all this time. Drawn Chase in, even from their first meeting, like a moth to a flame. Not that the blonde had any idea. Part of it was the boy's refusal to talk about it. Even with Michael, he kept most of it to himself until whatever he was feeling bubbled over to random, intense confessions. 

  But also Zoey was wildly oblivious. 

  That boy was constantly orbiting her and gazing upon her like she was the sun, the moon, and the fucking stars. Somehow not noticing how he was desperate to be included in her plans. Unaware of how much Chase involved himself in everything she was up to and dragging his best friend along. Even last year, how eagerly Chase snapped up every opportunity to be close to her with overt and obvious (to everyone but Zoey) flirting. 

  Such as rubbing her feet. Michael had never thought of that kind of massage on that part of the body as romantic. In his understanding, that was a thing a dude did when he was in the dog house. A punishment, or groveling gesture. Like randomly buying flowers. Now that he has Lisa, the compulsion makes sense. He has several times over mimicked something Chase has done with Zoey (before they were dating) with his own girlfriend. It's a hit every time. 

  That's how he knows they are both lying. 

  Something bad happened between them. It's glaringly apparent. Under no circumstance can Michael envision a world in which Zoey is the one initiating hand-holding and staring longingly after Chase and he isn't on cloud nine. The fact is, in doing some basic math, they are spending much less time together now than probably ever before even with their sporadic dates and going to the pool. 

  Michael feels like a bad friend for taking so long to notice. This has been going on for weeks at the very least. He sits quietly in their dorm with this discovery and wonders what he should do. How he can help. 

  Because if it doesn't work out for Chase and Zoey, well, who will it work out for?

  Logan goes out for a ride on his skateboard. 

  It feels good to be out and about in the sunshine. Quinn doesn't join him. She texted him about Lola's "betrayal" and is now fuming in her dorm room. He replied back that it would be okay. That if Chase was over it, so was he. In fact, Logan would like to forget about the whole event entirely. From him being a dick to his roommate all the way to getting punched. All of it.

  He probably should have said it over the phone rather than through text. Now Logan is in trouble with Quinn, too. Chase has always told him that no girl wants to be told to "calm down." Of course, he had to fuck it up worse by texting her to "lighten up."

  He knew it was a mistake the second he hit send. At least he could convey tone and intention with his voice- even if not in person- through letters on a screen it is much harder. Logan rereads his messages and sees that they come across as douchey. He cringes. 

  Quinn will need some time to cool off. Later he will show up with an apology and chocolates. Maybe by then she and Lola will make amends and she will be much more relaxed and receptive. 

  At least he isn't Chase, who now has to contend with both his own girlfriend's ire, as well as Quinn's. 

  Besides this hiccup, things are going well for Logan so far. He plans to coast through this year with easier classes and graduate solidly in the middle of the overall pack of his peers. Elections among The Silver Hammers have settled and he is now in the role of Treasurer. It's ceremonial and doesn't actually mean anything, but having a title is good. Having a title and no obligations is even better.

  Dad is the opposite.

  In fact, his father reminds him a lot of Zoey. He didn't quite make that connection until Spring Fling in sophomore year. Malcom Reese is a Producer with a whole company at his disposal. Staff and secretaries and various paid interns hungry for work and credits. Does that stop the man from personally overseeing every project on his desk? No. He insisted on hosting Gender Defenders even as they were casting the permanent host and workshopping challenges. 

  Hours of work. Hours and hours. That's probably why Logan has had so many step moms. 

  As for himself, he would like to avoid that same fate. The late nights turning to early mornings and taking heart meds by forty and needing to be tranquilized just to sleep. Logan will spend probably (hopefully) at least a decade working under his father before he fully takes over. Zoey is better at delegating tasks that his father is.

  She would kill him if he said it, but he thinks it's because she is a woman. He notices it in Quinn, too. Edgar Reese- grandpa- overworked himself with the same borderline psychotic fervor that Malcom Reese does. As a boy, he wondered why Grandpa was still working even into his old age. Why he hadn't retired outright or at least let his TA's and lab assistants take work off his plate. That's their job and they want to do that.

  But the old man was too proud and unwilling to let go and take a backseat role. Withholding technical information from his underlings to keep them from accomplishing or discovering without him. Edgar Reese had to be forcibly retired by a board. 

  Something Logan thinks he will eventually have to do to his dad, too.

  Meanwhile, Zoey is happy to get help and share credit with others. She has no stupid pride or arrogance that keeps her from networking with others for their talents. Quinn is excited to work with the PCA labs and used to love having Mark's assistance. Especially after Paige, she is way more willing to work with others. It's part of the scientific method, she says, share results. Peer review. 

  This year, Logan does want to do at least one big project. He just doesn't know what, yet. Throw some kind of event or something. He mulls his options over to keep from freaking out and prematurely texting Quinn back.

  Zoey loses all interest and energy in yelling at her friends.

  Watching Lola drift from wall hanging to wall hanging with genuine fascination and curiosity. Chase sometimes supplies answers to her questions or offers his own speculations about the people in the pictures or random scraps of framed fabric. Suddenly, Zoey wonders what their relationship might have looked like. If he hadn't been so...

  The playwright and the actress. A fitting couple. She thinks his steady persistence would have gotten into Lola's head and slowed her down. Helped her appreciate the little things and smell the roses that he, most certainly, would have brought her. Lola would balance Chase out by cultivating his confidence. Encouraging him to say and do what he wants more often. 

  Zoey imagines a scenario where Chase brings Lola down to the basement to show her that it is not nearly as cool as she hopes. Humoring her enthusiasm with lopsided grins and stories about anything she asked. Even if he had to make one up on the spot. They would probably make out down here, too. 

  That makes her frown. The boy stays back. Seated and engaged while her roommate nervously bounces around subjects. They expect to be yelled at and punished. Chase anticipates. Zoey hears his words in her head on repeat. "I don't know what I did that made you so scared of me." While it's her they are afraid of.

  "You know," Zoey finally says, "I overreacted. To, uh, you dating Vince Blake."

  Silence settles even heavier underground than it might have at the surface. The vibration from her voice is dampened and dulled by concrete. Cold, stale air swallows what remains in the next second. Neither teen before her moves. Lola facing away, Chase still as stock-still as he had been. The blonde continues. "I was just upset because, well, I don't want that guy to hurt any of my friends ever again. But I also trust you- both of you- to make good decisions."

  "I've been keeping tabs on him," Chase says, "through James and other dudes around Maxwell. Seems he did make a full turn-around."

  Lola releases a breath and turns to face her. "Yeah, he's kind of artsy now."

  Zoey nods and leans heavily against the closest wall to her. The contact of cold cement to her bare arm is soothing. "You know it's just because I worry, right? Like, I'm not mad at you guys. I trust you-" she gestures to both for emphasis- "but not Vince. Not yet."

  "Do- can I bring him around," Lola asks, hopefully.

  "Yeah," she replies, "I wanna meet this new and improved Vince Blake."

  "Tonight?" 

  That makes the blonde smile. "Yeah. I'm free after 7:30-"

  "Yay," the Latina claps her hands together once and rushes to hug her roommate. Then bounds up the stairs, "thank you! Thank you! Thank you!"

  "Are you sure you're okay?" 

  "Why did you cover for them," Zoey turns, back to face him. She knows he hates it when she answers a question with a question, but her feelings are contingent on his. She isn't okay if he isn't. 

  Chase scrutinizes her. Trouble brews in the furrow of his brow and the downturn at the corner of his mouth. "Zoey."

  "I'm not angry. I just- it matters to me how you feel. It changes everything to me," she leans a bit more against the wall, angling her body so she can rest the majority of her weight on one leg and her back to take some pressure of her bad ankle. 

  He blinks and then sighs. "It felt like the right thing to do. Lola seemed to really like him and, well, you know our friends, you can't stop them from doing what they want. No matter how crazy it might be."

  "Only redirect them," Zoey nods, "distract them."

  His eyes drift down, frown increasing, and then moves slowly to hop down from the dryer. "Are you still in pain?"

  She swings her leg up high enough to rest her injured ankle on her thigh. Her sandal fall to the smooth floor with a barely audible, foamy slap. "Not pain. It's like it fell asleep or something. I was supposed to take it easy-"

  "But you were too stubborn," Chase concludes, "I can help you up the stairs-"

  Zoey shakes her head and throttles the offending limb in one hand. The squeeze eases some of her discomfort. "I want to know more about how you feel that Vince Blake is dating one of your closest friends."

  "You should at least sit down, Zo."

  "Agreed," if she didn't need her other hand to keep her from sliding on the wall, she would have reached out like a toddler wanting to be held. "Will you help me?" 

  He hesitates a moment before replying, "of course." 

  With a grunt, he lifts her off her feet and paces back to set her down on one of the machines. "I think we have ice packs up in the office."

  But Zoey refuses to relinquish her grip. "I just need to rest it."

  "Zo, you should see a doctor," Chase's voice is gentle and quiet and practically in her ear. "What if there is something going on in there?"

  "I don't even think it's swollen. What could they do if my bones have already grown over the metal?"

  The boy shrugs and pulls away. Her disappointment is as immediate as the chill of losing his body heat. Then he crouches down, taking her foot in one hand and lightly squeezing where she had before. "Does that hurt?"

  "No. It actually feels good."

  Chase hums and continues his examination. Manipulating her foot to marginally tip it up and down, feeling the tips of her toes, all while slowly increasing the pressure on her ankle. The entirety of it completely enclosed in his one hand. 

  "I also had selfish reasons for concealing their relationship. Maybe it's crazy, but I kind of felt... redeemed. Like, I'm always so aware of all the times I have to lie to everyone about Hawaii. All of my friends and my family- God, my own mother. I forced you into going along with it, in a way." Zoey frowns and gazes down at the back of his head. He must have gotten another haircut recently and she wonders when and if he was hurt she hadn't noticed before. She reaches down and wordless runs her fingers through it, massaging his scalp. "But- for a little while- I was at least helping someone."

  "I think you underestimate how much your lies also protect me," she tells him, "and Logan, and Quinn. Do you think people would-"

  "I did it for me, mostly. I really didn't want to look-" his voice falters, "like a fucking idiot, I guess." 

  "Oh, sweetheart, you-"

  A thudding sounds from the stairs. Zoey's hand falls away from Chase's head when she jumps. Momentarily, she contemplates snatching her foot back out of his hands. It occurs to her that this looks like the vague beginnings of some lewd act. Were it not for their clothes, or that he is on the outside of her leg rather than between them, and that he is also all the way down at her ankle.

  That wouldn't stop an over imaginative mind from inventing a much more salacious scene.

  But then she ponders why she should care. What material difference would it make to the rumor mill if they are both still alone in the basement? Her peers will believe what they want, anyway. Why push Chase away when she doesn't want to? 

  Zoey only wishes she had that kind of insight months ago.

  "Oh Christ!" Schwartz staggers back from the landing and back up to the last step. One of his hands grasps the corner while the other clenches over his heart. Face nearly as red as his hair. Eyes wide and horrified. "What is going on here?"

  It takes all of her self-control to not roll her eyes. Surely he knows better. Chase pivots while remaining crouched to face the Theater Director. "Do we have ice packs in the office, still?"

  The man puts his hands on his hips. "Young man-"

  "It's my fault," Zoey interjects, "I insisted on seeing what was down here but now my ankle- something is wrong with it."

  "So do we have ice packs," Chase repeats, irritation heavy in his tone. 

  Schwartz blinks and looks baffled. "Yes. In the freezer."

  With a grunt, the boy stands up. Zoey is quick to try and slide off her perch and onto her feet but Chase is faster. Hoisting her back up into his arms with a grunt- this one more of attitude than strain- before he sets off upstairs. 

  Vince is only slightly relaxed when he is informed that Chase won't be joining their game night.

  He is learning a lot about Lola's friends. Way more than he knew about them before he was expelled. To be fair, he has learned more about everyone after his expulsion. Vince used to think his former roommates were just quiet guys. It never once occurred to him that they probably didn't like him. He used to suck to live with; never kept his stuff clean, ignored the boundaries between his possessions and theirs, let his teammates come in to hang out for hours.

  It's not like he needed to sleep. His grades always figured themselves out, right?

  Now he wonders if anyone actually did like him Before. If he had gotten hurt playing instead, would he have still been an on-campus celebrity? Would his peers have lost interest in him just as quickly as they did when he was gone? Vince knows he didn't do himself any favors. He had a habit of picking on guys who (he thought) were weak. Too intimidated to fight back or stand up to him.

  His gambles had all paid off until the one he put the highest stakes on blew up in his face. 

  He barely remembers Michael and Logan from Before, either. It's awkward to try and talk to them again, but they manage to make it through a halting discussion about what video games they play. Game nights are almost always racing games. Vince sucks at them and he hopes perpetually losing to them will ease their trepidation. Quinn suggests a fighting game and her tone is so flat and deadpan Vince's heart drops into his ass. Logan rolls his eyes but keeps his mouth shut. Lola assures him it is something of a dark joke.

  He is too scared to chuckle or make any noises or fast movements for several minutes. Eventually, between the music from a large stereo and snacks, he settles down.

  Zoey doesn't show up either. Lola is a little disappointed. He is silently relieved.

  Chase finds out there is a way to message Forester on The Boards.

  He doesn't have any interest in going back to his dorm, he is off from work, and basketball practice is over. Zoey texts him a picture of her ankle in compression bandages. He assumes she got them from the Infirmary. 

  So the Library it is. Where it is silent and mostly deserted. The upstairs carrels are darkened and perfect for Chase to set up his laptop and type in privacy. He originally planned on working on some writing assignments after looking up any information on Doctor Forester. He assumed scheduling would have to be done in person. The skeleton crew in the admin building informed him that the doctor is not working weekends and they are not privy to her appointments.

  What happens behind that door and those who go through it is strictly confidential. 

  He only meant to see her office hours. Then he only meant to politely request her earliest availability. Then he just kept typing.

  It takes him longer than expected to begin his assignment.

Chapter Text

  Time passes.

  Increasingly, the days of low temperatures and foggy midmornings grows in correspondence with the shrinking number of bright, hot days. The wind wages its silent war. Dry and stinging or heavy and cold, as if breathed directly by the sea. 

  Maybe it isn't so much a war, Zoey thinks, rather than just choreography. Time keeps the rhythm will the Summer turns to Fall, Fall turns to Winter, Winter turns to Spring, and back again. She thinks of it like some large, group dance number. Jaunty music and the dancers all circling the center of the floor in a ring. Summer was alone there, a solo, as She spun in her burnished colors and bright fabrics. Steadily now, Fall sways in to join with and then take the center stage.

  Zoey thinks Fall is butternut or plum colored. 

  Which is all well and good, except she is increasingly aware of how little time she has. Around her, students are already counting the days to Winter Break. The more practical ones are focusing on Thanksgiving Break. Either way, Zoey could not be any more aware of the passage of time if she tried.

  Dustin is being run ragged by his classes. He, like his sister, got very ambitious in his course selections. She catches sight of him often as he rushes to and fro. Class to class, class to dorm, often wolfing down some ridiculous junk food he got his hands on. Zoey sometimes goes out of her way to catch him and fix his shirt or remind him that he needs sleep. "You're a growing boy. You need lots of rest."

  "Hypocrite," he mumbles and then he tells her about his day before hurrying off again. 

  Vince is now a regular at their table or, equally, Lola is absent to go sit with him and his friends. Lisa joins them every now and then much to Michael's delight. 

  Zoey increases the kisses between herself and her boyfriend. Chase won't resist her in front of an audience. Maybe it makes her a bad person to do that, but he deserves the full experience, not just a partial one. Everything she also withheld when she was in charge. Greeting him with quick pecks to his lips and snuggling into his side in the morning and lingering outside of Cohen Hall's doors after practice for more insistent kisses.

  Besides that, he holds her hand still and goes out of his way to walk with her to classes. Slowly coming to accept her apologies, she hopes. Or at least he likes the feelings. 

  Chase is called into the office.

  Not over the PA system, but he is summoned by a student officer. He isn't told why, and it seems the girl who leads him to Admin also doesn't know either. He is afraid to ask too many questions. Accidentally give too much away about himself (and his endless problems) to a complete stranger. He signs in at the front desk and waits in the hallway for what is probably only five minutes but feels like hours.

  He contemplates if whether or not he did his math wrong and he can't take as many off-rolls as he thought. If he isn't on track for graduation or has some sort of issue with his scholarship. Maybe someone ratted him and Zoey out for why they nearly missed curfew weeks ago. Chase paces and tries to relax. 

  The door at the end opens and Doctor Forester emerges by herself. He assumes it's her. Chase nods in greeting, expecting her to pass him, but she gestures for him to follow. His heart races. 

  Doctor Forester's office is a little crowded. Opposite the door is a wall of tall filing cabinets that block the lower half of the window. The door opens into the corner of the room, on the right wall- almost directly in the walking path- are two vinyl padded arm chairs beneath an array of paintings and what looks like Forester's degree and certificates. To the immediate left is a couch that is separated from the desk only by about a foot-and-a-half of leg room. 

  "That was fast," he mutters and closes the door behind him as the psychologist slides into her seat at her desk. He sidesteps to the couch and sits.

  The woman peers up at him over the rims of her glasses. In the lens, her screen reflects white and black. "Well, I must say, Mister Matthews, your email was very compelling."

  Chase frowns. 

  He wrote and rewrote the damn thing over and over. Ultimately, he deleted much of his problems concerning Zoey Brooks. There is enough wrong with him outside of his relationship. "That sounds kinda bad, right?"

  Doctor Forester regards him curiously. "How so?"

  "Usually, if a shrink finds you interesting it means you got problems. No offense. Do you... is shrink the wrong term?"

  "Let's stay focused on you for a little."

  Chase regrets everything immediately. He curses his past-self for writing his stupid, GOD-DAMNED problems out. His pulse races but he swallows and pretends it isn't. Forces himself to try and settle on the couch. "Okay. B-but where do I start?"

  "Why don't you tell me about your home," Forester suggests, "and your family. Like your mother, father, any siblings, grandparents, that kind of stuff."

  The teen scratches his jaw. "Well, there is the start of it, probably. I don't know my father well at all. He used to come around every few months but then I got too big and I think he decided to quit while he was still ahead. You know?"

  "I don't" the doctor folds her hands together and leans across the table. "Are you saying your father did not live in the home?"

  Chase shakes his head, "I don't know where he lived. There were a few times when my mother seemed to know and we would visit him where he was staying. Just day visits. I never liked seeing him."

  "Why not?" 

  "He wanted to see my mom." 

  It is one of his most bitter memories. The let down of being used by that man to keep his mother close whenever he wanted her to be. He recently watched Logan use a yoyo in their room and recognized the allegory. He was the string, his father the player, his mother the spool. Chase might have been to young to comprehend what his dad was doing, but he did notice how little the man was interested in him. Constantly finding ways to cut their time short. Even if it meant leaving his own son somewhere.

  The playdate was for the adults, he was acutely aware, not him. "My dad did not- does not- give a fuck about me. He just wanted to string my mom along between girlfriends."

  "And how did you feel at the time?"

  Really fucking bad. Chase shrugs. "Like I said, I never knew him well. It wasn't like I grew up or spent years with him in the home before he left. He was gone before I was born."

  "A deadbeat," Forester supplies, "it sounds like he wasn't their to satisfy the emotional part of fatherhood, but how about financial? Did he contribute to-"

  "Jack-shit," he answers, "maybe odd gifts here and there like shirts or socks. When he would come over he would always buy McDougals or something. Rarely did he write a cheque or buy me school clothes. That burden fell squarely on my mother and grandparents."

  She pivots her gaze back to her computer screen, squinting as her eyes seemingly skim the page, and then turns back to Chase. "Your records say you have quite the work history. Steadily employed ever since you have been here."

  He winces, thinking immediately of the old Rox burned out shell and Logan leaving him with all the deliveries to spy on girls. Big and small mistakes in one big, glittering disco ball of fuckups. She continues. "I think you might have waited my table before, now that I think about it."

  "Maybe," Chase shrugs and gestures to the top of his head, "used to have a big 'fro of the Jewish variety. I cut it all off over summer."

  She hums thoughtfully. "Are you pleased with how it looks?"

  Again, he shrugs. "I don't think I'm pleased, period." 

  "I got that from your email, let's talk about it."

  Zoey has strategies for the Blix Van competition.

  Ahead of time, she looks up the temperature and weather patterns for the day and following night. Blix's Disclaimers and Terms indicate that the competition will be concluded by 8 am the following day if more than one competitor is still in the game. 8 am Saturday to 8 am Sunday. Zoey knows she can do that. She picks out an outfit ahead of time that will be comfortable- down to the shoes- and preselects a jacket to wear overnight. 

  As for food and drink, her plan is to not eat anything after lunch the day before. She will have to be mindful of water consumption as there will be ten minute breaks spread two hours apart. The first eight hours will probably be really hard. She isn't sure anyone besides her is motivated and crazy enough to make it past then. 

  But for now, the scheming remains exclusively in her head. 

  Lola is pleased with how easily her friends adjusted to Vince.

  He has his own hobbies and his own friends and his own life to take up much of his time. He isn't constantly around, which makes it easier on them to acclimate to his presence. It's easier on their relationship, too. Lola used to constantly want her newest boy around and her interest would quickly burn out. She had heard "absence makes the heart grow fonder," but she thought it was a sarcastic expression. Perhaps just borne of an era of covered wagons and weeks between a letter sent and a letter received.

  Now she thinks she gets it.

  They get to share new experiences and happenings every time they see each other. Vince has his boys to play his silly games with and she has hers to do... whatever it is that week. 

  Vince swings by Cohen after school. He leans in the open door and knocks against the frame. "Yellow!"

  "Yellow?" Lola snorts, "are you forty-five?"

  He beams- too cute for his own good- and props himself against his elbow. "Psh, this is your fault."

  "My fault," she laughs, "how?"

  "You insisted on dating a white boy," he shrugs.

  Lola rolls her eyes good-naturedly and pats the foot of her bed, "just get your white ass up here."

  He chuckles and approaches the ladder then pauses and eyes the space between the top bunk and the roof. "I don't think there's room. You fit up there?"

  The Latina raises an eyebrow and checks to see that she is, in fact, sitting crisscross on her bed. "Yes?"

  "I'll duck," he clambers up and somewhat dramatically hunches his shoulders. "My God, all the girls in this room are so short."

  "Don't let Zoey hear you say that."

  Vince rotates his body so his back is to the wall and his legs hang over the side. He slumps and shifts in an effort to get comfortable. Lola grabs one of her pillows and hands it to him along with a kiss to his cheek. "There."

  "Thanks babe," he grins.

  Chase notices something off with Zoey at breakfast.

  She is moving slower. Her limp has returned. She pushes herself up on her good leg and tugs him into a hug. Needs more of his support and doesn't shy away from displaying it. Lola and Quinn meet his worried stare and then look away. He frowns. "I think you should sit and let me bring you your food."

  To his surprise, she nods and rests her head on his chest. "Sounds good."

  "Zoey?"

  "I'm not feeling so good," she mumbles and then shrugs, "I don't know."

  "You might have caught something at the pool," Chase rubs her back with both of his hands. She shivers, but nestles in closer. "Maybe you should take a sick day."

  When she makes no reply, or effort at such, he tilts his head back to get a better look at her face. He isn't stupid enough to say it out loud, but she doesn't look well. He can tell she either isn't wearing makeup or only used a very minimum amount. There is one he has seen her and Lola use like a skin-toned marker under their eyes. To appear better rested than they actually are. Zoey's undereyes are dark, the sclerae themselves both irritated red. Chase uses the backs of his fingers to feel her cheeks and then forehead. 

  "Do I look feverish," Zoey asks and then feels her own face when he is done.

  "No, just- just that you aren't feeling well."

  "Maybe we should take that sick day," the blonde concludes with a nod and rests her head against his chest again. He's about to ask, "we?" when she adds, "please? I'll buy you breakfast."

  Chase sighs and glances towards the cafeteria where their friends are watching, then back. Looking into her eyes and noting the hope in them, imploring. Pleading. "Okay," he quickly kisses her forehead and is again struck by the lack of excess heat. "But let's get you back to your room, first."

  Despite her obvious discomfort she beams. However, because of her discomfort, she allows him to take her bag and sling it across his body. "I'll text the girls."

  "Do you want me to carry you?" Even as she stands, her weight is mostly on one leg. Chase lets his eyes drift down her leg, the shin, the portion of her ankle he can see around her shoe. Nothing looks amiss on the surface. 

  "I- I don't want you to carry my bag and me," Zoey replies, hesitantly. When he peers back up into her face, he sees guilt. Shame, possibly. "I- I don't want to impose."

  The teen rolls his eyes good-naturedly, "Zoey, I have literally carried you and your backpack down from Redstone to campus to the Infirmary. I think I can handle here to Cohen."

  They both look back the way they had come from. Over concrete walkways and lawns, partially obscured by shrubbery and trees, is the roof of her dormitory. A stone's throw away. Finally, she admits, "I do want you to carry me."

  "Then I will." Chase is surprised by how eager she is to climb into his arms. Practically hopping off her good leg to be off the ground sooner. He chuckles at the absurdity. "Woah, don't knock me over."

  "Sorry." Then with a kiss to his cheek, "I can't help myself sometimes."

  It makes him wonder what he would do, would have done, if he had the same opportunity. If Zoey had been willing to allow him to throw himself at her, of course. Chase used to fantasize- in a strictly limited way- about what he do as her boyfriend. The kinds of dates they might have gone on and their interactions. 

  He used to love when she would lay with him on the grass and their horseplay. Contact. Touch. 

  As if reading his thoughts, Zoey brushes her thumb along his jaw. It makes his eyes sting and he is grateful that he can avoid her eye by hyper focusing on getting through the double doors by pushing them with his back so as to not hurt her further. "Are you okay?"

  "I'm supposed to ask you that," Chase murmurs and is careful to stay well away from the furniture on his way through the common room and the walls in the hallway.

  "Chase?"

  He sighs and shakes his head. "Lets just get you to your bed."

  Quinn has found a new hobby in amusing a crowd of freshman.

  It was kind of accidental. Now that Dustin is on the same campus, his friends approach her at random and ask, "are you Quinn Pensky?"

  The first few times, she was reluctant and confused, but she would answer with, "yes, that's me."

  And they would follow up with, "oh, wow! Dustin told me about a time you blew up-" or, "Dustin told me about this energy serum-" or something like that. She wasn't sure what to make of it until some more shy under classmen approached her. Genuine fascination transparent in their eyes even as they kept their voices low and didn't quite meet her gaze. They have their own questions and seem overjoyed that she does take the time to answer.

  So she had, in Logan's terminology- a market. An audience. She just needs a way to refine what she already has and produce something out of it. Her semi-unbridled access to the labs gave her a studio with which to work. It's half happenstance and half science. Half improv, half measured, repeatable data.

  All in the name of simple but visually dazzling experiments. Chemistry in color and smoke. Circuitry that bids basic power to move plasticky bots. In the early days of electricity, people paid good money to grab onto mildly charged metal handles for the shock. Magic. The invisible transfer of energy delights both Benjamin Franklin and Dustin's friends nearly three centuries apart.

  Logan films what she does sometimes. Most often, he is sitting quietly on top of one of the rear-most lab tables and flinching at various colored flames Quinn conjures from a substance. 

  It's dark.

  Nearly pitch black were it not for the light shimmering on the surface of rippling water. Eyes straining ahead to see, she picks up loud sloshing. A steady, continuous march. The sky- or the space where it would be- contains no sun, no stars, and no moon. "Chase?"

  His silhouette is only just visible even as he is the one carrying her. Her grip tightens and his shoulders feel stiff and flat. He huffs and strains, struggling against the water. "You can put me down. I'll walk with you."

  Chase shakes his head. "I can't let you go again."

  "Of course you can," Zoey insists. It's hard to move, to shift herself in his firm hold is borderline impossible. "The water might be good for my ankle, too."

  "If I let you go, I lose you."

  "No honey," she squirms to try and get a better look at their surroundings. As if to see where they might be going and where they might have come from. "I'll hold your hand the whole time."

  Distantly, Zoey knows this is a nightmare. Chase's body, his arms, his chest and shoulders, do not feel right. They are too straight and unpleasantly firm. She can feel her leg suspended on a pillow even as she observes it hanging in the air. This is not a new location for her dreams to take her to, but it is a new scenario. Briefly, she spies a shape looming behind them. Pursuing.

  He's shorter and stouter. It's a safe bet that she can identify the figure. 

  Suddenly, the vision breaks. It's replaced by the white ceiling of 101 and the faint whir of a fan. The cold air brushes over sweaty skin. Her head hurts and spins when she props herself up on her embows to survey the room. The blinds are closed almost completely, but bright sunlight highlights the gaps between the individual strips. Both bunks empty and the television on.

  Tall Girls, volume so low it is barely audible, nearly at the end of its runtime. 

  Zoey glares at her ankle still elevated and resting on the couch cushion, the warming pack Chase wrapped it in still firm and, well, warm. She wonders how long she was asleep for. Then, more importantly, where her boyfriend wandered off to. The beanbag at her bedside is empty. Anxiety clashes for attention over her disappointment. A race to the bottom of her emotional barrel. 

  In an effort to keep calm, she gets to her feet. Slowly, stiffly, and hobbles down the hall to use the bathroom and then get an ice cold water from the vending machine. Sleep dried her mouth and eyes. Her sweating persists even as she prepares to climb back onto her bed.

  The door opens. Zoey stops where she is. Chase peers in quietly. "Oh, you're awake."

  "Where were you?"

  "Getting breakfast," he enters, a bag hanging from each arm. Immediately, the scent of their contents fills the air. "Lay back down."

  She obediently does as he asks. Her body is too hot for blankets but she puts her leg back on the cushion and rewraps her ankle. Chase sets the food containers out on the coffee table. Zoey notices a tall bottle she doesn't recognize filled with an orange liquid. "What is all that?"

  "I got you some oatmeal and plain toast with scrambled eggs. The juice is a vitamin c mix with some other stuff for the immune system. I looked for tea but everywhere is sold out, and coffee has too much caffeine-"

  "I was supposed to buy you breakfast, Chase." Her stomach growls. Zoey knows he picked plain foods thinking she was sick and couldn't taste anyway. She isn't- not really- and she can. 

  "You can pay me back when you feel better," the oatmeal is given to her in a shallow paper tub with a spoon.

  She doesn't want him waiting that long. Zoey is sick of constantly freezing their relationship's progression. Even when they were only just friends, she wonders how many times she lashed out at him or stubbornly pulled away because she got spooked. How many times Chase went out of his way to gently coax her back to where they left off. Part of her considers blurting out that she loves him and following that confession up with all of the other ones.

  But she loses her nerve when he sets about taking the heat wrap off her leg and fetches an icepack from their fridge.

  Then she wonders what the next best thing might be.

  Zoey would like to lay her head on his chest and spend the rest of the hours everyone else is in class cuddling. That they would start learning how to sleep in the same bed. She's not stupid, there has to be some kind of learning curve. Maybe a challenge posed by one or both snoring or moving too much in their sleep. Her feet might be too cold and his body might be too hot during warm months. Things they could practice solutions or learn to ignore.

  Unfortunately, Chase is hungry and she made him miss their normally scheduled breakfast. He seems oblivious to how she stares after him when he brings her the toast he bought with her oatmeal and then goes and wolfs his own food down.

  In Hawaii she would sit with him as he slept, but she, herself, would forego rest. Instead, Zoey practiced staring. Watching him dream and snore and grumble. Part of the fascination was the physical changes. All of them made her anxious and then there was his friendship with all these women who worked with him to go with them. Even in the daytime, she would wander out into his areas and observe from afar while he worked.

  In another life, Zoey likes to think she and Chase would have eventually gravitated to finding excuses to sleep in each other's rooms. That, instead of her leaving before he wakes up so he doesn't remember that she was even there, they both switch off on who sneaks off out of bed so they don't get caught together.

  She is disappointed when he reruns Tall Girls from the beginning and huddles up on the beanbag again. He yawns. "Are you okay? Do you need anything?"

  No and yes. "I'm fine, thank you for... for everything. For all this."

  He snuggles into the slick, vinyl surface. Legs and arms overhanging by a significant amount. Zoey worries about his neck and spine. "Are you sure- you can lay down in bed with me."

  Chase doesn't respond right away. A thousand thoughts flash in the troubled waters of his eyes and the quick scrunch of his features. "We can't both get sick," his answer is measured and calm, "big games on Thursday and Saturday this week."

  She frowns. He balls himself up tighter.

  "Okay."

  Zoey wrings her hands.

  She paces and tries to regain control of her racing thoughts. Breathing deep, steady breaths. Slow and easy. She closes her eyes as she makes yet another lap in the middle of the room. 

  And sees Tommy. The same shock of panic tightens her throat and nearly forces her to reopen her eyes. Zoey doesn't think she is scared of him, per se, not anymore. Her adult self could probably handle him the same way she did as a small child. Possibly. That doesn't stop the consequences from affecting her day to day. That doesn't change what happened to the other victim who is certainly...

  In a worse state despite deserving it less.

  And it's all her fault.

  Through the walls and door the muffled chatter of Cohen Hall fends off what would otherwise be silence. Or quiet, Zoey supposes, as she is breathing too loud for the correct word to be silence. The blinds are open to allow light from the receding sun to leave slender bars of golden light on their couch. The fan churns with a steady hum. Dense carpet under her feet.

  Their door unlocks. 

  Quinn comes in with a sigh and a yawn. "Hey."

  "How was," Zoey's heart pounds against her ribs, "your, uh, presentation."

  "Good," the brunette sounds pleased. She sets her bag down beside her bed and goes to their minifridge, "I mean, it was really simple chemistry, but fire is always cool."

  The athlete eyes the open door and contemplates closing it. 

  "Want a Blix or anything? Feeling better?"

  "I'm fine," Zoey lies, "where's Lola?"

  "I saw her and Vince canoodling on my way back," Quinn remarks, "but she should be here any minute. Why?"

  This is her last out.

  She could shrug it off and say, "no reason," and hope she isn't acting suspiciously enough, obviously enough, to prompt scrutiny in her friends down the line. Zoey could make up a reason from a rolodex of plausible ones, "I was wondering if you guys wanted to go to SushiRox," or "it's been a while since we did an art project in here." That kind of thing. Failing either of those, she could just run. And run.

  If her leg would cooperate.

  "I need to talk to you guys about something."

  Quinn turns slowly until they are facing each other again. Dark eyes look Zoey over from head to foot to back again. Slowly she asks, "is everything okay?"

  "Yeah, it's uh, just-"

  "What up, party people," Lola enters. A distinctive skip in her step and grinning from ear to ear. 

  Zoey winces. Quinn's eyes swivel to their third who seems none the wiser. She shrugs her bag off on the coffee table and flits about the room while Zoey closes and locks the door. 

  "Why are you guys so quiet," the Latina spins on her heels to look at the both of them. Eyes narrowing. "What happened?"

  "Let's sit on the floor," the blonde says, "I have to tell you guys something."

  Quinn looks like she is going to be sick and Zoey feels like she, herself, is going to vomit too. Part of her wants to know what is happening in her roommate's mind. What she thinks this conversation will be about. Another part of her isn't so sure she wants that. Lola looks worried as she quickly moves to sit. It's almost the exact spot where they painted the boot last year. Months ago.

  In the same room with the same people, about to change everything forever. Probably.

  Zoey and Quinn follow. 

  "It's serious," Zoey says.

  She practiced the story. Wrote a script and rehearsed and rewrote and tried again. How is she supposed to tell them this? What is the balance between sincerity and comedy that she ought to strike and is that an appropriate mix at all? Zoey wasn't sure to start in the now and go back in time, consequences, and then the action that spawned them. Or start with the point of injury and work her way forward.

  Like she did with Doctor Forester.

  But it's different here. These people know her. They think they do, anyway. Quinn and Lola are her friends and live in the same room with her, they eat mostly the same meals and go the same places. More than that, they probably have (blessedly) limited knowledge on the subject Zoey is about to drop into their laps like anvils. It's almost selfish, she always thought, to try and shrug the weight of what happened off herself and onto others.

  Zoey shakes her head and focuses on how she determined was the best way to tell the story.

  Their expressions draw up in extreme confusion. She bets they were expecting something about Chase. Not for her to start with, "I know I wasn't acting like myself last year..."

  She begins at the library. Keeping her eyes forward but letting her vision haze so she doesn't have to make eye contact or see anyone's expressions. She tells them about how she utilized her knowledge of Amber's Law and Louisiana.gov to look for someone. That she used her laptop to type out his name in the offender registry and confirmed her worst fears. 

  And then why. Who was Thomas Martineau to her? Why does any of this matter?

  What did he do?

  It's strange. She has oft thought of how she would slowly divulge this information over time. In drips and drabs relinquish some of her hold over this most sordid of secrets to, possibly, someone she called family. Not that she doesn't love her friends it just... never felt relevant for them. Zoey knew she would have to tell her boyfriend, eventually, but it was always such a far-off thought. Like, when she was an adult in an adult relationship with an adult man. Serious and secure and borderline certain. Maybe a heads-up. A "sorry if I flinch if you grab me sometimes, it's because-" kind of thing. She always knew she would tell any and all the children she had.

  Just because she got away doesn't mean they might. She wants them to recognize the warnings and get out of the situation before anything escalates.

  Zoey imagined telling Chase. The trip to Hawaii scared her too badly, and it went how it went instead, but she did think about it. Scenarios where she might bring Tommy up. Maybe if he kissed her goodnight in the hallway and it got a little heated- enough that they were both in her room or his- she would tell him in confidence why she is so... wrong inside. Zoey fantasized about sitting or laying on the beach after dark and quietly telling him in a voice that only just rose above the waves. A third, less likely candidate, was talking about it over dinner. 

  Instead, she forces her way through the story with Quinn and Lola, sitting on the floor of room 101. Dense carpet fibers too short and difficult to pluck at with her fingers. The low hum of an ever lively Cohen mingling with her stutter. Zoey imagines the scene from the outside looking in (not that anyone could, they closed the curtains already). The three huddled on the floor as the points of a triangle. The blonde fidgeting her hands while her gaze swivels to everything but the two brunettes. 

  She avoids details beyond what she deems necessary. 

  Zoey's vision films over. Saltwater fills and stings the lens of her eyes. It is probably a blessing that there is no fourth spectator. She hiccups a couple times to the end of her story. Quinn and Lola take it upon themselves- in their endless goodness- to slide to either side and hold her. Even after knowing. 

  "I haven't told Chase yet."

  And somehow, someway, she feels their silent reply of, "take your time," and "we won't either."

Chapter Text

  Chase is surprised to not get sick.

  He spent all day with Zoey in close proximity. They breathed the same air, and made close contact, and he didn't catch it. Whatever it was that ailed her.

  As for Zoey, herself, she made a marked recovery the next day. "Twenty-four hour bug," she said, "I'm much better, now."

  But he hears the hoarse roughness in her voice. At odd intervals, she sniffles or seems to disengage with their surroundings completely. Lola and Quinn dodge all of his glances but otherwise keep conversation as normal. It makes his skin prickle. He can feel the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. Zoey eats using one hand while her other grasps and intertwines with his.

  And squeezes the life out of his fingers.

  Chase forgives and relents. She is out of it. Eyes staring ahead to nothing and at no one in particular.

  But when he asks again on their way to class, she insists she is better than she was. 

  She's lying. Chase grows frustrated. He feels they should be past all this by now, especially with how honest he has been trying to be. When he leaves her at first period, she doesn't seek out a kiss from him like she has been. Zoey goes without for second and third period, too. Frustration dissolves into worry. On their way from fourth period to lunch, he gently pulls her aside. Away from the throngs of students in motion and to a shady area behind a wall. A little eddy in the current. "Zo, are you sure you feel okay?"

  She doesn't answer. He senses she isn't sure how to and again she isn't quite looking at him. Gradually, her eyes focus on his. They look wet. Her eyebrows furrow. 

  "Okay," Chase finally says, "you don't have to tell me if you don't want to. Will you please talk to someone-"

  "Can I have a hug?" Zoey blinks, clearly surprised herself.

  It isn't an answer. Not really. Chase knows that is likely the best he is going to get. He nods and pulls her into him. "Of course." 

  She wastes no time reciprocating. First throwing her arms under his and grasping at his back. The squeeze is firm. Chase frowns and holds tighter. Zoey's fingers bunch in his shirt like she is desperate to find purchase. Like she believes she has to hold him there. She lays her head against his chest and he rests his in her shoulder.

  A beat passes. The wind stirs the long green fronds in the planters and draws heavy sighs from the trees. The drone of voices dullens as they grow further and further distant. Chase moves to rest his chin atop her head.

  "Don't let go yet. Please."

  "Don't worry. I wasn't going to."

  Her next inhale is deep and shaking. Like a gasp. Like she hadn't quite been breathing before, or maybe trying to control it. Chase's worries sprout into outright panic. He rubs her back soothingly with one hand.

  After minutes of standing like that, he determines it is okay if they skip lunch. She probably won't notice and isn't hungry.

  All of the basketball guys now know that he and Zoey got a room at the motel.

  For the second time. Not that they need to know that.

  Chase is annoyed. For one he doesn't like being asked "what happened" and "how far did you guys go?" There is nothing about himself that would want to divulge any of those details even if something happened. Just like how he isn't interested in Logan telling him about what he and Quinn got up to over Summer Break.

  But Logan can never keep his mouth shut about anything. Not without a threat. Which is probably why the team knows about the motel room in the first place.

  The boys don't believe that nothing happened. What they do believe, however, is that Chase is still pitifully and hopelessly in love with Zoey. They also believe her to be kind of prudish. So he falls back on both of their reputations to do most of the work in convincing the boys to leave them both alone and to not spread any ridiculous rumors. He drops lines like, "I waited fourteen years to meet her and three more for her to notice me, what's one more?" Or, "she deserves more than that. I want more for us than that."

  That, and he plays on the skins team in their practice game to display the obvious lack of any marks.

  The boys roll their eyes and leave him alone. 

  Chase is sure he won't hear any more about it, and then two of the girls on Zoey's team corner him on his way out the gym. Showered, changed, pissed, and ready to fight with Logan. He startles to find them standing just outside the doors from the locker room to the outside. Both dressed out for practice as the cross their arms and give him matching, raised-brow looks. "Mel, Ellie," he checks his watch, "Blancet is going to kill you guys if-"

  Mel goes for it. "What's this we hear about you defiling our precious blonde in a motel?"

  "Two things," he rolls his eyes, "one being, that didn't happen and two; defile? Big word for you, Potts. Pick up a dictionary recently?"

  Ellie guffaws and earns an elbow to the side from her teammate. "Damn, Matthews, what's got you in such a sour mood?"

  Which is not the first time he has had such a question posed to him. The wording might be different, but he has found himself frequently needing to respond to being asked why is is so quiet, or why he stays out late, or why he gets so angry. Chase takes a long look at the two girls before him and sighs. "You're right, sorry I answered like such a dick. That wasn't cool of me. I'm just... I don't know. Annoyed. I don't want Zoey to have to deal with this stuff-"

  "-she does hate it." Mel notes.

  He nods in agreement. "I do too. Also, I really disliked the choice of 'defile.'"

  "Well fine, I guess I could have picked a nicer word. How much time we have, Matthews?"

  Chase checks his watch. "Roll call started two minutes ago."

  "Oh shit!" Ellie grabs her teammate by the arm and hustles away. "Later!"

  "Make good choices!" He calls after them, "please go easy on Zoey!"

  Doctor Forester lets him scrunch himself up on her couch again.

  He wants to discuss the events of the past few days with a professional before he storms his dorm room and pummels Logan. He is not interested in getting suspended or expelled and also Quinn probably has something up her literal sleeve to blast him with. Even if, sometimes, he finds himself coming really close to slamming the shorter boy up against a wall or something. Wanting to do so.

  "Thanks for seeing me, Doctor."

  "It's what I'm here for," she jokes, lightly. "How are you?"

  "Hanging in there. How about you?"

  "Just hanging in there?" The expert expertly deflects. "Sounds like something is going on."

  Chase huffs a deep sigh and rubs his eyes with the palms of his hands. "So, I have a girlfriend, and she plays basketball. Like me, I also play."

  "I remember," Forester nods and leans back in her chair to get comfortable. 

  "I didn't want to, like, assume. You probably see a bunch of other students. I don't know how memorable I am in comparison." He turns his hands to anxiously rubbing his knees. "Whatever. I know there is probably a rumor circulating about us and our... activities. Of which there are none, we haven't- there isn't anything like that."

  He watches her head tilt slightly as she regards him. "You know this is privileged information, right? So long as you aren't hurting yourself or others, no one needs to know anything we talk about in this room."

  "I'm telling the truth," Chase insists, "sex is not a factor in our relationship for many reasons. The problem I'm having is I think my roommate is the one who spread the rumor and I get so angry when I think about it. Like, I want to hit him. Which would be bad. Do you have any deep breathing exercises or medications to stop me from beating the shit out of my friend?"

  "You know, why don't we address the situation. First, what are these reasons you have-"

  "Oh, they aren't important-

  "-but they seem like they are. Even now," she gestures across her table, "you are immediately closing off. Defensive. Maybe there is some resentment in that."

  Now, facing a crossroads, Chase tries to come up with a story. Or at least decide on if he needs one. There is the ever-growing risk of forgetting who knows what. Even if he does his utmost to keep consistent, the more people exposed to the lie means more scrutiny. More eyes, more ears. What if he gets sloppy? Fatigue causes that in all other areas of life; essays, sports, work. Who's to say it can't happen with him, now? That he won't break under emotional fatigue?

  "Okay," He sighs, "it's too long a story to get into, but me and my girlfriend are only dating until Christmas Break. We have a whole speech for our friends and plan set up already."

  "I'm sorry," Doctor Forester blinks, "you're saying you arranged for that?"

  Chase nods. "It's already in motion. I picked Christmas Break because, well, we will already be apart for two weeks anyway. We'll just leave campus and... let that be that. It's also roughly seven months from when we told our friends we started dating and I read somewhere that that's the average shelf-life of teen relationships."

  "And she wants this, too?"

  "I never know what she wants. And before you accuse me," he adds, "of being some asshole who can't talk to his girlfriend, I do. She just doesn't tell me anything. I have to try multiple times to get the truth out of her."

  Like lately. With her being sick and then upset back to back. Or maybe she has just been upset the whole time and that's what made her feel sick. Not that he would know. Even Quinn and Lola have started to act off. And it might make him a bad friend, but he hopes it is because she told them about whatever she is going through. Just so there is someone to support her. 

  "Seven months means you started dating in May. Did you two get into this relationship with the intent to break up?"

  "I didn't," Chase confesses. "We decided on May to be our official start point because- well- I felt bad about lying to our friends for as long as we had, and I think she was ashamed. Ironic, in retrospect, given how much longer this lie turned out to be."

  "I'm not following."

  "If it were only up to me, I would say we became like, a thing on March 15th. Which I should have guessed would be unlucky," he jokes. When Doctor Forester remains unamused, he clarifies. "So, she was supposed to be in a dance competition that night, but her partner got hurt. I learned how to do the routine so she could still be in it- 'cause her grandmother was coming to see- but it didn't work out. I was so exhausted I passed out before I could go pick her up, and she actually went out on the town with her grandparents instead."

  Her head untilts slowly. The doctor sits more upright in her seat. 

  "But I felt bad," Chase continues, "so I decided to show her how much I learned anyway. We were dancing and stuff by the fountain and she kissed me. And, I was like, 'score' obviously because if you have ever seen this girl, you'd know that she is so out of my league it's insane. And I was already head-over-heels for her anyway."

  Tense silence settles over the office and makes the teen shift self-consciously in his seat. There is something like recognition in the therapist's eyes and he belatedly remembers she had said that he had probably served her at Rox before. Meaning, if she sat in his section, he was also waiting the table his friends were sitting in. Chase has kept it vague, avoided saying Zoey's name or giving any descriptors of her appearance for his own sanity. He also is friends with other girls and some of his coworkers are girls.

  She might not know who he is talking about. What would it matter if she did? It's not like she can tell on him.

  Right?

  "So, uh," Chase squirms, "how do I keep from killing my roommate?" 

  Chase comes back to his room drained and tired enough to simply climb into bed and fall asleep through dinner. He has some mechanisms for dealing with Logan- and his anger at large- along with actual appointments with the shrink. A lack of energy prevents him from thinking too deeply on it, but he knows that's bad. It occurs to him as he drifts off to sleep.

  And is forcibly jerked out his sleep and bounced around on his mattress by two sets of feet, attached to two teenage boys, jumping on his bed. "What the fuck?"

  Michael cheers something loudly. Chase doesn't catch any word besides, "food." Logan barks with laughter. 

  "Stop it!" Chase scrambles to sit up and pushes himself all the way back against the headboard. It is 7:47 pm. "What's gotten into you?"

  "Zoey instructed us to make sure you get up and dressed," Michael stops jumping but continues to loom over his bestfriend. "She wants you to meet her at Rox."

  "Since when," he grumbles. His head hurts already and his mouth is dry.

  "She heard what you said to the guys. Something about, 'I waited seventeen years to get her attention and I'll wait a lifetime more' or whatever. Very smooth. Might steal it for myself."

  Logan continues to bounce. "This is what it's going to sound like the next time you guys go to Bucky's." 

  "You guys-" 

  "Knock it off," Michael smacks him over the head, "they said nothing happened, so nothing happened."

  "Ow! Fuck you, people say things all the time."

  "You shouldn't be one of them. In fact," Chase huffs and gets stiffly to his feet. He stretches his back and hears it pop. "That was loud. You should say nothing."

  Michael leaps to the closet doors and throws them open. Logan hops down, still chattering while the tallest boy in the room does his utmost to ignore him. Chase is in the middle of considering asking Zoey to cancel via text (and out of a scale of one to ten, how rude that would be) when he is hit with a pair of dress pants and accompanying belt. "Try mine," Michael says half buried in the closet, "see if it fits."

  "That's my belt," Logan reaches to snatch it off Chase's shoulder, but he swats his arm away. "Hey!"

  "Do we even know what she's wearing? Sushi Rox isn't exactly fine dining."

  "Zoey always looks nice," Michael scoffs.

  "I know that. I meant, like, did she say anything about being formal. I'd hate to be overdressed if-"

  "I saw her wearing jean shorts earlier. The one that makes her ass and legs look great."

  "You're a committed man, Logan," Chase warns with all the severity of a threat, "don't forget that."

  "I know," the boy seems to have not noticed the tone shift at all, "me and Quinn have compiled a data set for the attractiveness of the entire student body and ranked categories and percentiles."

  The shuffling in the closet ceases. Michael's head and shoulders reappear, face drawn up in disgust. "Huh?"

  "Quinn ranked you in the top eightieth for physique."

  Michael beams and flexes one arm. "Oh, well, I have heard."

  "We put Zoey in the ninetieth." Logan smirks. Chase keeps his gaze entirely focused on the ground where the pant legs dangle over the carpet. Their shadow and sway. The interior of his skull pounds in rhythm with his heartbeat. His brain a pulsating mass.

  "Good to know."

  He tries. He really, really tries. Everything else is more important and worth focusing on. Like when he was little and his dad left him in the hall closet of one of his friends' houses. The dark was scary. It smelled like cigarettes and something stale and vinegary. Chase mentally notes the color of the pants- dark blue- and the carpet- a grey-blue he doesn't know. He thinks about anything else.

  Deep breath in, hold, out and hold. Repeat.

  Logan continues. Just loud enough for Chase to catch, "-I rank tits on-"

  "You son of a bitch!" 

  The shorter boy is much lighter than anticipated. Chase crosses the room in what feels like less than two strides with Logan hoisted off the ground by his under arms. Shock and panic widens hazel eyes as he slams back against the far wall, just beside the bunkbeds. His hands come up to try and force Chase's off or away, scramble to find purchase on his face or escape by any other means. 

  A strike to the jaw comes as complete surprise to all three boys. Chase hadn't even felt himself reel back until his fist was already halfway to Logan's face. He does it again, because it felt really fucking good. 

  "Woah! Woah! Woah!" Michael's arms lock around his upper body and arrest his swinging arm mid swing for a third punch. "Calm down! It's not worth it! He's messing with you!"

  "Get off me!" Chase uses his other hand to make grabs at Logan's neck. "I'm gonna kill him!"

  He nearly wrestles his way out of his best friend's grip when he hears a third voice- a woman's- cry out in horror. A stabbing pain in Chase's leg immediately follows. As if he were bitten by something. The sensation causes him and Michael to yelp and jump. Which frees the basketball player to charge Logan once more.

  Just in time for yet a stronger zap to nearly knock him off his feet. It hits right in the center of his spine and convulses his whole chest and abdomen. He realizes it must be something electrical by how his muscles spasm and seize. "Stop it! What is going on here?"

  It's Quinn. Looking horrified and aiming something on her wrist at Chase. Michael goes silent and wide-eyed. Chase coughs and pants. Logan covers the lower half of his face in both hands. Blood drips from between two of his fingers and down the back of his hand to his wrist. 

  "Ask your fucking boyfriend. Sounds like he has more data for your collection of student bodies," Chase just about spits as he storms out of the room. The hall is full of confused-looking guys. He notices James in their midst and nearly rolls his eyes. Over his shoulder, he adds, "I'm going to go see Zoey, and make my apologies to her."

  He is a little over halfway to the restaurant when he is picked up by campus security.

Chapter Text

  Quinn's disappointment is immeasurable.

  Immeasurable.

  Which is a scary concept for a person who lives by things quantifiable and observable. That which can be examined, peer reviewed, repeated. The scientist in her knows that "heartbreak" is a metaphorical term, if mildly anachronistic. No one's heart breaks. Pieces and portions can die from loss of blood flow or traumatic injury. The interior structures can suffer from malformations occasioned by genetic defects, health disorders, and- rarely- the power of the human brain.

  As in Takotsubo Cardiomyopathy. 

  Logan looks at her with irritation. Quinn is taken aback by his reaction to her demand to know, "what is going on?" He holds his mouth. Blood drips. Michael heaves to catch his breath.

  "Well?"

  "I- I don't know. It's just," Michael stammers, "we were just messing around and then, you know how Logan-"

  She feels bad. The zap she gave Chase the first time was decent, the second was even higher. Quinn's immediate instinct was to step in to protect her boyfriend even from a friend. Even without knowing what was going on. That's who she is. Loyal. "It's not my fault," her boyfriend's voice is muffled by his palm and sounds strange besides. "He can't take a joke."

  Michael shoots him such a scathing glare that Quinn wonders if he is going to take a swing, too. "That was way more than joking, Reese. You never can quit while you're ahead."

  Hazel eyes narrow. "You started it."

  "I only agreed to jump on the bed to wake his ass up not-"

  "This was about Zoey." Quinn concludes, "you were teasing Chase about her."

  After she asked Logan to stop harassing the couple. True, Quinn didn't say why she wanted him to keep the jokes school-appropriate. It wasn't her place to tell him. Even as everything suddenly collapsed into place. Even when so much about Zoey made so much more sense than before she knew about what she knows about now. It isn't her information to share. With anyone. Her boyfriend included.

  Logan wasn't going to know before Chase or Dustin. That is just... not the order of things.

  Quinn wouldn't have thought she needed to give an express reason. She obviously made a mistake to think he would just do as she asks because she asked him to. Because she said they should be more supportive of their friends and respect their wishes, as they experience in return. It's only fair. That Logan would just keep his mouth shut for once. 

  She wasn't even asking a lot.

  But apparently it was too much. "What did you say," Quinn averts her eyes to the floor. "What did you morons say?"

  They look at each other. Michael sighs. Logan does too, and pushes more blood through the spaces in his fingers while he's at it.

  "Well?"

  Zoey picked a table in the far corner. 

  Normally, they try and sit close to the bar to make ordering and being served easy. A distance their waiter or waitress can cross in mere steps. The busser barely has to go anywhere to take their dishes back to the kitchen. When Chase was frequently waiting tables, he was also frequently the group's waiter. Meaning they got a little something extra every time they came by. But that was when they were coming in groups as just friends.

  She often wonders how often she got more preferential treatment that she just didn't notice.

  Zoey makes sure there is food waiting for Chase when he arrives. Michael said he was sound asleep, and she does feel bad for waking him. Not as bad as she feels for making him miss meals in recent days. She wants him to go back to bed with a full stomach.

  When he is sleepy, he's less resistant. Zoey hopes that means he will let her move her chair to his side of the table and feed him. If that goes well, she might sit in his lap so he can get cuddled and fed in one fell swoop. Kazu would see- and that is awkward- but so would his coworkers. They would know he's taken. Three birds with one stone. Efficiency.

  She specifically picked out a skirt that would facilitate the action.

  Her phone lights up. Zoey leans forward to see the messenger. Michael. A jumbled mass of letters she thinks might be abbreviations for words flash in a text bubble. She is halfway to grabbing her phone when it vibrates with a phone call from him. "What is-"

  There is yelling, lots of it, on his end. She thinks she hears Quinn and more male voices she doesn't recognize. It's loud enough that she recoils to put distance between her ear and the output. 

  Just in time for Michael to start screaming into it.

  Lola is trying to peacefully enjoy her avocado mask with Dustin.

  He wants to ask a girl in his class out, but is struggling with self-confidence. He also doesn't want his big sister to know about it before he can actually ask his classmate out and get a positive or negative answer. Lola has just the solution; self care. "Look good," she tells the younger boy, "feel better."

  Dustin repeats it to himself while smearing the mask on. "Is this edible?"

  "You're not supposed to eat it," the girl laughs, "but yeah." 

  He huffs a little laugh of his own, "cool. With Quinn, rarely is anything that she gives me safe to eat."

  "And yet you let her make you her guinea pig?"

  "For science. Some of it has been a lot of fun. The energy drink made me feel like- I've never done drugs- but it felt like what I think being high is supposed to feel like. For days straight."

  "You're lucky your heart didn't like, explode." Lola examines her reflection to make sure she didn't get any paste in her eyebrows. "And you forgot how crazy grumpy you were after the crash."

  "I chose to forget that. Did I get any in my eyebrows?"

  "Nope, you did good. You want to watch a movie while we wait?" Her phone rings the caller ID shows Vince. Lola realizes she can exactly put her face to the phone, so she answers it in speaker mode. Announcing, "babe, you are on speaker and there is a child present."

  Dustin recoils in disgust. "Ew. What do you-"

  "Hey uh," Vince almost shouts, voice frantic, "you should come to Maxwell."

  "Why?" Lola strains to hear. There is yelling in the background but it clips the audio from her boyfriend's breathing. "What's going on over there?"

  "Quinn was yelling at Logan! He left, but I saw blood all over his hand."

  "What?" She squawks. "When did this start?"

  "A few minutes ago. I think. I dunno, I guess it's because-" there's an electronic warble that cuts off the sentence. Lola searches her immediate surroundings for a towel or tissues to get the mask off her face.

  "I'll be right there!" Then, to Dustin, "don't tell Zoey about this. We don't want to interrupt her date if we don't have to."

  He shrugs, "sounds good. When you haul Quinn back here, I'll have a movie playing."

  Finally, she resorts to using her towel. It's damp from her shower, and the green stands out against the light purple fabric. "Aw, man. Whatever, it's fine because it'll wash out. Thanks kiddo, this shouldn't take long."

  On second thought.

  Maxwell is live with activity. She has never seen all of the occupants swarming like this before. Vince has to shove his way through to get to her before tugging her along under his arm. Like security, and she is a famous actress swamped with paparazzi and adoring fans. "Move, it guys! Nothing to see."

  Except, boy is there. "What the hell happened here?"

  James pushes his way forward. Lola doesn't feel good about the grim expression on his face.

  He wouldn't say he knew something like this would happen to him. The odds certainly tipped this way before, he just got used to... getting away with it. They are alike in that way, Chase and Logan. Both somewhat reckless.

  Logan plays dangerously. Especially when he is decently sure the worst of the damage won't come his way. Even when he gets his comeuppance, it's verbal lashing and maybe the occasional dip in the fountain or fall off a skateboard. Besides the whole JPhone debacle last year.

  And now.

  Now he is alone in the infirmary with an icepack to his jaw. His cheek is swelling and tender and his eye waters and oozes salty tears down bruised skin. His nose throbs. The other side remains unscathed. Logan glances in the mirror and looks away with a painful grimace. He looks like he just got his ass beat. Logan's phone was vibrating up a storm on the vinyl mattress only minutes ago. Now, it's fallen silent.

  To add additional injury to the injuries on his face, no one is with him.

  They are all in Admin, specifically to storm Discipline and bargain on Chase's behalf. Even Quinn. He considers texting her some kind of apology. He suspects she wouldn't look at it- or him- any time soon.

  But suddenly he feels exactly as he did watching Quinn and Lola watching Chase carry Zoey back to their dorm.

  Michael made a very quiet remark- so quiet Logan half believes he hadn't consciously uttered it aloud to begin with- about whether or not they'd see either of them for the rest of the day. It got him thinking about himself and Quinn maybe taking a random day off, too. Logan considers speaking his thoughts out loud, but there is such an... expression on Quinn's face that he does not recognize as anything positive.

  She shares a look with Lola, who seems almost sad. 

  Michael's eyes pivot between them and over at Logan. The boys exchange bewildered shrugs before something breaks the little spell their female counterparts are under. Everyone- minus Chase and Zoey- begin their day as normal. Even with the dual absences, they manage to hold normal conversations and prepare to head off to first period. Logan tries to remain consistently observant of his girlfriend's body language but nothing quite jumped out at him. Nothing alarming.

  When they depart at the Passing Bell to head off to their classes, Logan chooses to take a circuitous route to his. Walking alongside Quinn with her hand in his. "If you ever wanted to take a sick day," he broaches with a shrug, "I'm game."

  She doesn't say anything right away. Her brows furrow, nose scrunching. It moves her glasses in an adorable fashion that she immediately has to readjust them. "Zoey is actually sick."

  "I know. I don't think she would have let Chase haul her off otherwise." Then, he considers Zoey's recent clinginess and amends with, "well, maybe." 

  Quinn hums thoughtfully. "They are taking things slow. I think we should respect that."

  Slow is the understatement of the century. What with Chase pining after Zoey for as long as he had. "Yeah. Half the time it's almost like he doesn't want to touch her. Let alone kiss her."

  His girlfriend makes no reply. He itches for one, though, and so says something he hopes will get a response. "I wonder which of the two of them has a thing for the carrying. Like, does Zoey like being picked up or does Chase like doing it?"

  "Both, I think." Her statement is steady and clinical. Purely observation and nothing more. "Which would add a bit to their compatibility."

  "What about you?"

  "What about me?"

  He nudges her shoulder with his. "Would you want me to carry you back to Cohen? Like them?"

  Quinn scoffs at the notion and then leaves him with a pat on the shoulder. 

  The sting of which was sharp and bitter. Logan spent the rest of his day consciously telling himself that she reacted like that because she would not like if he did that. Of course Quinn believes he physically could. She knows he would, if she wanted or needed him to do that. And no, of course she isn't looking after her roommate and her roommate's boyfriend with envy. Or jealousy.

  There can be three hot guys in Maxwell's 220.

  There can.

  Logan grabs his phone and goes to his speed dial settings. Quinn at the top, his dad right under, and hits "call." Then he puts his phone to the uninjured side of his face. "Logan, oh my God-"

  "I'm fine Dad," he exhales, "they're making a big deal out of nothing. Just some, uh, horseplay that got out of hand."

  They are going to call Zayde's house.

  He notices the primary number listed on his file is the home phone and not his mother's cell. Chase is a little confused about the choice, and then urges the office to call the second number. Under no circumstances will either his grandfather or mother answer the home phone after 8pm. Besides, he can't remember if they ended up hooking up the "new-fangled" phone with caller ID display.

  The Discipline guy does not do as Chase asks. He figures that's fair. Students probably attempt to dodge all kinds of punishment that way.

  Then, Chase wonders what they are going to tell his poor mother. That her son got into yet another fight and beat the shit out of his roommate, probably. He's gone rabid, Missus Matthews, they'll say, your son has been menacing everyone for weeks. Months, even. She will be devastated. Coach is going to be pissed.

  The teen leans back as far as he can in his chair and then a little further until the back of his head rests against the wall. It's dark in and around Discipline. The hallway between the offices illuminated only by the light at the entry side and faintly through the hazy panels in the doors. Chase thinks about possible punishments Kar will want to dole out. Assuming he isn't expelled for punching the son of Malcom Reese.

  Twice. Hard. Then grabbed at his neck screaming about killing him.

  Unlike Logan, he does not have a rich father who can use a little influence to keep him from whatever is coming his way. In fact, the last thing he wants or needs is for that man to show up. 

  If Chase is expelled that could be... it. He can go out with one last goodbye to everyone. They'll lie and tell him they'll keep in touch. That they want to see him after graduation and visit during summer. He will politely agree, knowing they will quickly forget him. That's what will happen anyway, this is just ripping the bandage off. Giving Zoey her out. He will just get his GED and try and focus purely on the future.

  Which isn't so bad.

  He misses home. He misses his family. Chester will go on daily bike rides with him even if he has to build a big basket to carry the senior dog in. Zayde will put him to work in the yard and Mom will have him doing chores and finding a new job. Maybe he will go to a community college first. Chase can be home everyday. As Zayde gets older and needs more help, there his youngest grandson will be. 

  If it comes to it, he will lift the old man into and out of the bathtub. It's not like they aren't both men and, well, maybe Mom shouldn't have to see her own father like that. Helpless in that way. If it comes to it.

  The way it didn't for Bubbe. 

  While the phone calls are made, Chase continues to reminisce about his grandparents house. The garden in the yard and the woods just beyond the fence. Narrow wooden stairs and the mushy couch in the living room. Dull thumps from a cane steadily making its way across the floor and chitter chatter of an old radio. 

  Quinn and Michael seem to be in a verbal race with each other to spill all of what they know. Zoey gets to Maxwell in record time just to see the aftermath. There are details no one has; like who snitched on the boys and how did they find Chase so fast he didn't make it to Rox. Those are of no interest to her, anyway. Logan went to the Infirmary on his own and is probably still there. Vince tells her they- the boys at large- heard a fight happening but didn't know who or what until they started wandering into the hallway and saw the result.

  Michael fesses up to everything from the time Zoey texted him to get Chase to now. She glares at him while he babbles about jumping on her boyfriend's bed to "wake his ass up," and the chart. Quinn interjects with explaining that it is something her and Logan made while people-watching around campus. That they never quite specified aloud why people rank where they do and any "opinions" about various secondary sexual characteristics were left unsaid. Like, people being described as hot in magazines.

  Of course they don't mention whose ass is nicest in Teen Beat. It's fucking Teen Beat. The implication exists all the same.

  AKA, Logan decided to wait to be crass and vulgar until he was in front of Chase or, eventually, right to Zoey's own face.

  Which is another disturbing and bizarre thing he has done. This time, she refuses to let anyone over look it. She will be damned if she lives in a world where Logan has done everything he has ever done (at least what he has been caught for) and stays at PCA but Chase is expelled for this. In his senior year? She will be damned. 

  Lisa shows up looking way more confused than anything. Michael goes as pale as his skin tone will allow. "What is going on? I heard Chase and Logan got in a fight... but, that-"

  "Baby," he begins, "it was so stupid. We're- we were-"

  Bewildered eyes drift over to Quinn and Zoey. 

  Zoey's mind is made up before Lisa has time to say anything. She wanted to move mountains for this boy and now God has given her the opportunity. "You know Chase, right?"

  "Um, yes," Lisa half-replies, half-asks. "Is something wrong? I heard there was a fight and- I don't know, he's a nice guy and-"

  Perfect. That's all Zoey needs. "Come with me," she spares only a glance over her shoulder, "if you want to head to Discipline with me, I'm going now."

  Michael follows, of course. Quinn is a little more surprising. Not that the blonde has the energy or time to ask why. She catches they eye of one of the newer varsity players hovering at the end of the hall. Humphreys, she thinks. "Hey, you should round up the other boys and come to Discipline, too."

  Nervous boy. Eyes wide and nodding quickly, he replies, "yes ma'am."

  Like Chase does. Zoey's heart squeezes in her chest like a fist. What if they kick him out of PCA? When was the last time he said that to her? She racks her brain and comes up with nothing. Maybe when she was sick. Zoey pulls out her phone and dials the first teammate's number she sees. "Becca-"

  "It's getting a little late for you Brooks," the girl laughs, "what's up?"

  "I have a favor to ask of you."

  Chase is woken up by security.

  He isn't sure how long he was out for, but he was dreaming. Of Little Beach and their trip there in sophomore year. In real life, Lola brought a disposable camera and the girls took as many pictures as the film would hold. Like a veritable photo shoot as group, then split up boys and girls, then duos and singles. He knows she took pictures of the sea and the surf and the beach itself. The sunset and their campfire. The snacks they brought and the cab they arranged to pick them up. 

  Chase has only ever seen a few of them after the fact. Lola gifted the boys their picture all together in the water. Mid splash and chasing after a foam football.

  He went back in his dream. Everything and everyone cast in a hazy orange glow while the ocean reflected the setting sun's color like an endless pool of grapefruit juice. He vaguely registered that he was hot and uncomfortable. Still, he was deeply disappointed to be woken up and hauled out of the hallway and into a conference room. The light stings his eyes and forces him to squint just to see the people on the opposite side of the table.

  Which is crazy huge. The whole thing practically consumes the room such that Chase wonders how they got it set up in the first place. The mirror polish of the table top reflects the pale ceiling and little round bulbs with sharp clarity. Like a pool of still, clear water and the sky. Except this is some pretentious table made of a tree that could have been a thousand years old.

  Chase sits at the only chair available on his side of the room. Dean Rivers sit opposite him, flanked on either side by stern-looking strangers he has never seen before. Which must mean this is it. His last night at PCA. Forever. 

  Despite the creepy crawl of anxiety in his spine and stomach, he also feels a conflicting wash of relief. Like, it ended badly, but at least he knows how the story ends. There's so much trepidation in not knowing. He swallows and greets the adults with a silent nod.

  "Mister Matthews," one of the strangers speaks first. His voice is deep and baritone. Perfect for scolding teenagers with. "There is a strict policy against fighting here at PCA. You should know that better than anyone."

  Of course. Add insult to injury. Or remind him of an injury while he is otherwise insulted. Chase stays silent. 

  "This is your only opportunity to tell us your side of the story," the man continues, "we suggest you use it."

  A sigh quite literally escapes him. Chase hadn't meant to do it and didn't even feel it coming. Long and deep, forced out of him be his shoulder and chest depressing, he supposes. The options present themselves pretty clearly in the statement. He can either attempt to justify his actions with the truth or continue to try and muscle his way through carry yet more lies. 

  Somehow convince these strangers he is some lunatic who randomly attempted to kill a dude he has lived with since he was a freshman.

  For what? To spare Logan... what, exactly? Chase doubts anything bad will actually happen to the son of Malcom-fucking-Reese. Not anything worse than the beating he already received, at least. It isn't like Quinn doesn't know about the ranking. She is probably irritated by the vulgarity- because Quinn is all about proper, scientific nomenclature and abhors slang- but she seems to love him. Unchallenged, uncomplicated.

  Which Chase envies more than he'll ever have words for. Ever.

  Because how come he has to spend years threading the needle of every interaction he has with Zoey just to get her to dance with him at Prom? How come he gets scolded for "stealing" stupid, esoteric facts about Zoey for a dumb personality quiz but Logan can nearly break her nose and she is okay with potentially kissing him? Chase never assumed she would ever like him as more than a friend, but why does everything he does wrong come with such harsh penalties?

  Why was their friendship the thing at risk when Logan was the one running a dirty campaign in sophomore year? Why would she ever think he would put a camera in the girls' common room? How was it so easy for her to literally walk away from him as it was for her to walk away from Lance? Like his own father did. Over and over. 

  The bitterness tastes like bile.

  "I was sick of it," he confesses. There's dual meaning but he knows it's lost on the judges. They have no way of knowing what he might also mean. "Maybe I should have handled it differently, but I wasn't going to just sit idly by for another second of the flagrant, nasty sexual harassment of any more girls on campus. Least of all my girlfriend."

  Maybe it isn't sexual harassment. Chase isn't so sure, after he says it, if what anyone said in room 220 constitutes such an official term. He mainly says it to lock in their attention. He knows they hear "lawsuit," in those big words.

  And he decides that he is not interested in shouldering any additional weight tonight. He gives the vast majority of the truth- save for Quinn's participation in such a list or in electrocuting him. The sting of which he still feels in his leg. The muscles in his lower back and abdomen are sore and tingling.

  Both varsity basketball teams rally and follow Zoey in tense silence. 

  Sometimes Michael wonders if PCA has ever seen anyone like her ever in its history. Then, he thinks about his own best friend and his actions in the time the boys have known each other and realizes they are each other's match. Only Chase Matthews would dig up a damn time capsule in the pitch black night in the rain, decided it was the wrong thing to do, and go back by himself to freeze and soak to the bone to put the whole thing back together. Only Chase Matthews would stand up to an entire school (and, regrettably, most of his own friends) to do the right thing and willingly allow himself to get the shit kicked out of him.

  Zoey Brooks is the type to coordinate and arrange Chase's grandmother's visit for his birthday. Chase Matthews is the type crash-course learn a full dance routine just so she can perform in front of her own. If Chase invents a disc golf team, Zoey is the co-captain. If Zoey insists on reviving Spring Fling, Chase is her faithful assistant.

  Intense. Probably too much for the average person. Michael knows he wouldn't be able to handle such a relationship with such a girl. One that is both like the flame and the fuel in equal measure. Demanding to consume and be consumed.

  Which is a line Michael wishes he came up with himself. It isn't. It's on Chase's laptop in a document full of "random" lines that come to him for use in Theater. There's several in there that has made Michael squirm a little while both boys pretend they have no idea where all that heat is being directed. Because Chase also wants to consume and be consumed. Dating Zoey was supposed to be his outlet for all that.

  For some reason, it isn't. There is still some unseen obstacle between them. Chase hasn't added anything to the document in months.

  Lisa squeezes his hand. He does the same back. In the morning, he will have to tell her everything. Assuming it doesn't all come out in a shouting match their seventeen-year-old leader instigates with Dean Rivers. On his other side, Quinn fusses with the watch-like device that she used to shock Chase with.

  Quinn quietly addresses the couple. "We need to make sure they send you both to the hospital as soon as possible."

  "Why," Michael whispers. He knows it has something to do with the shocks. His heart races. "What did you do to us?"

  Her silence makes his stomach churn.

  Dean Rivers thinks Chase is a good kid.

  A lot of students seem to think he has no idea about anything that goes on around campus. They seem to believe he is entirely ignorant to the happenings within the student body and that one has to be exceptional- either in accomplishment or screw ups- for him to be made aware. While he can't know every-single-thing that happens at Pacific Coast Academy and has to delegate a lot of oversight to the staff, he does make it a point to know a lot.

  Besides, he knows a lot of Chase's friend group. Like the genius that is Quinn Pensky and the star of Theater that is Lola Martinez. He knows about Michael Barrett, football player and talented singer, and, of course, Logan Reese. He's had plenty of encounters with Miss Zoey Brooks, too. 

  Rivers likes to take frequent strolls around campus. He tends to time his meals to match with the rest of the students so he can watch them from afar. Lance called it snooping. He calls it important information. There usually isn't a need for him to get involved with silly squabbles between teens or interrupt their normal interactions.

  He's seen enough to know that Chase is a fine young man. Before Discipline is beset upon by dozens of teenagers protesting on his behalf. The boy's file is long, having been at PCA for about as long as possible. He has been an honor student or enrolled in advanced classes every year. For extracurriculars, there is basketball and SushiRox, plus some additional notes from his former RA about voluntarily tutoring boys in his Hall.   

  Everything that Dean Rivers wished Lance would have been.

  He barely has time to deal with the phalanx assembled to defend Chase when he is pulled away by the one remaining secretary on duty to answer a phone call from Malcom Reese. 

  Did it surprise Rivers that the boys' varsity basketball team came to support their boy? No. Did it surprise him that the girls' team did as well? No, not with Zoey very obviously leading the charge. Did it surprise him that some of his aforementioned friends came along? Of course not. What does surprise him is Mister Reese. "Boys will be boys, Rivers. Can't we just see that they both get a little suspension and make this go away?"

  He has to. There is no way he can penalize Logan the way he should have already (multiple times over) while giving Chase a "pass" with extracurricular suspension. The only thing Malcom has more of than money is sway. Especially with the private board and with the alumni association. They are stuck. There isn't even an opening in housing for him to be able to separate the boys. Not without shuffling others in Maxwell.

  Which poses its own risks.

  "I knew you'd understand, Carl."

Chapter Text

  Zoey doesn't sleep well for the rest of the week.

  There's a forty-eight our period where she doesn't at all. Quinn watches in frightened silence as her friend and roommate goes completely catatonic. Zoey's temper might be scary, but the absence of her emotions is terrifying. Things shift so dramatically in the group. Michael returned back from the hospital the next morning. If she had just zapped the boys with the same charge, Chase would be back too. Instead, he got hit with a dangerous bolt on the second go round and he has to stay behind for more monitoring. 

  And Zoey looks completely adrift.

  Quinn feels as if she is constantly under the weight of barely suppressed shame. She knows it isn't her fault. Had she known about Zoey's thing from when she was little (so heartbreakingly little) then she would have been exempted from the list. The one born of her curiosity about just how she and Logan became a thing at all. Quinn doesn't remember being attracted to him before they kissed. Logan says the same.

  She decided to go about it with more data. Between the two, evaluating their peers' bodies to figure out what traits they might prioritize. Starting with their friend group and working outwards. Purely physically speaking; Would they have eventually found each other attractive without that extra push. Maybe they were both insecure. Maybe they both were curious. Quinn can't even think about it now. She has no idea where Logan's mind is at, either.

  It's not like he can disappear because of that pesky suspension, but he doesn't leave his room unless he has to. At mealtimes, he is nowhere to be found. She hears a hundred rumors about what happened in the hours it takes for Chase to be returned to PCA. A thousand reasons for the fight, whether or not it was a fight, who caused it, and who won. A veritable feast for the drama-hungry. 

  But Chase does come back and is his usual sweet, thoughtful self that she knows Zoey loves by checking in on them, first. Coming to room 101 before he's even snipped the hospital bracelet off his wrist. It's a little after 9pm and Zoey has finally fallen asleep in their room visibly exhausted and tense and sweaty from basketball. Chase knocks a little beat on the door in such a way both Lola and Quinn knows its him.

  Lola is the one who answers and quietly throws her arms around him in a big bear hug. "You're alive," she whisper-yells.

  He rolls his eyes good-naturedly and hugs back. "For now. My mother wasn't pleased." 

  When she lets go, he diverts his gaze to Quinn and his face falls. He looks so upset. Even if she had been upset with him for punching her boyfriend, his genuine distress would compel her towards forgiveness anyway. "Hey."

  "Hi." She adjusts her glasses. "I- I'm sorry I-"

  He shakes his head. "No. I understand. It's not like, you know, I was innocent in that. I'm sorry for making you have to do that. I'm sorry I sort of tried to kill your boyfriend."

  Quinn frowns. If he thinks he owes her an apology for how he treated her boyfriend, does she not also owe him one for how her boyfriend was talking about his girlfriend? Does Chase expect that? Does he think he is undeserving of one?

  "Has he- how is he?" Then he adds, "I know he'll give me an earful in our dorm, but, has he been alright?"

  "I don't know." Chase frowns right back.

  But then Zoey stirs and grumbles something incoherent. He tilts his head down at her and adorably crouches at her bedside to be mostly at eye level with her. She inhales and puts her hands over her face. Fussily muttering, "I fell asleep when I should be in the shower."

  "Happens to the best of us," Chase replies. "Sorry I missed your game, Zo."

  "Chase," the blonde gasps and stares at him, wide-eyed in surprise. 

  "Hi." He kisses her forehead and Lola visibly swoons. Zoey practically throws herself at him. Arms wrapping tight around his neck and making him bend forwards. One hand plays with the stray hairs around her temple, the other keeping him from completely collapsing on the mattress. "I haven't been able to thank you for assembling an army to fight for me. Thank you."

  She mumbles something in response. Whatever she says is both too quiet and garbled for Quinn to catch but he seems to. Or he pretends to, anyway. "No, thank you," he insists and kisses her cheek. 

  Things don't return to normal, but they improve.

  Logan doesn't reply to her texts. Increasingly pissing her off and making her stop altogether after the fourth day of silence. He can reach out on his own, damn it. Chase and Michael try and keep the mood afloat. Vince joins them more frequently, now that there is free space to do so. They talk a lot about sports and, for Lola, movies. Zoey doesn't talk much even when encouraged by her boyfriend.

  Like, "Zo, I know you're a Saints fan, what do you think of their chances for the wildcard spot?" Or, "who do you think is a better shooter between-" and then names people Quinn doesn't know. Zoey usually tucks herself in snuggly under Chase's arm. At night, she has started to go to Sushi Rox just to be near him.

  Quinn is in a haze. For the first time in her life, she doesn't care to ponder the ins-and-outs of the world around her. Even her own friends get hardly more than glances while she secretly keeps an eye out for Logan. A few times she does find him in the crowd. She spots him brooding around campus and forces herself to redirect her path away from him. No one brings him up. On one hand, she is mad enough to hate Logan right now.

  Her stomach pitches at even the thought of interacting with him.

  On the other hand, she's torn. She doesn't hate him and doesn't know how to start. Zoey doesn't say anything to Quinn and she wonders just how obvious her dilemma is that they all notice. The athlete once said that- way before they were openly a couple- that if they were happy, she was too. And now the scientist in her is unable to parse her own thoughts well enough to know if she is unhappy because of him, or because she is separated from him.

  They were supposed to just be... Quinn and Logan. Their happy relationship came out of nowhere and- seemingly- nothing. And yet isn't that just the cliché of all clichés besides Chase and Zoey? 

  "Hey, Pensky."

  "Uh-oh," she tries to force a semi-jovial tone. "You never call me by my last name, Matthews. Not unless you need something."

  He falls in step with her but doesn't match her tone. He sounds serious. "Guilty."

  "Well?"

  "I, uh, well." He sighs. "I don't know how things are going or not going between you and Logan right now. I mean, I don't even know if you want to hear about him."

  Quinn isn't sure of where this is going, why it's being brought up, or how she feels. She expresses as much. "I don't know. To all of that."

  "I know it's important to you to have as much information as you can get so... Uh, well. Since he's being an idiot, and I'm trying to be a reformed idiot- look I'll just say that he misses you. He does still like you. I'm not sure why he is taking his, whatever, out on both of us. But... yeah."

  She looks Chase over. "You're helping him?"

  "I'm helping you." He shrugs. "It's my fault things are weird and I just- I know it can't feel good. The not knowing. I relate to that in some ways."

  He is dating one of the best secret-keepers in the state. Probably. Not that she can tell him that. "I don't like that you think it was your fault for standing up for your girlfriend."

  "There's standing up and there's punching-a-roommate-and- getting-suspension." 

  "If the situation were different, and you were my boyfriend and Logan wasn't, I would be happy that you did that. Grateful, in some ways." Quinn wonders if he is worried Zoey is (again) keeping her real feelings a secret. At his confused look, she adds, "I'm sure Zoey loves knowing that you don't tolerate such... gossip behind her back or to her face. Girls don't really do the equivalent. Like, you are extremely off the market to most of us."

  "Zoey is also intimidating."

  "Yeah but we also have... decorum. Like, we know what's going on in your trunks and under your shirt. No one needs to make commentary on it."

  Chase gasps, shock writ large in his face. Too surprised- and horrified- to be flattered. "Huh? Quinn!"

  "Now you know how Zoey would have probably felt like," she checks their surroundings, "we both can agree her figure is great but does that need to be discussed? Like, the specifics?"

  He shakes his head rapidly. "Nope."

  "And for your future information, it's the blue and white ones. The way the white aligns with the thigh really makes shadows stand out."

  "Fuck! Man, those were my favorite. Why didn't you guys say anything? I used to wear them all the time!"

  "Well, Chase, how would we broach that topic? Would you have wanted Nicole, or Lola to do that? Or have your poor, beloved Zoey tell her crush his-"

  "A boy! One of the boys- I'm going to kill Michael," he mutters darkly. "Figuratively."

  "Well, now you know? Would it help if I told you that was probably why you kept getting invited to everything involving swimming?"

  "No. I always wore something underneath to keep everything- never mind." Chase grimaces. "I guess it's good I got rid of them over summer."

  Quinn does put on another one of her physics demonstrations.

  There's no fire and no visually dazzling chemical reactions, but it is racing little tin cars off a little plastic track. Hurtling them like tiny comets here there and everywhere. Vector forces and how they work. A lot of PCA kids have been turning up. The numbers snowball and grow even as she starts introducing more boring, mundane science. Like explaining grafting of trees or how archer fish take down their prey. Without the fish being there. Just the cheapest squirt gun she could find at the student store.

  Logan doesn't turn up.

  She can't say she is surprised, but she is disappointed.

  "Hey Pensky!"

  Second day in a row. This time it's Michael. "Now what?"

  "Wow, I'm really feeling the love," he nudges her shoulder with his. He's hot to the touch like Chase is. She is almost curious to the degree temperature they run and what the average is. "Chase was pretty pissed about the whole, you know, trunks thing."

  "He was right," she argues, "you guys definitely should have told him."

  "I tried. I was like 'bro, dark trunks are so much cooler. Everyone likes a dude in black or one solid color.'"

  Quinn laughs, "that is not trying."

  "Well," Michael sighs, "fine. It wasn't. Anyway, just wanted to expand on the whole Logan-being-dumb issue. I think he secretly knows how badly he fucked up but is too scared to admit it. Because then he can't try and argue with you if you break up 'out of nowhere,' you know?"

  She rolls her eyes. "That's stupid."

  "Boys are stupid, yeah."

  "People are stupid," Quinn contends. "Look at me, I don't even know how I feel."

  The football player puts his arm around her shoulder. "Hey, first off, you aren't dumb in any way shape or form, okay. If you're stupid, we're all screwed. Secondly, it's okay to need more than a few days to think about your relationship and how to proceed or if to proceed. You know?"

  "I guess." The walk in silence. "How are things in 220, now?"

  "Si-lent," Michael heavily emphasizes the syllables. "Great for my grades, terrible for my mood."

  She laughs. "But everyone gets along?"

  "I'll let you know when I figure that out, myself. Even I'm in the doghouse."

  "Yeesh. Sounds like the Cold War."

  "Cuban Missile Crisis."

Chapter Text

  Mom will be in town on Saturday. Her plane will land at 7am-ish, an early, early flight, and then she will be at her hotel around 10am. Chase expects the yelling to begin around 10:30, or whenever the earliest possible time he arrives to meet her.

  She is not pleased to hear about all of his recent behavior. 

  He considers it a blessing that she isn't staying at the motel where his classmates will- undoubtedly- make a ruckus that same night. She's staying further in town at a nice, quiet spot where travelers heading up and down the coast may stop for a brief respite and the best breakfast potatoes in So Cal. Chase reads up on reviews. They're probably just okay. Then he offers to pay for some of her... excursion. Since it is his fault she feels she has to visit in the first place.

  Mom rejects the offer. Even though he has plenty of money. Especially now that all he is allowed to do outside of his dorm is work and study. 

  His life is completely upside down and he isn't sure how he feels. When he talks to Doctor Forester- now mandatory, given his recent behavior- she always asks. His friend group is completely out of whack. Chase is suddenly relieved to see Vince Blake sitting at their table like he never thought he would be even a few weeks ago. Logan will not speak in his presence and Michael never stops trying to strike up conversation. Zoey is quiet and clingy like never before. Quinn is... he has no idea. Lola is the only one even mildly pleased because Vince sits in the space Logan left.

  And now his previous reticence doesn't mean shit. His therapist knows who his girlfriend is- by name- and both of his roommates. It's still weird saying Zoey's name, knowing that he poured his stupid heart out about being strung along for months and ditched for months.

  "Yes, but how do you feel?"

  Frustration grows. "I just told you. And my mother is coming to visit."

  "No," Forester corrects, gently. Like disarming a bomb. Chase wonders if she is worried his anger is still explosive or if she is just used to dealing with volatile individuals. "You told me what's happening. Not how you feel about it. Do you want Logan to talk to you, or are you happy he isn't, right now?"

  He mulls the question over. "Both? I think. Like- okay. When we were freshmen me and Michael had to make a JetX commercial with him. Since his daddy has all the money and all the Hollywood connections, he kind of made himself the director and we were his pack mules and lackeys. It sucked. I kind of figured he was an asshole but that was next level. It's like, when you get a puppy, they tell you that you're supposed to socialize it with other dogs and people so it learns how to be friendly. So other dogs can snap at it when the puppy plays too rough and that's how they learn boundaries. People kind of work the same, I think."

  Chase shrugs and continues, "I kind of figured we would get it through his head at some point. That he would be less of a dick over time the more we snap at him. Zoey was always very good at that. There are times where he is cool and just a normal dude. Then he just randomly decides to freak out and be horrible for any reason. I don't even know what possibly set him off last time and I don't want to."

  He is curious to know what's going on in her head. Now she has talked to him, and probably Logan, and was helping Zoey somewhat recently. And Quinn, he nearly forgets the generator thing. Their group is a mess.

  "That must be exhausting. To deal with someone who you keep pushing to be better- even just for your living situation- and they fall back into those same patterns over and over."

  "Michael always had more patience for him than I did. Then again, he had less to be picked on for. Causing problems for Zoey was also a good way for him to cause problems for me and I think he actually has fun doing that stuff. In some... sick way. And now he is putting Quinn through all this trouble, too." Chase sighs, "I still shouldn't have hit him. I know, I know."

  Doctor Forster raises an eyebrow. "I wasn't going to say that. Nor have I said that. I'm more caught up with you still being so protective of Zoey, with all the complications around your feelings for her."

  He shrugs again, "I don't like when people talk like that. Never have."

  "And Quinn," the therapist adds, "you want to help her, too. Even if she wants Logan back."

  "I want my friends to be happy."

  "When do you make time for yourself to be happy?"

  Chase isn't as taken aback as he might have thought he would be. In seconds, he recognizes the lack of surprise is probably do to knowing he hasn't really been happy for a while. Sure, Before he was always kind of an anxious guy who sometimes got sad. He always felt things deeply even when he struggled hard not to. Even then he was happier for longer and more consistent periods of time. Now? 

  Not so much.

  "Well." He sinks back against the couch, "I'm sure I will be feeling a bit better after seeing my mother. I missed her already. Even though I know she is going to chew me out."

  A non-answer. Doctor Forester is making her stern-face again. The one she makes when he dodges her questions.

  Chase is sound asleep, laid out flat on his stomach over his bed. Loose worksheets and an open textbook all scattered about either side. There's a capped pen nestled in the spine of the book. It looks exactly like he might have decided to "rest his eyes" for a moment or two and then dozed off. Logan is similarly huddled on his bunk. Curled on his side and facing away, though obviously awake, given the blue-ish glow of a screen highlighting his silhouette and fat, over-ear headphones. Michael must be at football practice.

  Zoey checks the time and determines she has about an hour or so before all three boys will be in their room. Before she has to return to hers for the night.

  This time, she has an actual strategy. A good idea for once. Starting with dinner.

  She toes her shoes off at the door and steps lightly across the floor to Chase's bedside before reaching out. First only touching, then gently grasping his bicep. He flinches in his sleep, but his eyes squeeze shut.

  "Chase, I brought you something to eat."

  His eyes open immediately, blinking rapidly and grunting as he lifts his head up. "Fuck, am I late for class?"

  "It's still nighttime," Zoey slides her hand up to his shoulder and then rubs her palm across his back. 

  Green eyes fall shut again. He exhales deeply and then blearily looks around. "How was your game? I heard you guys won pretty easily."

  "How did you know that?"

  Chase reaches out and grabs his phone. As he does, he moves to prop himself up on his elbows. Zoey removes her hand and watches him slowly sit up. "I had the peanut gallery give me live updates."

  When he shows her his phone screen, his texts are full of messages from the likes of Jefferson and Keatons on the boys' team, to Mel and Becca before and after the game. He opens the conversations to show her the boys literally typing out the plays and scores as they happened. Her heart skips. "Just 'cause I can't be there doesn't mean I shouldn't do what I can for my girl." 

  "Chase, you're sweet," she stoops to kiss his cheek. He doesn't freeze or seem uncomfortable. A win.

  Zoey showered and changed before leaving Cohen to pickup dinner for two. She had considered stealing plates from the spaghetti dinner, but worried it would make Chase upset about not being able to participate. That, coupled with the fact he is probably sick of sushi, led her to go hunt around the food carts to piece together something he would like. All his favorites that she could find. "I brought us dinner."

  "Us, huh?" Her boyfriend turns her head to his roommate's huddled form on the bunkbed. Scowling, he begins thinking aloud, "well, I guess we could go eat in the common room. Although, the guys have suddenly started betting on fights and there's one in," he checks his watch, "ten. We could go to the roof-"

  "I'll leave," Logan grumbles. Zoey feels Chase's hands come up and grab her waist as he stalks past them and out of the room. He pulls her so she is standing between his knees. Like he's trying to keep her as far away from his roommate as possible. The door is slammed shut behind him. 

  "Sorry, he's been-"

  "I know." The blonde relaxes considerably when she notices his hands continue to hold her. His touches are so infrequent she forgot how big they are.

  "Sorry." He apologizes again and withdraws his hands as if they had been burned. "Um, let's-"

  "You're allowed to touch me, Chase. Hold me."

  He doesn't reply. Instead, Chase slides off his bed and to his feet with a groan. Then a yawn and stretch. "We should eat at the table."

  Zoey follows him to quietly dig the take out boxes from the bag and set them out on their coffee table. He grabs some more paper towels and a drink for each of them. Without plates, the teens will have to eat directly from the containers. Which only means they have to sit shoulder to shoulder, huddled close and sharing. "I, uh, my mother is coming to visit this weekend."

  "Can she do that while your on suspension?" 

  He chews slowly and makes the "more or less" motion with his hand. "I think Rivers approved because he thinks she'll scold some sense into me. That, and my mother is scary sometimes. Very determined woman."

  "That doesn't surprise me," Zoey nudges his shoulder with hers, "she raised you by herself. You're pretty determined, too."

  He shrugs. "I guess."

  She gets the sense there is more that Chase wants to say- or needs to. He keeps glancing her way and bouncing his knee. It makes the seat shake and her body vibrate from being in close proximity. "Um, she wants you to come with me to lunch on Saturday. If you want. Otherwise I can tell her-"

  "I want to," Zoey assures. 

  "It'll probably be formal. Technically, this is the first time either of us has to meet the other's parents, I guess. If we don't count being here at PCA or coming back from Hawaii." Then he adds, "Luckily, I actually have a suit this time."

  "I thought you got rid of your old clothes." She knows she is venturing into dangerous territory with this topic. He only sparingly brought up his great big purge from summer when they were talking about. Gilbert is sitting in her bedside drawer. Whole now, but she isn't sure how or when to return the plush giraffe.

  He snorts a tiny, miniscule laugh. "I didn't bring my suit to Hawaii, Zo. I wasn't going to ask you to marry me the first time we went. You would have said no, anyway."

  Zoey is struck silent by the statements. Each in succession. He didn't bring his suit because he wasn't going to ask her to marry him on their first vacation together. He was also sure she would have said no. He's right. She hates that he is.

  Before she can come up with anything to say back, he quietly continues. His spork digs and moves food, but doesn't stick to or grab any. Chase's eyes don't move up from the table. "That was never the plan, anyway. If it ever got that far, and if you liked the trip, I imagined us going back ten years from now. Inviting our friends so it would look like our own personal high school reunion. Except, you know, one of the nights I would talk you into dressing up with me and I'd propose at sunset on the beach. Or something like that."

  "You would wait ten years?"

  Chase shrugs. "Makes the most sense. Gives us time to finish up college and start our careers. I know how important that is to you and, well, maybe this is kind of... I don't know. I just would want to be in a position that I could take care of you. If, you know, you ever needed it. Ten years sounded right in my head. Twenty-eight isn't that far away, anyway."

  She frowns and watches him skewer a chicken tender, bring it to his mouth, and chomp it all up into his mouth in one go. Like he had more to say and is actively preventing himself from doing so, or maybe to get the taste of his own words out of his mouth. Convince his tongue to forget his most recent admission. Zoey suddenly has a hard time looking at him, this familiar- if only a little changed- profile, those green eyes and dark hair hiding all that turmoil inside.

  She averts her gaze to her hands. "I wouldn't make you wait that long."

  He snorts and covers his mouth with his hand before replying around the chicken, "Zo, if you had let me, I would have waited twenty."

  If. If. If. It's bizarre how much pain can be packed into such a small word. Two letters, not quite a denial- like no- but almost as good as one. Actually, it's worse, Zoey thinks, because her mind is immediately forced to conjure up images of the completely alternate path her life would be on if she would have just allowed it. With her soulmate. Like what she called him in her video for the time capsule. It's not lost on her that he was making plans to marry her after ten years, where she was considering only telling him how she felt by then. 

  But she was lying when she promised him that. Hoping he would forget or time would prove her wrong enough that he wouldn't even be around or care enough to hear it. Buying herself a decade's worth of time to avoid, and ultimately snuff out, her feelings. Zoey wonders if she'll ever learn how to just- not lie. Even her saying "I wouldn't make you wait that long" isn't true. She would and she is.

  "I'll tell you what I said in my time capsule video right now," she says. "I was scared to tell you before. When I didn't- when I was a little dumb and oblivious to how you felt about me."

  Chase shrugs again. "You don't have to. That was... that feels like a long time ago now."

  Because now he won't believe her. Because actions speak louder than words and he will be hurt. It's becoming increasingly clear to Zoey that her keeping her secrets is actively allowing Chase to draw his own conclusions and determine- with the information available to him- what her feelings are. The same way he started acting his feelings and intentions out to her so she would know that she was important to him. Maybe him being sleepy didn't make him compliant so much as that was generally the only time she called and asked him to whisper stories to her over the phone. Like everything else with them, she never tried to find out. He wouldn't push her into anything she didn't want.

  It's strange to go from being raised by parents who literally never show up to anything, to having a guy who willingly RSVP's for front row seats to everything she does a full ten years in advance.

  And everything Doctor Forester says makes more and more sense the more she thinks about it.

  "I explained everything to Coach Kar," Zoey says, "I warned him not to penalize you any more than you already have been. When you get released from suspension, I mean."

  "You warned Kar to back off?" 

  "Yup," she sips some of her drink. "He agreed once he understood the situation."

  Chase looks completely stunned and that's thanks enough for her.

  Fall brings heavy gray shrouds of mist to PCA. Every morning, Zoey wakes up and tiptoes to the window to peer through the blinds only to find fog pulled in like a curtain on the other side. Some days are heavier than others. The sun burns it off after a few hours, but that means the temperature continues to fall. Dry, warm wind is replaced by colder and saltier gusts from over the ocean.

  Which means the morning of the Blix competition will be cold. She picks a heavier jacket than the one she initially planned on wearing. Just a little over a week left to go. Chase and Logan will be released from their suspension and then the next day is the competition. On one hand, she's excited to have Chase there. On the other, she definitely doesn't want Logan to compete.

  But he is going to. She knows it as surely as she knows anything about him.

  In the meantime, her breakfasts are spent being teased by Chase and Quinn about how huddled the rest of them are- Vince included- when it's "not even that cold out, yet." Because Zoey's upbringing in Louisiana and then Southern California did not help her develop a resistance to cold, but it is especially bad for her in the morning. Lola and Vince look like a couple stranded in the artic and Michael mutters threats at the weather. Lisa is from the cold, too. She's just more sympathetic when she eats with them.

  Besides, it is way colder this year than last year. The first big rainstorm was in November last year. This year, it looks like they'll see some rain as early as tomorrow. 

  Chase shows up to breakfast without a jacket and tucks Zoey into his side. "You doing okay?"

  "Keep teasing, Matthews. I'm this close," she presses her thumb and index finger together, leaving next to no space between, "to climbing into your lap."

  He sighs dramatically and starts digging around in his backpack. "What about your letter? Those are plenty warm."

  They are. Zoey prepares another joke about stealing his from him. Until he pulls a jacket out of his bag- that she immediately recognizes from last year- and drapes it wordlessly across her shoulders. It's the same one he gave her after Bubbe died and he wasn't acting like himself. The one she accidentally brought home with her that upset her parents. When they-

  "I'm no fashion expert," he tilts his head, "but that on top of your hoodie is a good look."

  "Alt girl," Vince agrees with a nod. "Hot."

  "Oh," Lola is basically in his lap and still shivering. She stops long enough to raise an eyebrow at him. "Is that so?"

  He beams. "Yeah. That could be your cold weather, Broadway-actress-on-the-low look. Hot. Yes, please."

  She nods. "Noted. I'll keep that in mind."

  Zoey puts her arms through the sleeves and then tugs the jacket snug around herself. Quinn scoffs. "Wait until you guys have to live somewhere with actual seasons."

  "Texas has seasons," Michael replies, defensively.

  "Hot and Hot as Hell aren't seasons," Chase chuckles. He's promptly hit with a square piece of honeydew in retaliation. 

  On her way to first period, Logan passes Zoey. Much closer than he had since the incident, and openly looking at her. Not trying to move fast and keeps his face turned, but clearly trying to catch her eye. He does. So she turns her gaze and crosses her arms. "What?"

  "Nice jacket. Looks familiar." He says it in such a childish way. Like it is somehow scandalous for her to be an almost adult woman wearing her boyfriend's jacket that he freely gave her. Her pulse pounds in her temples.

  Eyes narrowing, she replies, "that's a little juvenile, don't you think? If you would just get a grip once in your life, Quinn would be wearing one of yours."

  "She probably would have some kind of spooky heating packet or something."

  "That she would share," Zoey argues, "if only-"

  Logan turns on his heel and stalks away. She rolls her eyes and heads into the building.

  It starts raining before the day is over.

  In fact, the girls' basketball practice was going to begin with a long conditioning run outside but the plans had to change. Blancet has them warm up with a few minutes of jogging, then wind sprints, up and down the courts before they drill. They end on the run and come back into the locker room soaked and shivering. Scrambling to dry off and change clothes or strip and hop into the showers.

  "You know, I'm all for the drama of running in a rainstorm," Becca scrubs her towel over her head, "but a lap around campus is too much."

  "The drama," Zoey asks.

  "I get that," Yvonne agrees, "it's like a music video."

  "Until we get sick before a game." Zoey bets the boys will be doing the same. "Or one of the boys does. Kar's already down one starting player."

  "Ah yes, how is our favorite Jewish varsity basketball player," Mel asks. "I think it is Rivers' craziest idea to lock him and Logan in a room for two weeks because Chase beat the shit out him last time they were in a room with each other. But, shit, maybe that's just me."

  The blonde shakes her head, "no, I agree. That was fucking stupid. Luckily, they are staying out of each other's way for now. I'm sure it'll all be fine again. Eventually."

  "You think?"

  Zoey shrugs and does her best to sound neutral, "Logan's done worse. He just caught Chase at the worst possible moment."

  Though, she has been thinking up ways to explain (or argue) away this alleged transgression on her boyfriend's part to his own mother. Unless Missus Matthews comes to visit again for his birthday, this is the last time they will see each other before Chase is legally an adult man.

  The topic drifts to the weather and the sudden cold again. Zoey politely ignores her team's conversation (that they don't need her for, anyway) while she stuffs her wet clothes into a separate plastic bag she keeps in her locker for just such occasions. There is such a hush when she bids them good night and leaves that she knows the gossip will be about her as soon as the metal door closes behind her. She's okay with that.

  Because the double layering of jackets makes her warm and heavy. She's already drowsy post-workout and the rain has turned into something more like an aggressive mist. The lamplights cast perfect spheres of light in the glittering moisture. Zoey does not go to Cohen. 

  The boys of Maxwell's common room are watching football and jeering and howling too loud for anything to be heard besides. Most certainly not the quiet swing of the front door as it falls shut or the light, steady beat of her sneakers over dense carpet. Even when it turns to a quicker thump as she quickly takes the stairs by twos. 220's door is just barely cracked open and it's all the invitation she needs.

  Chase and Michael are in. The latter at their computer desk tapping away at a document, the former on their couch which a free-standing mirror set up on the coffee table before him and a razor in hand. Michael winces and pivots his chair but looks relieved to see her. "Oh, hey. You look like a drenched cat."

  "Thanks Mikey," she deadpans, "running in the rain does that."

  "To what do we owe the pleasure, Miss," Chase sets his razor down on a folded paper towel. He has more shaving stuff arrayed before him. A can of what she thinks must be shaving cream and a bottle that she watches him pick up and pour some of the contents into his palm. In fact, Zoey decides to indulge in watching while she closes the door behind her and takes off her shoes. She sandwiches hers between the boys' and can't help but notice how much bigger theirs are.

  He dabs his hands together and then immediately rubs his lower face. Along his jaw to his sideburns and up to his cheekbones. A towel draped across his shoulders and cozy-looking pajama pants and tee shirt. Her silence goes completely noticed. Even Michael crosses his arms and looks at her, amused. "Cat got your tongue?"

  "Play nice," Chase jokes and proceeds to rub the underside of his chin and neck. "Blancet just tried to drown her." 

  "Yeah, don't be rude," she shrugs off Chase's jacket but leaves on her hoodie. Michael's and maybe one of Logan's are already hanging on the back of one of the arm chairs between her and the couch. She barely breaks stride in dropping Chase's off on top of theirs before practically throwing herself into his lap.

  Zoey realizes that it was aftershave and that he must have always used the same one since forever because it is such a familiar smell. Chase grunts and she knows it's because she hasn't had any practice yet to know how to gracefully straddle his lap. If he looks comfortable, he feels even more so. His body heat radiates into her skin and banishes the residual chill from practice and walking here. The contact goes straight to her heart and relaxes so much of the tension that weighs her down like irons and constricts like chains.

  And her brain.

  Warmth pools in her mind and raises a small collection of memories she otherwise doesn't revisit. Good ones, this time. Like sitting with Chase the night before Gender Defenders began in earnest or the time he casually mentioned that he always makes sure to have a room temperature drink tucked away at Sushi Rox because the cold hurts her teeth. They shimmer, each like a tiny fleck of gold. Like the miniscule patterns imbedded in the green irises staring back at her.

  She likes how they fit. That it would be easy to maintain this position in his lap and kiss him silly by merely leaning forward. All that jumping and running has done wonders for his thighs in their shape and feel. He swallows, and Zoey wants to explore more of him by feel.  

  "Woah. That was unexpected." 

  Right. Michael. Zoey would sigh heavily and ask him to go elsewhere but, as she studies the look on Chase's face, she is too preoccupied with how shocked he looks. In a way she struggles to discern if his feelings are positive or negative. The latter feels unbelievably likely. She feels his hands clenched into tight fists on the couch. Still, unmoving, like he is holding his breath.

  "Sorry," she murmurs and pushes off the back of the couch to roll out of his lap. "I just- missed you. If that makes any sense."

  He blinks a few times then nods slowly. She stays close. One of his hands relaxes and reaches out to hold hers. Chase offers a reassuring smile. "I understand. J-just a little bit longer. I'll be walking you home from practice and back to normal in less than two weeks."

  Michael shrugs and goes back to his work, "I was kind of worried you guys were going to make out or something and I'd have to leave."

  The smile falls right off his face the second it's only her looking. Zoey's stomach pitches, realizing she has made him into such a capable liar. Turned sweet, sincere Chase Matthews into such a capable actor even she can't tell what's going on with him. His gaze goes through her.

  "Yeah, yeah," she's frightened further by his jovial tone not matching the flatness in his expression. Like he is merely a puppet someone else is throwing their voice through. "Finish your paper, slacker."

  The cold returns with a vengeance. All the glitter in her brain sinks back beneath the ice.

Chapter Text

  Zoey lays awake and watches the minutes pass.

  It would be more engaging she had an analog clock with hands. A ticking second hand would probably irritate Lola and Quinn (and herself, most nights) so the flat plane of a digital display will have to do. She would have liked a better night's sleep before the competition. Dozing in and out is not what she had in mind. 

  She has short dreams about Louisiana. It's dark inside her house and outside a vicious storm shrieks and howls. The wind shakes the trees and grass and bends them such that it looks like God's own invisible hand is pressing them towards the soil. As if to see how much flexion is in the stems and trunks before they snap. The television is on. Images on the screen jitter into warbled grey static and back again. Unreadable. Indecipherable. 

  Zoey wakes with a frown. Dreams are supposed to have meanings and she isn't too sure she likes that one. 

  Missus Matthews words ring in her ears.

  Shaking her head, she consciously tries to force a more pleasant one. Fantasizing about a time months down the line, when the weather is warm again, and she goes out on little picnic dates with Chase. He tells her about the latest goings-on around Theater and what stupid thing the boys are up to now. She tells him about her latest Fashion project and nonsense around Cohen Hall.

  That she can't wait for Spring Break. 

  "Why," Dream Chase chuckles. Retroactively, Zoey decides they are laying side by side to watch clouds. "Miss your folks?"

  "No. I want to go on the Yosemite trip. I hate that I missed it last year," she takes his hand. "I was looking forward to it."

  "More than that," he reminds her, "you worked really hard for that trip."

  Zoey rolls her head to the side and finds him looking at her. "My parents would have freaked. Their only daughter galivanting in the woods with the boy they know she really likes. Alone in a cabin."

  He scoffs then, after a pause, asks, "do they know?"

  "I brought your jacket home with me on Christmas Break. Did I ever tell-"

  The alarm goes off. Zoey sighs and swings her arm out to silence it. She is up and dressed before Lola is even fully out of bed. Much to her roommate's grumpy displeasure.

  The morning air is heavily laden with fog. Moisture prickles over her face and catches in her eyelashes and brows. Her legs are cold- because she chose shorts over pants- but her upper body is nice and warm in her jacket. No coffee, light breakfast, and comfortable shoes.

  Music thrums from a source yet to be seen. Lola yawns and squeezes in close to Zoey. "They better not play that shit the whole time."

  It's generic, repetitive techno junk. The audio version of RGB flashing lights. "Maybe it's psychological warfare."

  The van looms as a blocky shape in the middle of the quad. A crew probably came through in the night to move the concrete benches and tables for there to be space for the vehicle and a crowd of spectators. Their fellow participants are already assembling on the lawn. The external library bathrooms are a short distance away and Zoey observes a couple of Blix staff setting up what appears to be a water station for breaks.

  "Man," Michael yawns and stretches. In doing so, he slings his arm across Lisa's shoulders. "Is there a reason they want to start this early?"

  "Removes some of the chaff, or whatever the expression is." Chase steps around him and up to Zoey to press a kiss to the top of her head. "Morning."

  "Morning," she replies. He smells good, sharp and peppery green, and she finds herself leaning into his body heat. 

  He tilts his head and looks her over, "didn't sleep well?"

  "Not really. I was too excited."

  "This freak," Lola smacks her arm teasingly, "was up and dressed before her alarm could even finish ringing."

  "It's Zoey Brooks, of course she was ready." Chase checks his watch, "we have five minutes. Any last minute bathroom breaks should happen now before they start up."

  Lisa drags Lola and Zoey off with her. Michael takes Chase with him. They have enough time to return to the van and loiter. Their competition doesn't look too fierce. She notes only a handful of other seniors besides themselves and the rest are underclassmen.

  A speaker crackles to life and makes them all jump. It cuts the techno music off entirely.

  Mister Blix Guy is too energetic and loud.

  His microphone's feedback is annoying and the device is entirely unnecessary. The quad is still largely empty save for the participants and a handful of spectators willing to brave the early hour and the cold. The van is big with no rear windows except for the tiny ones on the back doors. A freight vehicle that has probably delivered cases of the drink to this very campus. The windshield faces the officiant's booth. Zoey takes a moment to analyze the position and then places herself just behind the driver's door. 

  When the sun rises and burns off the cloud layer, her side will still be in the shade. The metal and her own body will be cooler. In theory.

  Chase takes up the spot behind her. So tantalizing close that she could just take a half step back and be completely flush against him. Suddenly, it's hard to be too annoyed with the speaker. Either the man or the device.

  One of the Blix employees sets a folding chair down in front of Zoey. She glances up in time to see Logan hobble up to it on crutches. His leg wrapped as if injured. The same elasticky-cloth material that is used to support sprained joints. The entirety of his leg. Which strikes her as so unusual as to be- "What the Hell?"

  He doesn't answer, but he does smirk. Fucking Logan and his damn scheming. He leans the crutches against the front of the van and sits down with a huff. One hand grasping resting on the tire in the wheel well, the other rubbing his wrapped thigh. "What happened-"

  "This is low even for you, Logan," Chase glowers at his roommate.

  "Hey! I'll have you know that my injuries are none of your concern," he retorts, smugly, "especially not the ones you didn't cause."

  The taller boy shakes his head, grumbling. He leans over Zoey's shoulder, and suddenly the distance has halved. A quarter step separates them.

  It's the cold and the slightly fogginess of her surroundings and her mind that prompts wonderfully heady visions of doing just that. To take that step and spend the entire competition in the warmth of his embrace. Basking in affection. His arms are familiar if only a little different now. Loose around her midsection while they sway. His chin resting on the top of her head.

  Abruptly, Zoey realizes that she was merely remembering Prom planning.

  "Yeah and uh," Logan continues, seemingly unaware that Zoey wasn't paying attention at all, "there's not much you can do to me with one hand."

  What a stupid thing to say to her when the judge isn't looking. 

  Her fingers grasp in his hair above his forehead before she thinks about it. Grabbing his dome with a handle-grip and firmly shoving it back into the door of the van with a solid thud. As quickly as she engages in the retaliation, she drops her hand back to her side. The officiant seems none the wiser. Chase flinches, but then chuckles a moment later. 

  Chase is too quiet.

  She watches him stare at the wall and mindlessly cuff the sleeves of his shirt to his elbow. It's strikingly different between how he is reacting to his obvious stress and worry now in comparison to how he might have before. She thinks about basketball games and how he always paced and looked like he was going to be sick. Deep breaths and stretching and hands on his hips. Now, he looks collapsed in on himself. Chase's eyes look far away and she wonders where he goes. If it's a real place.

  Somewhere she can take him when she wins the Blix tickets.

  Elaine steps out of the bathroom and grabs her keycard from the nightstand. "You kids ready?"

  "As I'll ever be," Chase adjusts his collar and grabs his coat. Then he turns to Zoey with a smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes. Even as they meet hers, they look distant. Elsewhere. "How about you, Zo?"

  She nods and takes his hand. "Let's go."

  The walk to the restaurant is short and the wait is nonexistent. The lunch rush crowd has since cleared out and left clean, empty tables while the dinner rush is still an hour or so out. Chase holds her hand the whole time. Even at the host station. He gazes about the dining areas they can see before they are led through an arch into a section they couldn't. Big windows along the wall let in plenty of hazy grey light. Zoey notes that the chandelier in the center of the section is not so bright as to be unpleasant, but not dim enough that they are only eating by the light of an overcast day.

  Chase pulls her chair out for her. Elaine sits directly across while they are given their menus and she, reluctantly, has to let go of his hand. The couple orders water while his mother orders an iced tea. Zoey barely registers that they order appetizers. She isn't even hungry. Her stomach is a tight, canon-ball-sized bundle of anxiety. The blonde glances over the options and orders soup.

  For the weather.

  The three are quiet enough to whatever music whispering from some unseen speaker in the corner of the room. Generic gentle guitar music. Chase's arm rest around the back of Zoey's chair. He's warm. She leans in a little more.

  "I won't pretend to know what goes on in your head, if anything is actually going on up there," Elaine waits for the waiter to drop off their food and head back towards the other dining areas before she speaks. "But Chase Bartholomew Matthews-"

  He groans. "I already said-"

  "-it was completely irresponsible. You're lucky that Logan is such a little..." she trails off and makes a disgusted face, "but if it had been a regular boy. Like Michael-"

  "-it never would have happened. I've told you about Logan and his issues." Chase turns and catches Zoey's eye. "Michael would never."

  She wants to hold his hand but they're both fisted around his fork and knife so tightly it drives the color out of his knuckles. Instead, she settles on the extreme by leaning towards him and pecking him where she can reach on his jaw. "I know."

  Elaine narrows her eyes. She asks something- aimed at Chase, only- in Yiddish. Zoey thinks. He sighs heavily and slowly puts his utensils down while answering. Their tones become stern and argumentative. Insulting words come from the woman that their guest recognizes but can't understand who or what they are directed at. A new word falls out of Elaine that makes both mother and son recoil and go silent.

  Chase gets up and Zoey quickly follows. "I think we need to... cool off or something."

  "I didn't mean that. My baby-" 

  "It's okay, Mom," he says, voice flat and emotionless, "we'll just be outside for a few minutes."

  Out on the empty patio, Zoey is reluctant to ask about what was said. The clouds drift over their heads, developing dark shades of potential precipitation as they go. The wind causes one of the outdoor umbrellas to rock against its stand. Straining and scraping the metal. "Are you okay?"

  Chase sighs and drapes his jacket over her. The action has him resting both hands over her shoulders that then slide to her upper arms. He squeezes, then begins rubbing up and down. As to warm her through friction. Zoey shivers pleasantly, and he quickens the motion. "Honestly? I don't know."

  And suddenly she can't bring herself to let him do this anymore.

  What's the expression? If you love something, set it free.

  The first two hour block starts boring, then becomes increasingly more entertaining as more and more spectators arrive. The breakfast crowd watches in fascination and calls out to the participants. Vince waves at Lola and then disappears to go to... whatever it is he does on Saturday mornings. The girl herself is behind Chase.

  He's mostly silent besides offer a wave or nod at people he knows.

  Zoey is displeased that no one drops out before the break. She gets a little bit of water and quickly uses the restroom before taking her place again. Logan, because of his injury, is afforded more time for break. She resists the urge to slam his head into the van again. He moves his chair away from her by an extra foot. He smirks at her as he sits. She narrows her eyes and stares him down until he looks away.

  The music starts back up again. Lola sighs, dismayed.

  She agonized for hours what she was going to wear to meet Chase's mother. Lola and Quinn were extra sympathetic and helpful, for which she was and is grateful, but she was and is upset (mostly with herself) that they had the wrong idea about why she was so anxious. Maybe slow-drip information isn't as useful as she had led herself to believe. They settle on something tidy and cute. A long skirt and a flowy, long sleeved top that she can put a jacket on over, if need be. 

  Chase booked a cab. Then had the temerity to show up to Cohen looking so God damn handsome with his fresh shave to walk her, arm and arm, to the parking lot. Black slacks with a matching coat and a button up shirt. "Don't be nervous. My mother's angry at me, not you. Honestly, I think she'll be happy to see you."

  "Chase?"

  He hummed in response. Opened the cab door for her and got in on the street side. "Yeah?"

  "I haven't- I'm sorry about the other night."

  He grunted, quickly told the driver where they were going, and slumped back in his seat. "It's fine."

  "I should have asked first. You would have asked me a thousand times." She fiddled with her hands and smoothed them down her lap to her knee nervously. It haunted her all night. Anxiety prodded her brain and drove sleep away. 

  PCA soon faded from the rearview mirror. At least, from what Zoey could tell in limited glimpses she caught. Chase slowly, wordlessly, slid his hand to rest on hers, then squeezed. He said nothing about it- and still hasn't- but she hopes that was his way of accepting her apology.

  Next time, she would like him to climb on top of her.

  It seems like the wiser option. All three of her efforts so far had been strikes. Between her hazy memory and Chase's own admission, she knows she attempted to make out with him the day of Spring Fling last year. The problem was that she was high on painkiller and he wasn't ready for her to do that. He didn't want to while she was loopy and forgetful. After that it was the insanely hungry kiss after he agreed to go to Hawaii with her.

  It's all her dad's fault. Outside of PCA he was a horndog and had sex with just about any willing girl. At least Zoey is selective. If such a thing were hereditary, her having sex (or adjacent activities) in the dorms wouldn't seem so farfetched. Maybe Dad thinks it is. If only they knew the level of self-control Chase has. Which is, of course, a big fat strike on her record with her boyfriend. His mother seems to know a lot about her. The same cannot be said in reverse. 

  Zoey knocks on the door. 

  The Pacific Coast Hotel is cute and quaint. Old fashioned, with a little dining area and bar downstairs that's old and charmingly cozy with no shortage of windows to let ample light in. Even with the overcast. Muted and cold light pours in and casts the simple black numbers on the door in soft grey. Mist that hangs so heavy one could be fooled into thinking it's smoke and subsequently forgiven for it.

  "Yeah, hold your horses," Elaine's voice is heavily muffled. Almost indiscernible. Zoey imagines she must be in the bathroom preparing for her night out and facing off with her son again. 

  "Who's knocking on my door," Elaine calls out. She sounds much closer. If the doors had peepholes, Zoey would wave.

  "It's me," she responds instead, "Zoey."

  Through the wood she hears the clack and rattle of the security chain being disengaged and the dull thunk of the deadbolt. When it opens, it reveals that Chase's mother is freshly showered and in the middle of applying her makeup. Hair still wrapped in the hotel towel body in a plush, seafoam-green robe. "What are you doing here?"

  And something about the genuine shock in those deep, brown eyes steels the teen's resolve. Now or never, and she definitely doesn't want the latter. Elaine has just enough time to process the girl on her doorstep before Zoey says, "I need to talk to you about your son."

  Worry immediately takes hold in her eyes. Eyebrows just as expressive as Chase's are. "Oh."

  Zoey knows she is operating with limited time. They both need to leave soon and she has so much to tell this woman. So much to explain. She doesn't wait for an answer before somewhat rudely letting herself into the hotel room and steps over an open suitcase by the door. The bathroom door is still open, the mirror steamed to blot out any reflection. Additionally, a small standing mirror sits beside the sink, perimeter lit with a band of inset lighting. "It's about- it's me."

  "Oh, no," Elaine pulls the door closed and clasps her hands over her mouth. "You're pregnant."

  Zoey almost recoils but manages to only shake her head. "No! No, it's, uh, nothing like that. We've never. He is too much a gentleman for that."

  The dark-haired woman's hands fall limply to her sides. Confused, maybe disbelieving and skeptical, she asks. "Really? I kind of thought- I mean. I wasn't born yesterday. You guys went to Hawaii and-"

  "That's what I want to talk to you about. You should sit down." Her stomach clenches, pitches, and rolls. As if it, too, would like to escape from her and here. As if it would plot with her heart to break free of their confines and flee to go be with-

  "Oh God." Elaine does as she is asked. Face drained of color, dark eyes scouring Zoey's while she drops to sit at the foot of the bed.

  The teen grabs the office chair from the desk and places it across from her. A little further than arm's reach. "Missus Matthews, I love your son."

  "Are you asking me for my blessing?"

  For a wedding. Zoey shakes her head (but inside, she holds out hope). "I'm telling you because it is important that you hear it. Chase doesn't believe me when I saw it to him, and I think it hurts him when I do, so I don't. Not often."

  "He's always had confidence issues-"

  "And I'm a known liar," the blonde confesses. "He has no reason to trust me. And now- and now I've made him a liar, too."

  "Baby," Elaine reaches out. It takes all of her self-control to not abandon her seat and climb into the woman's lap like a child. She smells like something floral and motherly in a way that makes Zoey's eyes water. Grief. Missus Matthews doesn't know it yet, but once she does, it will be a long, long time before she extends any sympathy or comfort to the girl who hurt her son. That must be part of the reason he turned out like he did and she turned out this way. His mom would protect him. Hers didn't. 

  Because everything comes back to Tommy.

  "Chase went to Hawaii this summer without me. I never got on the plane and he was alone most of the time." 

  The news does not land evenly or gracefully. Probably because it leaves her in a rush. Confusion fully ensnares Missus Matthews countenance, contorts her features into a puzzled scowl. First for a moment, then seconds continue to pass. The words long since ceased to vibrate and a deafening silence overtakes the room. Then the expression relaxes only a little. "What?"

  Zoey doesn't feel that she is breathing. All she feels is the tightening in her chest and the familiar sting of tears in her eyes. But this visit solidified that Chase deserves more than this. Than what she has been able to give. "It's a long, long story."

  All laid out and bare, it was a very long story indeed.

  Months and months. Years and years. So much behind the scenes and backstory that Zoey had never shared, and if she had, it was only bits and pieces. Missus Matthews was more aware of everything that happened at PCA than she even realized, and even that wasn't enough.

  Because to go from, "I left your son in the airport," to, "we're kind of a thing still, but I'm not sure if it's all an act." She first has to get from, "I kissed him first," to, "he made all the subsequent moves afterwards. While being respectful and sweet, I assure you." 

  But she does. Elaine does not lunge at her nor storm off. The woman sits in a dazed, perplexed silence. Unhappy, to be sure. Disappointed and hurt, certainly. Zoey takes no pleasure in any of it. The truth comes out in the wash but she feels no cleaner, no freer, than any point in this mess. Instead, this horrible confession comes out in all its ugliness. All mottled and deformed. Scarred and envious and full of regret.

  "Penny for your thoughts, Miss?"

  Zoey shakes her head to clear it, then turns- almost completely- to face Chase. He doesn't step back. She's relieved. "Huh?"

  He shrugs, "you seem... quiet."

  Hypocrite, she would say, but they both know their cast of the same iron. "I'm just thinking about stuff. Like, the future."

  "The future," Lola leans to look around Chase. He sidles to press his back against the van to allow the girls to better see each other. "Like what?"

  "I'm going for it. For the Fashion program." The one her parents think is stupid. Even with it's business and management courses, it's too "artistic" for their liking. In their eyes it's guaranteed to fail to set her up to be successful. 

  Her friends beam. Lola practically bounces. "We'll hug later."

  "Of course." 

  "I'm proud of you, Zo." 

  For the first time in a long time, she is too. Chase's eyes are soft and gleaming something that she is almost afraid to hope is fondness. 

  Chase calls her before she is even back at PCA. The cab driver has her clear partition up already, so Zoey answers. "Hey, we have a situation."

  "What kind," she asks, knowing what it is.

  "My mother just called me all verklempt and wants me to- are you in a car?"

  "I am."

  He's silent. She turns her gaze out the window. The bluffs rising like castle walls over the sloshing sea. All maudlin grey save for rain-saturated grass. Abruptly, Zoey is beset upon by a vision of iron rich mud washing down Redstone. The pile that has interred Charles Galloway's remains loses inches in some storms, but gains in others. This time, she sees the rounded shape of the back of his skull is only finger's depth from the surface. Planted like how Papaw showed her with his vegetables.

  Though never to bloom nor bear fruit.

  "What did you tell her?" Chase's question is more exhausted than irritated or angry. She's glad to finally unburden him of this at least. 

  "Everything. I told her everything from the airport to now. Besides the partying and... that stuff. She knows."

  "She knows I lied to her. And to Zayde. My poor moth- what did she say? How did she- I'm going there right now." Then repeats to himself, sadly, "right now."

  "She also knows you loved me and didn't do anything wrong. That, okay, yeah, you did come on strong, but I liked that. It suited us." Then, wistful and in the relative privacy of the backseat she adds more, "Your mom was very upset. With me. I think she might have been a little angry at you at first, but then I told her that you panicked. That you love her so much and never want her to worry."

  "Yeah well," he grumbles. On his end a door closes. "She'll never not worry now."

  "Chase, you're her son. She will always worry."

  He huffs. "I can be down there in... twenty minutes. Maybe fifteen."

  Zoey hopes their conversation goes... well. Decently. That they can debrief and come together in peace. Even if she never sees Missus Matthews or her son again after graduation, she would like to know they are back on good terms.

  The spectator crowd begins to shrink after lunch. 

  Michael and Lisa apparently got out, each in turn, not too long after the first break. Chase appraises her and Lola of the status of all the contestants on the other side of the van she can't see after their second break. Some of the random under classmen, and the couple. He says they got into a little argument, but he didn't have enough time to figure out over what. By the time he saw them again, they were canoodling together on the lawn on his way back from the men's room. Zoey takes the opportunity to strip her jacket off. It's cooler weather, but the SoCal sunshine is still plenty warm by then.

  Even more so later in the day.

  Vince slings himself down in a shady spot in the spectating area. To Lola's chagrin, he begins bobbing his head to the repeating music. The girl shakes her head, "what am I gonna do with him?"

  "Eh, at least he can dance." Chase says then nods his head in Zoey's direction, "her boyfriend can't even do that."

  The penalty for going behind his back and revealing their ruse to his mother was swift and painful. "I need to think about this. Let's not see each other unless we have to." And she agreed because, well, she had to.

  Though, he insists they keep up their charade in public. Refuses even the mere suggestion of doing otherwise. Staging a breakup even earlier is- to him- out of the question. Chase gives no clear explanation as to why. A greedy, over-indulgent part of Zoey hopes it's because he wants them to be real again. She imagines kisses on the plane on their way to some far-flung paradise. Or a heavily verdant temperate rainforest. Or a land of ancient landmarks and cities built on top of cities for millennia.  

  The blonde opens her mouth to argue, but her friend beats her to it. "You did just fine at Prom. And with that whole fountain-thing."

  More than fine. During upbeat, group dances he would momentarily drift off to switch partners. Zoey danced with Michael and Lola's date (whose name escapes her now) and, yes, even Logan. He twirled Lola, did a little shimmy with Quinn, and dipped Lisa before returning back to her. She was a little jealous each time that happened. Her first time being public with Chase as her date and boyfriend, and he was dancing with other girls. In a completely nonromantic way that he would have had they all gone as a group. Nothing overly handsy or intimate. 

  Even with Zoey, herself. She probably got more out of him when they were both sweaty and fatigued and she smelled like green onions.

  "I had great motivation," he replies.

  Zoey clenches her free hand into a fist. So does she.

  At some point in the time since they stopped hanging out, Chase gave himself more scars to accompany the one on his thigh.

  Michael claims it was an accident. As usual. The two went out for a ride around campus. Racing and using the lingering wetness left by the rain to their advantage. Purposefully stopping fast and whipping their bikes around as much as their tires will allow. Chase bunny hopping over a short set of stairs, Michael following and passing him to hop his bike onto a wall.

  The boys ramped up their challenges. Chase manages to semi-grind, semi-slip down a rail. His best friend follows suit. Chase says he sought only one-up Michael. He had no way of knowing what was coming. Damn the consequences. Zoey isn't sure why, but she knows he is much more okay with (and maybe wants to) hurting himself. She hates the thought but it persists. Lingers. She shifts uncomfortably at the memory of the huge scar on his body and the glass shard that probably left it. The straight razor in his shower bag and the current scuffs on his skin.

  Michael said they both eyed the much longer set of stairs from Sushi Rox to the lower tiered area of the quad below. "Dude, I don't think that's a good idea."

  "Maybe not." Chase tightened his helmet. Safety first, he said to her, wryly. 

  He got most of the way down.

  The rail has a defect. Something or someone put a big dent in the aluminum or steel that creates a divot perfectly deep enough that his peg caught, and his body subsequently thrown, down the remaining distance. It was not the first time Chase has fallen down some stairs. It hurt just as much as he expected.

  Hoped. Though that is her speculation. 

  Michael hurried down on his feet, wide-eyed and shouting. Chase sat at the bottom and untangled his legs from his bike's frame. Sliced and scraped and bruised. Perhaps even secretly believing that the external pain would distract him from... whatever his internal troubles are. The possibility is cold and jarring.

  Together, the boys got Chase stiffly to his feet. His ass hurt, he tells her, but so did his legs and chin. Curious, he dragged his fingers over the skin and checked them for blood. Nothing. But the motion alerted him to the tell-tale burn in his arms. He examined them, held both out before him and rotating as much as anatomy would allow to look them over. Big, long gashes run down both from roughly his elbow. The left side cuts are long and deep. The slices angled inwards as if the stairs tried to skin him. "Just a little scrape."

  "You have a fucking death wish, dude," Michael grabbed his face between both hands. "We need to get you cleaned up before Zoey finds out and we both get killed by our girlfriends."

  Chase's knees shook too much for him to mount his bike and see if it was still in working order. Time revealed it was. Though it will be a while before he is riding again. They walked back and Michael practically shoved him away to head in and take a good, hot shower. 

  He did what he was told and entered an empty and quiet common room second only to the silence  his own room. Logan is gone but the smell of toast lingers in the air. Their jar of peanut butter sat empty and discarded on the table. The showers were full, but several guys let him cut ahead in line when they saw the blood. It took a bit before the pink washed down the drain to clear water.

  Besides those he now has a bruise on his right thigh though his jeans blocked additional scrapes. Poor Michael had to get their first aid kit and huddled in silence on his bunk while Chase bandaged himself. Even now, as he stands, Zoey sometimes turns her attention to the broad wraps he strapped to himself.

  He seems to have decided to pretend a little harder. Lately he has been more affectionate. Only with an audience, but he has.

  Lola runs out of steam and/or patience and quits in the mid afternoon. She and Vince bid their remaining friends good luck before happily zooming away to go make the most of the remaining hours of sunlight. Another handful of competitors are ousted before dinner. By Zoey's count, there are six left standing. Three on one side, three on the other. She eats and drinks very little. Only enough to sustain and nothing more. Hours of standing go to her legs.

  Her ankle.

  With no crowd there is nothing to drone out the endless loop of the techno music. Zoey finds it irritating, but knows that there is only a few hours of it left. One way or anther. PCA has rules about noise outside afterhours. Chase asks how she's doing and then if she wants out. "Hell no, I'm in it to win it."

  "Alright," he says. In the way he does when he is going to let her drag him along into some new nonsense. Like taking on the Robotics team. 

  ""If you're tired, I don't want you to feel-"

  "We're in this together."

  She's pleased and hopes he means in more than just this. Her mind wanders to splashing around in the ocean and running against him for class president. She thinks about how he gave up on Gender Defenders because nothing was more important to him than her. Not even his reputation on air. Which, in hindsight, informs the decision he made to lie on her behalf about Hawaii. Although, that was also a selfish act. She regards that as a positive thing. Everyone needs to be a bit selfish now and then. Advocate for themselves.

  Zoey puts her jacket back on the last break before sundown. 

  The hours pass. It isn't long until the darkness takes a toll on some of the other contestants. Two drop out in quick succession. A third is later scared away by Logan yowling like an animal. He tells the judge it was due to a pain in his leg while adjusting, but Zoey rolls her eyes. Cheater. It's down to them. Zoey, Chase, and Logan. Luckily, he is at the front of the vehicle and mostly out of view. 

  "If you could go anywhere in the world," Chase asks, "where would you go?"

  She hums pensively. Anywhere? "Anywhere?"

  "Anywhere."

  Her mind goes to the cliches. Paris, Rome, or the Swiss Alps. Areas likely already teeming with tourists, swamped by spectators. Like the folk who go to Louisiana but they mean New Orleans or Baton Rouge. No one goes out to where she is from unless they have family there. Even then, people who move away often invite their kin to come their way. See something other than marshy woodland and agriculture. Zoey thinks about New York then that her grandmother used to live in Boston and how she has never actually been to New England. 

  Or Vermillion Cliffs.

  "Tough, right," Chase jokes. "I can't come up with an answer either."

  "Do you like going to Baltimore," she asks in return.

  "Ups and downs," then he adds, "please don't waste your trip on B-more."

  She laughs. "I think I'd take a cross-country road trip there. Not use my magic Anywhere Pass."

  "What about Tokyo," Logan suggests. "That's where I'm going when I win."

  The couple scoffs and fall silent.

  There is hardly anyone besides them out on the quad. Quinn comes periodically to see them. So too do the rest of their friends. Some of the Blix employees leave. The officiant sits on his table with the annoying buzzer in his hand. He stares off towards the buildings and it makes Zoey wonder if he was a student there. 

  "I dreamed about Charles."

  She doesn't know what compels her to say it or why. Maybe the topic of travel, maybe the dark. 

  "Oh, uh." Chase seems at a loss. "Are- was it-"

  "It wasn't about him," she amends, "necessarily. More about his... remains. Besides his tags and stuff."

  "Oh."

  Contemplatively, she quietly voices her thoughts and dilemmas. "I know where he is and how he is. I feel, ethically and morally, I should report that. Even if they don't believe me, I have done all I can do. But, still, in that case the follow-up would be to go dig him up myself and then notify the authorities."

  "And how would you explain that?"

  "Maybe a half-truth," she answers, "like, the story we gave that night. I went on a redemption hike where I broke my ankle, and lo and behold, happened upon human remains." 

  "What if they get suspicious?"

  "I'd tell the truth. That I have seen and spoken to the ghost of Charles Ivan Galloway and give any and all corroborating evidence I have." Then she shivers, "I worry they would believe me."

  Chase pauses then asks, "do you think they would try and get you to help solve other cold cases?"

  "I don't want them to." Zoey confesses, "it's too sad. I didn't like our media unit on televised murder trials. I don't know what I would do if I had to talk to a victim of it. Even with Charles I- I feel bad."

  "Can't be fun being out there by yourself all the time."

  She wonders if Charles gravitated to her because she knows a bit about what it's like to be locked in a prison of your own making. A solitary confinement of your own design. Sensed it in her. "No. I bet not." 

  "Why? I just," Missus Matthews stops short, then repeats, "why?"

  Because she was raised wrong.

  Zoey is almost certain of that. There are parts of her upbringing that are fine. Passable and average. Others are not. It's something she has thought about sparingly up to now. Even in therapy, she was always afraid of Doctor Forester's input. Probably because she knows what it would be. The diagnosis of a systemic failure in one of the vital aspects of a family. A community. 

  Mimi felt bad for whooping Zoey after she found out why her granddaughter ran away from the Martineau house. That didn't stop her from reminding the girl that boys have weak minds. They often fail to resist temptation. The now almost-grown woman Zoey is today is horrified. She was dressed in play clothes for a family barbeque. And was a tiny child. Was the temptation in her Glitter Kitty tee or her lunch pail? Was it in the sensual reach for paper towels on tiptoe because she was not tall enough to clear the counter? 

  That didn't stop her from internalizing the words the way a tree might grow around a nail or a barbed wire fence. Carrying them as she went on with her life the way she was shown she had to. Lead weights, heavy and toxic.

  She told Missus Matthews as much. 

  Which is odd, in hindsight, because she has felt temptations with him. Not that Zoey told his mother that, God, some things can be left unsaid. She likes his figure. Liked it before when he was showing up to her wrestling practice on most days. Broad-shouldered, narrow-waisted, and borderline irresistible. All lopsided grins and big hands and a mouth she watched kiss another's with suffocating jealousy and disappointment. He's still built roughly the same, but visibly more muscular. If it were for better reasons (health, or just choosing on his own) she would like it better.

  But everything reminds her of what didn't happen and what can't be undone. 

  But that doesn't mean what's broken can't be fixed, right? She can-

  "Zo," Chase whisper-yells. His hand slaps firmly over hers that is on the van. Belatedly, she recognizes she was falling asleep. Her hand must have been steadily sliding down the side of the car to return to her side. At some point, she would have staggered awake. And disqualified. The night is cold and clear. The judge is slumped on his table, but jolts awake at the sound. Reflex has him slam his hand on the buzzer. Logan startles, laying his upper body across the hood and clearly having abandoned his injury ruse. 

  "Ah! You're out," the man points to Chase. "No interfering with the competition."

  He sighs and removes his hand from hers. White hot humiliation and shame flood her system enough to fully rouse her from her half-dream state. "Chase-"

  "You got this," he murmurs and kisses the crown of her head before migrating to sit where the spectators had been earlier. 

  Somehow, someway, she isn't surprised he is staying. It's such a quintessential Chase thing to do. To show up, for one, then to stay. He'd be such a good dad. She again envisions their dark-haired daughter with thick curls and coffee-colored eyes. He might decide she is too much trouble for him to entertain any longer. He might give her a fifth or sixth chance. In either event, she's winning this damn thing now.

  Just the strength of that thought alone revitalizes Zoey.

  She makes her way along to the front of the van and leans across the hood on the opposite side so she is directly facing off with a drowsy Logan. He winces at the sight of her. Over their heads, the sky begins to lighten. The stars fade. Dawn approaches. Warm hues crawl in from the horizon and birds begin to sing. Zoey wonders what her roommates will make of this. Or what anyone on campus would think of her and Logan being the last ones standing (literally) twenty-four hours later. The wind is ice cold across her knuckles and against her legs.

  The officiant is asleep. She and Logan aren't far off and there is no way they aren't going to stubborn each other into some kind of submission. Unless... 

  Unless she engages in a little dishonesty of her own. She whispers to get his attention. "Hey, psst, Logan."

  He grunts but doesn't move. She takes it as acknowledgement. "The guy is asleep."

  "So?"

  "So, if we both take our hands off the van he won't know who beat who and they'll let us split the tickets. Win-win," Zoey glances over at the officiant. Logan lifts his head up off his arm to follow suit. He blinks hard.

  "Split? One and one?"

  "Sure, why not?" She asks it rhetorically. Under no circumstances is she taking her hand off this van while Logan is still in play. A groundskeeper spots them and gawks in disbelief. Clearly having seen then yesterday doing the very same thing in- essentially- the same spot.

  "On three?"

  Zoey grins and nods, "one-"

  "-two-" It might not work. She has to rely on his mental exhaustion and faith that she will play by the rules.

  "Three," they say together. Logan, to her shock, throws his hands up as if in surrender. Hers stays on the van. Chase guffaws and cheers which prompts the officiant to sit upright and rub his eyes to see.

  "You-" the boy's jaw drops, stunned, "you tricked me?"

  Zoey shrugs, feigning innocence. "What can I say?"

  "I didn't know you had it in you, Brooks."

  "And our first ever winner of The Blix Van Challenge is..." the judge starts searching around his desk. Probably for the clipboard. "uh. Hang on."

  Chase's applause more than makes up for the lackluster finish. 

Chapter Text

  Chase is relieved to see the Brooks siblings resting peacefully.

  Dustin is not type A like his sister. One need look no further than his dorm room and the lumpy duffle bag he packed with- in his own words- "I don't know, stuff." They are similar in other ways. Chase knows that the blonds have already completed their Break homework in full. Both similarly staying up late into the night in different dorms on different sides of campus, over-consuming coffee and grumpy in the morning. And in class. And at basketball practice. 

  In Zoey's case, at least. 

  At the moment, she is dozing with her head slumped against the rear passenger side window. Face relaxed and arms crossed, lightly jostling with the car. Dustin is against the other. Mirrored almost exactly, he thinks, then goes back to looking out at the road ahead. Mom hasn't spoken much since picking them up but her face betrays a thousand thoughts and feelings. As Chase turns his eyes forward, he spots her in his periphery. Frowning or scowling. Troubled. He watches her hands shift and squeeze the wheel tighter.

  But she promised not to say anything in front of them: Dustin still doesn't know and Chase wants it to stay that way.

  Zoey said yes before he even finished the question. Part of that was his own rambling's fault. He struggled to get the words out. Even coming up with the idea was... difficult. There were nights he lay awake for hours staring at his dorm's ceiling and pondering the situation. On one hand, he's exhausted and would love one small, uncomplicated break. On the other, he knows that neither Brooks kid will have that at home. Bad enough that Dustin was openly anxious and his sister seemed shaken. 

  Chase debated the issue within himself for a while. Both sides of the scale amassing either tiny pebbles or big stones in their favor. Ultimately, he got up one morning and decided to just muscle up for one conversation. Thanksgiving Break is relatively short, he bargained with himself, and so what if he had to swallow the stress of having his "girlfriend" and her little brother meet his family for the first time? It isn't like either would stick around for Winter Break. In fact, this might allow for a more restful trip to the ski lodge.

  Him moping and wanting to be left alone would be perceived as a symptom of a breakup, no questions asked. 

  "How was the flight," Mom asks. For the second time, and he gets her meaning even if she can't aim a pointed look his way.

  Still, Chase refuses to engage. "Fine. Short, so that's good."

  Zoey stayed at his elbow or under his arm the whole time. Constant contact throughout the whole trek across the airport and holding his hand on the plane. It was odd. A prickling, creepy-crawly feeling spread from his chest to his fingertips. Chase figures it has something to do with, well, the memory of the last time they were at an airport comingling with his ever increasing dread about going home. Heart racing and his hand most certainly clammy. Zoey made no comment on either, but she would occasionally kiss his shoulder or squeeze his hand a little.

  "Well." Mom quickly glances at him, then in the rearview, "that's nice."

  Chase sighs and turns his attention back out the window. 

  They are on familiar streets, not far from the house now. The sky is clear blue but the ground is wet. He notes mud and saturated lawns everywhere. Dips in the road pooling water reflecting the light of the sun in dancing ripples between cars. The weather report indicated more rain in time for Thanksgiving. Between the three- himself, Mom, and Zayde- they decided the siblings would have Chase's room and he would sleep in the living room on the couch. The old man seemed pleased with the arrangement, obviously worried about his teen grandson having too much access to his girlfriend.

  Mom was less excited. She doesn't want the Brooks staying in the first place. Still, she acquiesced when Chase made every effort to assure her he was happy with it. That he would have that much more time to hang out with Chester, who was now past the point of going up and down the stairs on his own.

  "How's the lawn looking?" 

  "I'm still learning how to use the weed whip," Mom says.

  He raises an eyebrow. "You? Why not hire a neighbor kid or something?"

  "There aren't any. It's like all the families in the neighborhood moved as soon as you left. I'm the youngest one on the street, if you can believe."

  "Bleak," Chase teases. 

  She swats the back of her hand against his head. He giggles and ducks. "Great reflexes, for an elder."

  Zoey wakes up a little too warm, neck stiff, and momentarily disoriented.

  The car slows. She blinks and blearily gazes about the residential street outside and then to Dustin next to her. He's still asleep. Though not for long. The turn at the next stop sign and go a few more houses down before Missus Matthews pulls into a driveway. The car lurches over the gutter and onto the concrete. The boy opens his eyes with a deep inhale. "The quadratic formula."

  "Close, it's actually my grand- pa's house." Chase turns to look at the pair. "Sleep well?"

  Zoey almost responds, but his mom makes such a bitter sound that it kills the words on her tongue. Dustin must not hear, because he replies, "I was just dreaming about school, what do you think?"

  The older teen rolls his eyes good-naturedly. "How bad was it? Like, forgot to study for a test bad, or naked on campus bad?"

  "The first one. I've never had a nightmare about the second one."

  "Lucky."

  "Alright," Missus Matthews interrupts. "Get out of my car."

  Zoey scrambles to do as she's told. Willing to make every effort to be on her best behavior for the days she spends with her... something's family. His mother doesn't so much as look at them before hurrying into the house. The air is chilly, and gust of wind make it even more so. Chase told her to pack as if she were going to the snow, and she is sure glad she did. She retrieves a pair of knit gloves from her jacket pocket. "Jesus, it's cold."

  "I told you so," Chase shrugs and opens the trunk. Zoey waits her turn while Chase fishes out his bag, then hands Dustin his, and then he grabs hers. Rather than give it to her, he nods at her brother to close the trunk and moves to carry both bags inside. "Hopefully you brought warm pajamas."

  "Do sweats count?"

  Zoey follows behind. An additional car pulls up behind Missus Matthews car, then slowly backs up to park along the curb. "Who is that?"

  "I dunno," Chase squints, but the windows are tinted enough to reflect too much light. She sees two figures inside, both in the front seats. "Mom said we would have some of my cousins around this year."

  The car shuts off and the driver's door swings open with an electronic bleat. A man hops out and immediately opens the door behind his to grab something. "Oh, fuck no."

  Zoey's jaw drops at the sight before her.

  They look just alike.

  Except for the fact that the senior Matthews has light and wavy hair, they are as close to identical as can be. Similar shape and stature, too. Neither one seems to be as affected by the cold because they both are nearly coordinated in wearing a light zip-up hoody plain jeans. Even the dark, forest green of their respective jackets match. The man turns- seemingly unaware of three sets of eyes watching- and assists his passenger onto the sidewalk. A tall, tan woman slides to gingerly touch her boots to the wet pavement, then labors to stand. 

  Pregnancy gets in the way of a lot, Zoey recognizes.

  "That must be her," Chase mutters. "Guess they did get married."

  "That's- that-" Dustin shivers and scooches in closer to his sister's side. On her other, she feels Chase go tense. His dad with another woman and soon-to-be child. A half-sibling.

  "My dad," the older boy confirms.

  The three watch as the couple slowly make their way to the path. He with the bags and she with her belly. Zoey can't help but feel a small twinge of worry for her. And Chase. And the baby. The man- Mister Matthews- suddenly looks up as if realizing he is being watched and freezes. "Oh."

  "Yeah, 'oh,'" Chase's eyes narrow scornfully. "Surprised or disappointed?"

  The man winces and so do the teen's companions. The woman gazes back at them, perplexed. She's pretty. A doll-like delicateness in her features accentuated by moisturized lips (against the dry cold) and round, rosy cheeks. Dark curls and a skin tone not dissimilar from Dana's. "Babe, who's this?" 

  "Uh-"

  Zoey cringes. Chase's anger ramps up. "Don't tell me you knocked someone up without telling them about the other kid you have."

  "Oh, you must be Chase." The woman seems confused, "but- how old are you?"

  Missus Matthews calls out from the door. "Oh, hey!" Try as she might, the smile is forced and her tone is hesitant. "Thanks for coming."

  The noise that is squeezed from Chase's lungs is something like a gasp mixed with grunt. Not unlike when someone takes a big hit. Zoey remembers hearing it when the boys on the wrestling team would spar and throw each other to the mats. More than that, she also remembers him mentioning something like this before. 

  When he was still only a child and his dad would suddenly reappear for short spells. Stringing his mom along to inevitably break both their hearts by leaving again. Suddenly, she wonders about going to the store to buy chocolate laxatives for him to put in the man's coffee. Fuck up this whole visit and force him and his pregnant wife away.

  "Mom?"

  But the adults practically scurry into the house and leave the door open behind them. Chase's mouth hangs open. Pained. Betrayed. "What the fuck?"

  Zoey frowns and turns her attention to the neighborhood. The tension in her immediate surroundings seems to go unnoticed by the world outside. Each house has at least one mature tree on its lot and the majority of them are bare, lawns and driveways strewn with leaves. Wet sidewalks, standing water in the road mirroring the sky so perfectly it looks as though a piece of it has fallen to Earth. A gust of chilly wind shivers the trees and prompts Dustin to take back up his bag and break the silence. "I'm cold."

  "Yeah," Chase shakes his head to clear his thoughts. "Let's go in. I'll show you to your room."

  "Are you sure," Zoey asks quietly.

  He nods. "I'll have to deal with that eventually."

  When they enter, each teen in turn stamps their shoes on the matt to make sure they aren't tracking any mud inside before leaving them on the shoe rack. The front door opens to a small living room with a fireplace and a couch flanked by two arm chairs. The floor is wood and blanketed by broad, thick rugs. It's dim. The two points of light come from a small standing lamp and the other, much, much brighter one, is from another room. Zoey just catches the barest glimpse though the archway and into the compartmented-off room. Tile floor and a heavy, dark table with matching chairs. A kitchen.

  Instead, Chase leads them up narrow stairs to the second floor. "What about-"

  "Zayde took Chester to a dog groomer, if you can believe it," he tells the siblings. "His car wasn't out front. He must not be back yet." 

  Then he pauses in the middle of the hall and begins pointing to each closed door in a clockwise fashion. "That's a closet with some more blankets, towels, linens and like, a teeny tiny ironing board. That's going my mother's room," then the doors on the opposite side, "that one is a bathroom, I'll show you the other one downstairs and this-"

  He opens the remaining door to a dimly lit bedroom. Dustin is quick to enter and Zoey a bit slower. For all the time she has known Chase Bartholomew Matthews and all the hours she has spent in any number rooms with him, this is the first time she is entering his bedroom. One he doesn't normally share with others and where everything feasibly belongs to him. He reaches in and flips the light switch. She notices it's plate is metal rather than plastic and speckled with tarnish.

  "This is my room."

  "Sick posters," Dustin nods to the wall on their left. Bands, a handful of basketball ones, a battered PCA flag, and a couple soccer posters all crowded together until the edges are overlapping.

  "Thanks. Um, I have a bunch of cold weather clothes in the closet," he nods to a set of slat doors next to the bed. "If you need some. Dustin."

  The boy scoffs and drops to sit on the bed. It squeaks with his every move. "Woah."

  "Yeah," he shrugs, "it's old. A lot of stuff around here is like that."

  "It's cute," Zoey finally says, "I love it."  

  The bed frame is old with heavy, solid wood head and footboards. Most of the furniture is like that, mismatched and obviously either secondhand or old. There's a thick quilt patterned in squares of reds, golds, and browns like fall and yet another one underneath so the siblings won't have to fight for warmth in the night. An old writing desk under the window, a slender dresser with a mirror. "Thanks. I like it too. Uh- I'm going to go make sure they are all... behaving. Feel free to unpack and get comfortable, I'll be back in a bit."

  And then he's gone. Presumably to go downstairs. Or run away.

  "That was crazy," Dustin says.

  "It was."

  "Why would Chase's mom do that?"

  Zoey sighs. "I don't know."

  She would like to think it has nothing to do with her son's invites. That his mother had already planned to make amends with the father of her only child. After he was already legally an adult and only months away from starting his own life, of course. The new baby might have something to do with that. Even with this logic, Zoey can't help but wonder about the surprise to both men. Like, if this had been discussed and planned, why didn't Chase know? Why was his dad surprised to run into his own son at his mother's house?

  There is a darker possibility.

  What if Missus Matthews is trying to punish her son? It's been no secret that she is displeased by Zoey's presence at best. In the days before the trip, Chase mentioned "working it out" with her.

  She's starting to think it wasn't as "worked out" as he thought.

  Chase hasn't seen his dad in a long, long time.

  Not since before Bubbe died. The time before that, he was preparing to go into middle school with the prospect of maybe-maybe getting into Pacific Coast Academy. They know next to nothing about each other besides what they must have heard through the grapevine. All generally against Chase's will. There was nothing he needed to know about the man that he doesn't already. Until now.

  Each step down the stairs is slow and reluctant. He notes the fourth one from the bottom creaks under his weight. It groans as if with fatigue and he suddenly finds emotional kinship with a slab of wood. 

  Another baby. Chase is about to go from having no siblings (that he knows of) to having a baby brother or sister. Half, but siblings all the same. He finds the experience surreal and unpleasant. A vague agita mixed with trepidation sits like bile in his mouth as he steps into the kitchen. His father at one end of the kitchen table, wife at his side, and Mom at the complete opposite end.

  Chase opts not to speak first, crossing his arms and leaning against the dark-trimmed entryway. The couple notice him first as his mother's chair faces away. His father attempts a smile, but it is so weak and unsure it's almost a grimace. The wife, on the other hand, beams. "Hi."

  "Hello," the teen nods.

  A beat of painfully awkward silence follows. 

  "You're older than I thought you would be," she finally adds, "I imagined you as a kid, but obviously that isn't true."

  Looking at her, Chase now wonders about her age. It could be a result of pregnancy driving more roundness to her cheeks and filling up her features. He's always heard people say pregnant women have a "glow" about them. This would be their first kid too. No previous stress or late nights from a child to draw shadows under her eyes. Still, he feels she looks younger than both his parents. Maybe even closer in age to him and Zoey. However, even he knows better than to ask any woman her age. 

  So instead he shrugs. "Nope, legally an adult. I graduate high school in a few months."

  "Do you have any plans? Any colleges?"

  "I have some ideas." That he has no intention on sharing with them. To move the conversation along, he asks, "when's the baby due?"

  "January," his dad answers. "They think it'll be around the 14th." 

  Chase hums and fights the urge to glower or incite further awkwardness by asking what date his birthday is to test if his dad knows. Either way, the man won't look good. Even receiving birthday cards was a sporadic game roulette with him. Instead Chase says, "mazel tov."

  "Oh, I'm Alma. I meant to introduce myself earlier," Dad's new wife waves from her seat, "I'm a little frazzled."

  "No worries," the teen responds with his best effort at a polite smile. "It's nice to meet you."

  Mom hasn't turned to look at him this whole time. Dad only does so sparingly. He is kind of relieved by that in an unexpected kind of way. They have yet to bring up his guests or why the fuck the elder Matthews is there in the first place and Chase suddenly doesn't care to discuss either. After another tense bit of silence, he excuses himself to go outside on the lawn and do something preferable. Starting with getting a ladder and digging rotten leaves out of the gutters before the next rains come.

  Zoey changes her clothes no fewer than three times to try and put together an outfit to meet Zayde in.

  They have met before but not in this context. Last time the circumstance around their introduction was bad and the encounter brief. Now, she is spending a few days in his house as- formally- his grandson's girlfriend. She would like to make a good impression. Hopefully win points with the boy in question, Zayde himself, and Missus Matthews.

  But everything she puts on seems wrong in one uniquely troubling way or another.

  Still, she settles on something tidy and put-together and appropriate. Not too casual, not too over-dressed. Dustin falls asleep across their shared bed and thus misses out on his sister's pacing back and forth between her bag and the hall bathroom. And her sitting at the top of the stairs in an effort to snoop on the conversations below. They speak too quietly. Their voices become a barely distinguishable murmur comingling with the rush of wind past the window panes. She can discern Chase's voice from his father's and his wife's, but she doesn't detect Missus Matthews at all.

  Which feels ominous. Like she knows she will say something she agreed not to if she spoke at all. Like the woman is one lapse of self-control away from blurting something damning.

  When Chase lets himself outside, Zoey goes back to the room and waits. And worries. She envies Dustin's peace but takes solace in the fact that he has it in the first place. When she peers back out the window she spies Chase almost level with a window further along than their own and digging his bare hands into the gutters. He pulls out dripping fistful after dripping fistful of leaf matter and debris. Confused, Zoey practically tiptoes out of their room and down the stairs. She follows the wall around to the fence then through the gate into the backyard.

  There must be a dozen or more planter boxes raised from the damp grass and muddy earth. Where might have been walkways are overgrown and flooded and the planters themselves empty save for damp soil and bare trellises. Chase climbs down from the A-frame ladder and grabs it to move it further along the roof. A trail of tiny mounds in his wake. "What are you doing?"

  He jumps a little. 

  "Sorry."

  "No, no," he sets the ladder down and waves her concern off. His hands are filthy, sleeves rolled up past his elbows and jacket completely unzipped. "It's fine. I was, you know, just in my head. Didn't hear the gate."

  "Aren't you cold?" Zoey is. She realizes a bit belatedly and with the ever-helpful billow of ice cold wind that her sweater is cute and formal, but not very substantial at all. About as thick, she reckons, as his hoodie. And she knows he's wearing just a tee underneath while she put on an additional long sleeved shirt.

  He shakes his head and sniffles. "Actually, I'm starting to get hot from all the up and down off the ladder."

  "Why- why are you doing that?"

  "Cleaning the gutters?"

  Zoey nods. "They didn't- um. They didn't tell you to do this, did they? That seems-"

  "No. I decided to on my own. Gives me a really good excuse to not be inside right now. Did you hear my father say the baby is due in January?"

  She's taken aback a little bit at his casual acknowledgment of her snooping. "Uh- I didn't. How'd you know I was listening?"

  He raises an incredulous eyebrow at her. "Zo, be serious."

  "It was too hard to hear from the stairs," she relents. "Are you okay?"

  Chase scowls pensively. His eyes drift away from her face to look off into the distance beside her. Troubled. Black water drips off his fingertips.

  "I know this is hard for you," Zoey admits. "For us- me- to be here with you and your family."

  "Well, you guys seemed so stressed about going home again," he shrugs and turns his gaze to his shoes. "I didn't feel right about that."

  "It's because you're a good guy, Chase." Who really just deserved a nice, peaceful break and is now going to suffer the opposite. She hates that this trip is going so badly already. There is some small consolation that at least he'll have time with his beloved dog and Zayde, but everything else seems so... abysmal. "The best."

  He sniffles again and clears his throat. "I should try and finish this up."

  "Are you sure?"

  "Yeah. It's not so bad." Zoey does her best to pretend not to be heartbroken by the roughness in his voice or the way he avoids making eye contact. "I'm almost done."  

  When Zayde gets home, he has Chester on a leash and a grocery bag. 

  Dustin is a step behind his sister, eyeing the dog with a small amount of trepidation. Chase hurries up to his grandfather to take the bag and give him a hug, but Zayde has different plans. The old man releases the leash to let Chester trot forward and jump up against Chase's legs while shoving the groceries into his hands. "I must meet the girlfriend."

  Chase rolls his eyes but uses his free hand to reach down and pet the soft, silky fur of his tiny best friend. There is a distinct roundness in his abdomen that's new. "Are you feeding him from the table-"

  But Zayde's cane thumps over to the Brooks siblings. Zoey strides ahead to close the distance, offering her hand to shake. "Hello, sir-"

  "Bah," he waves her hand away and captures her in a hug that he almost immediately breaks to hold her face in his hands. "I feel I know you well already. My grandson spent so much time mooning over you-"

  Chase's heart slams in his chest. A wash of ice runs down his limbs like panic. Completely unreasonable panic, because obviously she knows about that now, but he still wouldn't want that part of his life announced. Least of all in earshot of his father and... stepmom? Whatever she is. "Zayde!"

  But Zoey beams. "And Chase has told me so much about you too, Mister Zelicovich. It's rare to meet a boy who loves his family as much as he does."

  "Kids these days," Zayde jokingly laments, "so worried about appearances and what with the hotness and such."

  "Well, what can I say? I'm a sucker for an old-fashioned guy." 

  The man chuckles and smushes a familial kiss to both of her cheeks. Then turns to approach Dustin. "I like her already! You must be Dustin."

  "Yes, sir," the boy equally gets taken up in a hug. Zayde holds his chin in one hand, lightly brushing his fingers through the mop of blonde hair with the other. "Thank you so much for having us."

  "Nonsense. The more the merrier! Come, I made bread yesterday and we must eat it all before it goes stale." He gestures at the Brooks siblings and then- completely passing Chase's dad up as if he doesn't exist- turns to the stepmom. "Come, you must sit and rest. Chase, please put the groceries away and start a fire in the fireplace. I must hear everything about the girlfriend!"

  Zoey lightly rests her hand on Zayde's arm. "Why don't I put the groceries away, and the fire can start faster?" 

  A beat passes and he nods once. "Good idea." He meets Chase's eye again and, more seriously than ever says, "I like her."

  Like it's a threat. I like her, he says. He means, keep her. 

  If only he could have.

  Zoey gently takes the bag of groceries from him while the rest of the family heads off into the kitchen. Chester sniffs at her shoes and legs, tail wagging. Chase gazes at the fireplace and spots a bundle of kindling and a box of synthetic firewood on the redbrick hearth. It's opened and appears to be missing some already.

  "I already love Zayde."

  He snorts. "Just wait until the interrogation starts."

  But she replies by getting up to her tiptoes to kiss his cheek. "I'm looking forward to it." Then she leaves him to his chore while she begins her own. 

  Chase waits until he is alone to get down to Chester's level and rub his ears in his hands. The dog taps his trimmed nails on the ground and puts his paws up on the boy's thigh. Licking his nose and forehead. "Oh buddy, how I've missed you."

  Zoey can't sleep.

  Which is odd, because she is strangely at peace in the house. The bread was delicious and she has more to look forward to tomorrow, since Zayde plans to bake something every day. The oven helps warm the house, he says, then casually remarks that he hasn't partied much since his wife passed away. If one could call a quiet dinner at home with guests a party. The admission breaks her heart all the same. Makes Chase's motivations all the more clear to her.

  Keep the old man going by giving him stuff to hope for. Not just peace that his youngest grandson can find someone for himself, but also that he might get to know her and he might see the beginnings of new family traditions. Chase's cousins are older and many have families of their own, but no new additions since Bubbe. 

  And even Chase's greed is selfless. Wanting his grandpa around longer means that his mother holds onto her father a little longer, too. Gives them a new chapter and new joys amidst their lingering grief. 

  The bed is warm and cozy. It smells of a sweet, floral detergent that is unfamiliar but not unpleasant. Dustin's presence is comforting and, though the wind whistles past the windows, the rain taps soothing lullabies on the roof. Mister Matthews and his wife quickly retired to the hotel they are staying at. Missus Matthews went to bed not long after. Zayde waited until she was up the stairs before asking, conspiratorial and low-volumed. Dark eyes twinkling like stars. "Now, how about some mischief?"

  They stayed up a little later to eat chocolate candies and gossip about PCA life. Soon, he too went off to bed and the Brooks siblings left Chase to set up his place on the couch.

  But now, even with this heavy, heady contentedness, Zoey can't quite sleep. Dustin is out like a light and laying the same way he has since he was a toddler. No matter how big he gets, how much into a man he grows, she still catches the glimpses of her little Bug. Footie pajamas patterned in colorful trucks and cars, little hands grasping in her shirt and on her skin.

  Quietly, she slides out of bed and tiptoes to the door. Down the hall and to the top of the stairs.

  Chase is on his sleeping bag on the floor. He has it opened to give him the maximum amount of space to sprawl out and a colorful quilt. The fire crackles and illuminates him in warm light. On his back with one arm behind his head and faithful Chester laying at his side being pet absentmindedly. Head tilted and gazing up at the ceiling, clearly lost in thought. Looking ever bit as comfortable as any bed she's ever seen. Zoey has inside knowledge that he is, in fact, an excellent bed partner.

  The instant the buzzer ceases to ring and the quad is submerged into quiet ambiance again, Zoey is hit with the most bizarre surge of energy. It does nothing to lessen her overall fatigue and it doesn't assuage the headache beating like hail against the space behind her eyes or relax the stiffness in her neck. All that this energy does is make her giggly. An inconvenient state of affairs when she has to fill out forms as the winner of the Blix Van Challenge-thing. For the first time in a long time, she forgets her Student ID Number but, having planned ahead, has her card in her back pocket to copy it down. As well as her home address and phone number.

  The Blix Man looks relieved to be done with the whole mess. He hands off her copy of the form as well as the sheet explaining what to do the company calls to confirm her win and her prize before practically galloping away. Logan is already gone when Zoey turns. The van sits dark and lonely, the windshield only just beginning to reflect the soft pinks and purples of a spreading dawn. Her brain slushes slow over each observation, eyelids almost heavier than her limbs. Chase scoops her up in a hug that lifts her completely off her feet. "That was insane!"

  "I can't believe you're here," she buries her face in his shoulder. For the first time in what feels like years. "I can't believe you stayed!"

  "I told you I would." 

  Right. She remembers now. Chase is nothing if not Serious about that kind of promise. 

  He lowers her back to the ground enough for her toes to touch down again. Zoey has no desire to let go and worries already about if she'll be able to keep her emotions in check when she has to. To her immense shock and delight, he only does so- seemingly- to swing one arm under her legs and pick her back up again. "That's enough excitement for one... however long this shit has been. How's your ankle?"

  "I think it's okay." She rests her head against his chest. The view is a little awkward, but she is more than happy to admire him in the lamp lights. He turns them back towards the dorms and she spies that their shadows are not yet cast anywhere except for the rise of stairs. It's definitely close to six in the morning. "I didn't have much weight on it the last few hours."

  "I saw that," Chase murmurs, "good strategy. Let the van do most of the work."

  Zoey can hear his footsteps drag. At the top she leans up just enough to kiss his neck. "I can walk."

  "That was still a lot of time for you to be on your ankle." He swallows. She feels it. In fact, with just a little bit of pressure and exploration, she finds his pulse. He makes a sound that- to her- is something between a grunt and a yelp. The giggles consume her again. Even as she continues to smooth kisses up to the underside of his jaw and, with a bit of stretching, his chin. Stubble prickles against her lips. 

  Somewhere inside, she is possessed with the sudden urge to leave hickies on his neck. Fatigue weakens the impulse and her lack of knowledge on how to do so kills it. That would be a first for her and, she hopes, him too.   

  It isn't long until they are at Cohen's doors. The common room's air is thick with the aroma of brewing coffee and a handful of girls already appear to be prepping for some kind of project. They don't pay the couple any mind, though Zoey is a little too close-sighted to notice if they did. At her door, Chase very gently sets her down to her feet so she can unlock it with her key in one hand and his wrist in her other. Presumptuous and a little aggressive, but her brain's delays make her thoughts a soupy mess.

  She missed him.

  Inside, Lola and Quinn are sound asleep. The latter with a pair of headphones askew on her head with her laptop sitting dangerously close to the edge. Zoey forgets she is holding onto Chase's arm until after she is already half across the room. For his part, he keeps very quiet. She decides not to let go and closes, then moves the laptop away from the ledge. Gently setting it to the other side of Quinn's legs with her free hand. Neither girl stirs. Zoey turns to her alarm clock to check the time.

  "I should probably-" Chase's voice is barely a whisper. When he speaks he keeps his eyes on her sleeping roommates as if worried any noise whatsoever would be enough to wake them.

  "Come here," Zoey says, instead, and takes him along with her so she can sit on the side of her bed. Her shoes have to be untied to take them off and suddenly they feel much tighter than she remembered lacing them. Fingers bumbling and momentarily useless. Her back cracks when she bends and then her elbow does, too. Chase reaches to untie her shoes. Zoey gently pushes his hands away. It was one thing when her feet were clean. It is quite another when she has been sweating into old sneakers for hours. "I got it."

  He relents with a sigh. "I should probably-"

  "Stay," and then she adds, "please."

  He looks as exhausted as she feels. Drooping shoulders and reddened, glassy eyes, dark shadows bloom under them. The worst she has seen him look since after he got back from seeing his mother. Then again, she hasn't seen him much in the ensuing weeks. At his behest. Zoey knew there would be consequences to telling Missus Matthews what actually happened to her son over summer break. 

  But he is a little easier to coerce when he's sleepy. 

  "I kind of want to sleep in a bed."

  "Right," she agrees, slowly. Wondering if he actually, legitimately thinks she would ask him to set up on the couch when she has already offered a spot in her bed within recent memory. "So then, sleep with me."

  Chase's eyes go wide as he turns his head to check on her roommates. As though to ensure they are still asleep and, therefore, not listening. 

  "Just sleep," Zoey says, "You look exhausted, and I don't want you to have to go back to your dorm and then deal with loud and rowdy boys."

  "We'll get in trouble."

  "With Coco? It's Sunday. I could snuggle up with you in her bed and there is a good chance she wouldn't notice."

  He inhales then exhales. "Okay."

  Zoey can't make room for him fast enough. He sits first to yank his shoes off and then lifts his legs onto the bed with a pained inhale. Once totally in bed Chase peers about himself- she thinks to make sure he has room or they aren't too close- and rolls on his stomach. She settles back, too.

  "Good night," he murmurs.

  Zoey smiles and whispers "good night." His presence and body heat silence her mind immediately. She falls asleep in record time- if that was something she could keep track of.

  Her self-control and shame fail her. Zoey is at the bottom of the steps before he notices. "You okay?"

  "Can't sleep."

  He sighs. "Me neither."

  Outside, the wind rattles the windowpanes and the front door. It's drafty and would be cold were it not for the fire. Chester squeezes into Chase's side even tighter. "Did you and Dustin- did you guys have fun? How is he feeling about the trip so far?"

  "He's out like a light. I think your grandpa is going to be his favorite person by the end of the day tomorrow." Zoey sits down at his feet, back against the empty couch. "Carbs and candies go a long way with him."

  He smiles a little. Firelight dances in his eyes and plays shadows across his face. Whatever shirt he is wearing is definitely a little too small for him now and he looks more edible than any loaf of bread she has ever seen. "Why do you think I loved coming here so much?" He grunts and moves his arm from behind his head to prop himself up on his elbow. "Can I get you anything?" 

  Zoey shakes her head and decides within herself to go big. To go bold. Chase opens his mouth to say something, but then seems to lose his train of thought when she crawls up beside him. Taking a spot on the flannel padding opposite Chester. The dog opens his eyes then shuts them again with a sleepy huff. Cute dog. Cuter guy. "You set an alarm on your watch?"

  "Uh, yeah. Are you sure- I can get you a blanket and you can sleep on the couch-"

  "That's sweet. I don't need it." She scoots closer and kisses his shoulder. "Between you and the fire, it's like being sandwiched between heaters. When your alarm goes off, I'll sneak back upstairs."

  She hopes he agrees with her proposition. "Are you sure? The floor isn't all that comfortable."

  Zoey nods again. Eyes shut and body already relaxing. "I'm very, very comfortable right now."

  He moves and shifts around again but doesn't argue any more. She hears his watch's quiet beep as he changes the setting on it. Probably to go off earlier to safely get her back to her room without being caught. After a minute, he stops and goes still. She dozes off without much trouble to the rain and wind, and the crackle of flame and his breathing.

  Chase is actually reluctant to get up.

  It isn't that the floor is comfortable, but it isn't uncomfortable, either. His watch startles him awake and he moves to wake Zoey only to find her rolling over to face him. Eye squeezing and murmuring, "do I have to?"

  Which- despite his best efforts to the contrary- he find unbelievably adorable. Glad that she can't yet see him grinning like the idiot he is, he faces away and acts as if he is interacting with Chester. "I'm afraid so."

  She sighs. Outside, he can hear the trickle of water through the gutters. The wind has died down some. As has the fire. He sits up and Zoey follows suit. Wordlessly, she kisses his shoulder again and then departs, shivering her way up the stairs and moving faster. Longer steps. "Fuck, the floor is cold."

  "Language," he whispers, teasingly.

  Chase then slides away from his dog. Who snorts and lifts his head. Ears perked. Even more so when the teen grabs another lump of fake wood and sets it on the andiron. Withdrawing his hand quickly lest it get burned. "Sorry buddy." 

  A wiry tail pats the sleeping bag as the boy settles back down. The curve of Chester's back pushes heavily against Chase's ribs as the dog curls back up. He resets his watch alarm and falls right back to sleep. 

  All alone in his room at the close of the last summer of his childhood. With three nights before returning to PCA, he finally watched that damn cartoon dog movie. He was letting the film run while he researched things to do after graduation, alternate paths or schools besides the ones he had considered. Maybe even taking up Mister Brooks' offer on coming back the next summer and then just... staying. He could go to school in Hawaii and make enough money to move his mother and grandfather out to live with him. The beachside retirement they have both more than earned. 

  Chase's mind wandered to what Bubbe might have liked, if she had only lived a little longer. When he was little, she would take him to the lake park not far from their house and stand by while he played. Every so often, she would stand on the bank by his side and cast her gaze across the water. A few dozen feet in reality, but in her eyes shone a million miles. He remembers more than one occasion where she mentioned her family lived next to a pond that she and her sister would pretend was the ocean and they were two princesses of a seaside castle.

  Then, almost as if she never meant to say it aloud, she would murmur how her sister never saw the ocean. Not even once.

  It was always hard to reconcile the things that happened to Bubbe and Zayde and the people they were. They were the much beloved grandparents who made him practice piano after school and dust furniture on Saturdays. Who scolded him for not reading enough and playing too much then for not going outside enough and reading too much. It's hard to think of them starving, sick, and cold through their teenage years. Families all lost. 

  Never would there be a Princess Golda or Princess Elle in a tower by the roaring sea. In a castle by the sounding sea.

  Then the fucking movie's dog just had to die. He just had to, didn't he? To come back as a ghostly figure and tell the lonesome little child he had befriended goodbye before bounding into the clouds. Like Chase's heart hadn't suffered enough.

  Midnight would find him sobbing at his desk, face in his hands, elbows on his thighs. Violently shaking for all of his efforts to be quiet and not alert either adult in the house. Choking and gulping against tears and harsh gasps. 

  "Why is it always so important to you to hide your feelings?" Doctor Forester's question interrupts the story. 

  'Because fuck you, that's why,' is what Chase wants to retort. Or the less vulgar answer, 'I was telling you until you interrupted me.' But he knows that is not what she means. He's stupid, but he isn't that stupid. 

  "Midnight isn't the time to wake my elderly grandfather up and tell him I'm sad because a cartoon dog died in a movie," Chase replies dryly, "or my mother."

  Again he gets hit with the unamused stare she gives him when he isn't responding the way she wants him to. The way that is helpful to a therapist. Honest and sincere and- well- with some degree of introspection. He just is too tired for it lately. Mom calls him almost daily to check on him and each time her number pops up he gets the same rush of dreadful panic he did in Hawaii. Like, he still is trying to hold himself together even knowing she is aware of how fucked up the situation is. In fact, it makes the bite all the more bitter. The panic all the more chilling.

  Turns out, his mother being upset just about gets him, too.

  When he got to her hotel room, after Zoey, he found her huddled at the foot of her bed in tears. Wrapped up in a bath robe and the hotel comforter. "Mom?"

  Chase knew it was going to be bad. Unfixable, probably. A mess he can no longer sweep under the rug to give an impression of order. He spent most of his time in the taxi considering ways to minimize the impact. Zoey had told the whole truth- out of nowhere- and... and. And now what? What does he do? His heart raced and- dear God- was he in need of something to take the edge off. Which would not go over well. So he just sat and squirmed and thought. And thought. 

  He hated not having control over the fucking bullshit narrative he so painstakingly slapped together. 

  But then his mother was crying and he was fighting not to and to calm her down. One of few instances that he fully let himself be bigger than his mom. If only for a while. He held her in his lap like she used to do with him when he was still small enough. She hit his arm and swore a few times. Broken sentences along the lines of, "how could you?" and "why didn't you say something?" When she stopped, they both were still for a minute, then another, before Chase told the story from his perspective. Delicately tiptoeing around all that was too bleak for his own mother's ears.

  Doctor Forester gets the full truth in its most ugly, most grotesque form. The bitter truth to the last drop from his developing alcoholism to his lack of plans (and feelings in general) about the future. That it goes beyond the summer and Zoey and he knows it. That this hollow sensation isn't new, but instead is the worst of his lifelong companions besides his own reflection. He was born with it, he thinks. Chase has always been able to block it out with having stuff to do and people to make laugh.

  "But what happens after graduation when I have to start over again because everyone goes on with their lives," he asks. 

  The therapist tilts her head. "What happened last time? When you came here instead of staying back home?" The question is rhetorical. "You are much more capable than you think, Chase. You'll adapt."

  "I'm tired." He admits. 

  She makes a face. A tightening of the line of her lips. 

  "I'm not going to kill myself," Chase rolls his eyes. "I have to outlive my mother, at least."

  Zayde wakes him up before his alarm with a tap of his cane. "Tatale. Tatale, come on."

  Chase groans and puts his hands over his eyes. "What? What is it?"

  "Let's really impress the Brooks," the old man taps him with his cane again. "Fresh breakfast. Come on."

  With a sigh he sits up. "Alright. Alright." 

  Logan decides to do some fixing for once rather than always be the one doing the breaking.

  With Quinn, he gently reaches out with only texts and lets her respond as she pleases, when she choses. She does rather quickly. Apparently having missed him- to his complete surprise- but also worrying about what Zoey might think. Even with Chase's approval, it took her over a year to forgive Vince Blake and they didn't personally know that guy. 

  They meet up semi-secretly. Just to talk and Quinn lays out her grievances with him. She calls him "self sabotaging" which gives him a shock.

  Logan used to see a therapist when he was a small child- between stepmom 3 and 4- for his behavior. Particularly at school and with his peers. He handled them like his playthings, inciting chaos and hurting feelings for fun. It felt good, he said. When he was sad, it made him happy to make others feel worse than he did. Especially if they were getting attention he believed should be earmarked for him.

  How his emotions used to run away from him. Lashing out until he had no friends and then luring in more by bringing physical reminders that he was the only son of Malcom Reese. Bribing with gifts and then running them off with his temper and attitude only to restart. A regulation disorder, of some kind.

  Stepmom 4 waved it off as something he would outgrow.

  Here he is, about to be a legal adult, and still swinging out like he had at elementary school. The therapist said he sabotaged his friendships when he felt they weren't "feeding" him enough. His ego or the bottomless appetite for attention or something deeper, more depressing.

  So, yeah, he was freaked to hear the same words out of a direct peer.

  Logan decides to fix it. Starting with Chase and Zoey, his most recent victims besides Quinn.

  He does a little digging to find Timothy Brooks and his beachfront resort in Hawaii. At first, he considers calling and posing as his father, then remembers that if things progress as far as needing a credit card number, he doesn't know his dad's new one. His own credit limit is below two-hundred. Logan does have a leftover Tekmate with an active number and roommate who could pose as his father. So long as Timothy Brooks has never heard the senior Reese's voice before. 

  He writes out a script and he and Michael practice it a few times before calling. A quick reconnaissance mission to get an idea about bookings and prices. An "assistant" played by Logan, once he finds a way to convince his father of this purchase, will call back.

  The overall plan is simple, Logan is going to gift the couple another stay in Hawaii about as close to the conditions of their original trip as possible. Minus having to work through it, of course. A woman answers and Michael is calm, cool, and professional as he reads the script. Improvising as necessary as he gets moved from one line to the next. He deepens his voice and talks through a big, toothy smile while addresses the manager- a Marissa- by her name and is eventually passed to Mister Brooks himself.

  "They are some of my son's closest friends and I was hoping to give all of them a little gift," then, off the cuff, he jokes, "as a treat for having to deal with him, you know?"

  Logan glares. Michael flips him off.

  "Yes, that's him. I was hoping to book them in the same hotel rooms as the last summer. Couldn't put them in the same room, could I," he feigns a chortle, "how improper would that be?"

  Michael's fake smile loosens. The voice on the other end is too distant to make out words, but Logan hears the man talking for a while. His roommate's face slowly draws into a look of consternation. Mouth half open, blinking and shooting Logan a look. "I don't understand. Did they not stay at your hotel? Is this not Timothy Brooks?"

  The chatter continues. Logan wishes it were on speaker phone.

  "Oh. Oh. Oh, no." 

  "What," the shorter boy mouths. Suddenly desperate to know. If he needs to book elsewhere, he can. 

  "I wasn't aware that Chase went by himself. My mistake." Michael hangs up immediately. Both boys stare at each other. Outside, through their room's open door, Maxwell Hall is alive with activity. A guy shouts something about "playing later."

  And Chase enters their room, sweating and calling back, "yeah, whenever you're ready to lose again."

  When he turns, he looks puzzled by his roommates' silent staring. "Uh-oh, what now?"

  They don't say anything. Logan has no idea where to start or what with. The whole exchange feels... like uncharted territory. Unfamiliar. Unknown. 

  "What?"

Chapter Text

  Zoey dozes off again back upstairs. When she wakes up, it isn't raining but it is dark and cloudy. She checks the time and quietly leaves the bed to get ready for the day before Dustin wakes. It's warm in the hallway and the bathroom. The small space and the fact heat rises work to create an experience quite unlike what she has long grown accustomed to in the big dormitory bathrooms. It's nice.

  The shower curtains are patterned in rows of yellow flowers. The tub is tiny and a yellow that likely fashionable in the 60's or 70's. Vintage as anything else in the house.

  Zoey frets over her appearance and brushes her teeth more vigorously than she ever has for any breakfast ever. Back in their room, she gently shakes Dustin awake. "C'mon, time to get up."

  He grumbles. "What time is it?"

  "To get up."

  He groans, rolls away from her, and says. "You're almost worse when you're chipper. You and Chase have a good night?"

  "I couldn't sleep," Zoey responds almost by reflex. The truth, and a surprisingly easy one. Perhaps owing to the lack of accusation in his tone.

  Her brother hums. "I can."

  "Dustin," she shakes his shoulder again. "We're guests."

  "On vacation," he contends. "Let me sleep in." 

  Zoey relents with a roll of her eyes. Then says, "well, just so you know, we didn't- uh. We just hung out by the fire-"

  That, finally, gets Dustin to roll over and face her. Face scrunched up in disgust. "I know. I definitely wasn't worried about you fucking Chase on the floor in his dead grandmother's house."

  Mortified, she punches his shoulder. "Dude, language."

  "Just saying. Night night."

  So Zoey goes down the stairs alone. Dressed and curious for the day ahead. The fire crackles on but Chase's sleeping bag and blankets are folded up on the couch. She continues towards the kitchen and squints against the amount of light inside in comparison to the rest of the house. A kettle whistles and she can hear the rhythmic chop of a knife on a cutting board.

  "Ah, the pieces are too big-"

  "Zayde, when they cook they shrink." Chase replies. Then says words she doesn't recognize in Yiddish. "Like that."

  Zoey rounds the corner and finds the old man moving about without his cane, but steadying himself against the counters as he goes. He trudges towards the kettle with a look of determination. As if he, with one hand, is going to grab the boiling hot kettle and balance himself over to wherever he intends to pour his tea.

  "Can you be patient," Chase sets his knife down and turns to stop his grandfather.

  "The water will burn-"

  "Let me do it, sir," Zoey interjects. Both sets of eyes snap over to her. The space is tight near the stove. Zayde leans away from the counter and into his grandson. Who is smirking, she notes, and wonders why. She moves the kettle and turns the burner off. "Where would you-"

  "On the kitchen table," Chase says. A tea set and tray already arrayed on its dark surface. Zayde's cane hanging off the back of one of the chairs by its nylon loop. "You're all dressed up and ready to go."

  He, however is not. Still in his pajamas and apparently helping to prepare breakfast. Zoey is quick to avert her eyes back to the task at hand while he goes back to cutting up a colorful array of bell peppers. A heaping pile of a mushrooms awaiting its turn on the board. "I wasn't sure, uh, what all was happening this morning. You know?"

  "You don't have to worry about that," Chase assures, "just breakfast."

  Between the two men, they just manage to prepare omelets. Zoey stays out of the way- as much as possible in the small space- by getting plates and cutlery from the cupboards and getting juice from the fridge. When Missus Matthews comes down, she sets her a place and serves her the first omelet the two finished. Chase eyes the exchange warily before going back to supervising the stovetop. 

  But nothing goes wrong all morning. They eat- even Dustin, who joins dressed but late- and the teens are left to tidy the kitchen. Afterwards, Missus Matthews hands her son a list errands- all conveniently out of the house- and the Brooks tag along. Zoey rides shotgun on their way into town. "What's the bet on my father and his wife being there when we get back?"

  "One-hundred percent," Dustin replies. 

  "Probably," the older boy sighs, "I don't get what their issue is."

  "Your parents' issue," Zoey asks. At his nod, she says, "maybe it was the, uh, new baby? Like, they retroactively decided to bury the hatchet or something."

  "Or something," he repeats. 

  Zoey holds his hand and only briefly lets it go to get out of the car at their first stop to rent some movies.

  Michael recoils.

  He has lived with these guys- both Chase and Logan- for years now. While the latter is more unpredictable than the former, he has grown to anticipate certain behaviors and attitudes from him. Even in his wild mood swings and "flare-ups" (as Michael mentally calls them) he is able to discern what Logan might do or say based on a pretty accurate action tree.  

  Chase has almost always been consistent and reliable. Even when they met- before they even heard of Reese or that girls might be allowed to enroll- the pair took it upon themselves to look out for one another. Independently but simultaneously. A strange, steadfast synchronicity that they built into a friendship. Guarding each other's bookbags and shower kits. Working together on homework and playing basketball together.

  Michael has a voracious appetite for music and Chase plays guitar almost constantly (or used to) in their room. When either spiraled from stress the other was right there with him. Even their comedy show was born from them suddenly suggesting something to do in boredom and bouncing ideas off one another for a minute or less. Simply put, they are typically on the same wavelength even in methods they employ to tease and mildly annoy. The way brothers do, Michael told Chase once.  

  And he agreed, "I guess we are like brothers, huh."

  "Mom has got some explaining to do," Michael joked.

  This whole year has thrown everything he thought he knew into question. Suddenly, Michael is scrutinizing every interaction and reaction he has witnessed from his best friend. Everything. From his sudden enthusiasm for parties to his recent fatigue, from his lack of enthusiasm for most things in general to his recent outburst. In isolation, each development means next to nothing. Fatigue could be explained away by a busy schedule and new responsibilities in Theater. The parties could be borne from a desire to unwind. Even punching Logan may be excused in its own context.

  But all together? Side by side and back to back?

  And now there is the lying. The months and months of a lie. Or many lies. Logan immediately interjects to tell Chase that he and Michael are heading out to the library. A fib that comes as easily- and expectedly- from him as breathing. Chase shrugs and grabs a towel and shower kit. "Me and Zoey are going to dinner later."

  "Cool. See ya," and then he practically drags a dumbstruck Michael out of the dorm. 

  As Logan shoots Michael a look in warning, he wonders just what the fuck is going on. He comes up with some possible explanations on the walk but can't bring himself to voice any of them. A brisk wind sweeps across campus and with it wafts the scent of the ocean. The sun is lowering towards the horizon, though campus is as active as ever. Logan gets to the library doors first and holds it open for Michael. As they enter, he says, "let's not tell anyone about that, yet."

  That nearly floors Michael. Logan of all people on God's green Earth suggesting keeping mum about anything. 

  Maybe he needed to be punched the whole time.

  "He lied to us," Michael finally finds his words as they weave into the stacks. They have no homework and no backpacks, and neither bothers grabbing a random book to feign studying. It's not unheard of or discouraged for people to hang out in the library. So long as the atmosphere stays quiet and productive, no one would think twice about them talking. 

  Logan shrugs but equally seems unsure of what to say. 

  "But maybe- maybe it isn't anything... crazy," Michael tries. He dredges up the first of his theories, "we know Zoey's family is a little, uh, conservative sometimes. Maybe they were so freaked by the two of them staying at the same hotel her parents put her in a different one."

  "Could be," the shorter boy sounds entirely unconvinced. He crosses his arms on the table and turns his eyes upwards to stare pensively past Michael. "I guess."

  But they both know Chase would have probably said something.

  "Do you want to hear what me and Quinn thought?" 

  Chase wishes he would have stayed at PCA.

  That's not true, he knows it as quick as the thought crosses his mind. Losing Bubbe so suddenly and then living such a calculated life in the interim has really given him an appreciation for what he has in the now. Zayde could go at any time. Bubbe used to tell him that, "no one knows when such things happen, just that they will." A level of pragmatic response to the question of, "but Bubbe, what if you die?" that didn't soothe quite like songs about raindrops do. Chase knows anyone could die at any time. Youth isn't an impenetrable shield. 

  But Zayde's age weighs on him like sand. Droops his figure and pulls wrinkles into his skin, depresses his blood pressure and lung capacity. A visual representation of the filling of the bottom half of an hour glass while the top drains. An unstoppable pour.

  At the grocery store, Dustin wanders away to look at the butchers preparing cuts of meat. One of the mundanities of life they so frequently forget living in their strange isolation at PCA. Even the bulk containers in the center are foreign. Dried beans and rice and intermittent sweets carefully poured into bags and weighed on scales. Like he does with everything else.

  Measuring the amount of time the average teen relationship last for, and how minutes between texts are enough to make it look like he is consulting with someone. Carefully doling out thin-cuts of truths and keeping stock of all the stories. 

  Zoey squeezes his hand. "What're you thinking about?"

  "How weird it is to be in a grocery store again." He nods down a busy-looking snack aisle. "Like, a real one."

  There is a pause from her that makes him question- if only for a moment- whether she believes him or not. It both is and isn't a lie. A pattern of expression they are both familiar with. 

  "When I was a kid, like right after Dustin was born, my mother got," she hesitates, then looks around to make sure her brother hasn't quietly returned, "sick."

  Chase knows about this topic. A little fragment revealed here and there over the years. Charitable or naive thinking would paint this upcoming confession in a much more innocuous light. The context of these revelations reveal their content. She always tells him bits of it in private moments after something more major has happened. He remembers one such occasion after one of thousands of arguments between her and Logan. That time the battle lines drawn over division of labor between the genders. Zoey's usual contention of, "women can absolutely do those jobs as well or better," was met with Logan's usual shit-stirring of "no they can't, let's make out."

  Later, over a game of tennis, she told Chase a story of learning to mow the lawn as a small child. Too small, in his memory. With a father perpetually at work and a mother too ill to be of consistent help, who else was left but herself?

  "I remember you saying that." He squeezes her hand as an invitation to continue while they hunt for the correct bread. 

  "Papaw used to walk with me to the a store not far from my house and teach me how to shop. He would give me the money and walk around with me then he and I would ask the cashier to ring us up. At the time, I enjoyed it. I felt so grown up. Even more so when I started going by myself on days he was unable."

  Chase frowns pensively. He knows the age difference between the siblings and roughly how old Zoey would have been when all of that was happening. He grabs the loaf of bread on the list and puts it in his basket before they set off again. "I wish you didn't have to do that."

  "Why?"

  "Makes me nervous. A little child by themself is asking for trouble."

  "Well," she seems to think about it for a second, "it's hard to explain a tight community like that. How 'normal' that kind of thing is. How many people decide that 'those crimes don't happen here' just because it's country and you know the name of everyone on your street. Maybe culturally, that helps, but-"

  "-doesn't make it safe. Aren't crimes against children usually perpetrated by someone known to the family?" Chase looks to Zoey only to find her already gazing back. He confesses, "sometimes, I wish someone had looked out for you more."

  Her expression falls into something much more troubled before she nods. Whether it's in agreement or in acknowledgment, he has no idea. Dustin returns to them with the brisket wrapped it butcher paper and they quickly finish their trip with buying eggs and liter bottles of soda.

  "Oh, shit."

  It falls out of Lola's mouth without her meaning it to. In hindsight, there are risks to going through things that don't belong to her. From Quinn's stuff, there is risk of injury to herself, but she also has some very delicate and finicky objects. Finely tuned scales and types of meters. Thin glass containers and fragile keepsakes from home. She keeps every letter her parents send her. There is a tissue paper-thin sheet of notes gifted from Logan, curtesy of his (apparent genius) grandfather.

  So Lola knows to be careful.

  Zoey doesn't have stuff like that. She has her stuffed dog and sketchbooks no one is allowed to go through, but nothing truly sacred and secret. Besides, like, underwear but they all have that. Both girls have gone into Zoey's things to retrieve something they need. Usually texting her first. do u stl hve gltr glue?

  She responded back. i thnk so. prbly in my side tble.

  The first two drawers had some art supplies, a spare phone charger, and some of those peanut butter bars she likes so much. Lola found the bottom drawer to be heavier and full of sketchbooks and loose sheets of notes from her Fashion elective. Her fingers skimmed the smooth, laminate surface of a box. One she thought would be full of glitter glue.

  Behind her, Dustin is busy checking over her work. The last thing she needs is to mess up on one of her panels before it's assembled and turned in for a grade. Her Ethics project is going to be on Hollywood of today and yesterday. The top layer veneered in glamour and positivity, each with hidden panels underneath revealing sections on racism, sexism, and corporate greed. Lola outdid herself on design, and her essay on confronting those issues and how to move forward is some of her best writing. She just needed some damn glitter glue.

  Zoey sends. ill be rite there.

  But, impatient, she grabbed the unfamiliar box without so much as a second thought and tipped it into her hand. Instead of smooth plastic tubes, her palm fills with foil squares. Lola scowls at them for a moment before recognizing what they are.

  "What?" 

  Fuck. "Nothing," she drops them like they burned her. The mess spills out on top of the sketches. 

  "What," Dustin repeats, skeptically. "What's wrong?"

  They are not having this conversation. Scrambling, Lola answers. "I almost grabbed the wrong thing. Can't hold anything down with tampons."

  The boy winces and looks away. "Oh."

  She glances back in the drawer. This is a first for her. She feels like there aren't enough condoms to justify the size of the box and wonders if that means there are some missing. Unless they are packed like bags of chips and left basically half empty. Where would-

  The basement?

  Lola remembers Zoey not really reacting to being in the theater's basement. At the time, she figured such a thing didn't interest her, or that maybe her anger and betrayal swallowed any curiosity whole. Now, she wonders if her roommate was just familiar with the space already.

  But they are almost never alone.

  When would they have the time? It seems like both teens have made it their mission to fill every minute of every day with some obligation. Maybe she found the reason for that. Lola thinks back to their awkwardness from the beginning of the schoolyear. Was Zoey like that because there was a pregnancy scare she couldn't talk about? Was Chase?

  The foil squares are uniform, but the disks- the contents- are not. There seems to be three sizes and an equal number of each. Which must surely mean none have been used. 

  Before Lola can close the drawer- or do anything- their door swings open. She freezes. So does Zoey.

  Normally, a table where only the sound of cutlery on plates can be heard means the food is good. Mister Matthews showed up with an aluminum tray of Greek salad to go with knishes Zayde made. She isn't sure he was meant to bring food, then wonders if maybe his wife insisted they contribute something. The old man continues to interact with everyone except for Chase's father leading up to the point they are sitting and eating.

  But now no one is talking. Dustin's fork idly picks and stabs the salad on his plate. Mister Mathews is almost directly across from Zoey. She is often hit with conflicting waves of disgust and curiosity. He looks so much like his son that she feels she is getting a preview of decades into the future. He also is the first person to hurt Chase and she hates him for it.

  And it's nice for some of that hatred and anger to be directed outward for a change.

  "So," Alma finally breaks the silence, "I'm curious; how do you guys do in school? Good grades and everything?"

  Chase nods with a grunt, finishes chewing and gestures to the siblings at his left. "Dustin is something of a math wizard. What was it again, the youngest student ever to make TA- teacher's assistant- for Calculous 1?"

  "Something like that," the younger boy shrugs, bashful. 

  "Actually," Chase corrects himself, "that might have been Statistics. Either way, a genius."

  Zoey feels him shift to her and the heat rise in her face. Pleased and embarrassed at the same time. "Oh, I-"

  "Zoey is in everything," Chase says. "Good at everything. She is on a couple different event committees-"

  "I have a lot of help," she assures. "Especially from you."

  He shrugs and makes her worry even more. That he doesn't believe her statement, or doesn't want her praise. Luckily, his grandfather interjects on her behalf with, "we knew it was the right thing to send him to PCA. A regular school wouldn't have been enough. Bubbe was very proud."

  Which completely disrupts the teen's resistance to receiving a compliment. Grief as evident as the love he still holds for his grandmother. Zoey nudges their feet together and hopes he reads it as her agreeing with his grandfather. Missus Matthews eyes them briefly before going back to picking around her plate.

  Mister Matthews stupidly disrupts the reverent quiet with, "they have a demanding schedule, I hear."

  He hears because he was never around to see. Zoey wonders who told him such a thing. If the mother of his son had or if it was his brother who kept better tabs on the boy than he had. Cluelessly, the man asks Dustin to pass the salad tray. Alma looks curious about them again.

  "Time flies when you're having fun," Chase mutters. "Right?"

  Unaware of the dig, the stepmother chimes, "that must be why I haven't met you yet. You were gone all summer, and you have a busy schoolyear." 

  "Yeah, the scheduling." Chase looks like he is fully exercising the limit of his self-control. Allowing himself the time to finish chewing before shrugging. "Must not have aligned. When was the wedding, by the way?"

  "What wedding?"

  He blinks, clearly taken aback, "yours and- and my dad's."

  "Oh," Alma again reaches across the table to grasp his hand. "Please, it's almost 2009."

  Zoey feels goosebumps bloom down her arms and her eyes snap back to her plate. The silence is deafening. More than one of the chairs creaks.

  "So, just a courthouse thing?" Chase states, "You know, that's not so bad. You save money that-"

  "You're so adamant about this marriage thing," Alma notes, then directs the next words- Zoey can feel it- to her. "We aren't property."

  "I don't mean that. It's just... legal stuff. Like a business contract," the boy replies calmly. "Also, protections in case something happens to one of the two of you, or if you travel, or whatever. There is a reason gays are fighting tooth and nail for the right."

  Mister Matthews rests his hand on Alma's shoulder and she finally releases Chase's. Zoey's eyes flicker up to find both adults staring her way. The woman's eyes directly meet hers while the man grimaces then looks between his son and his ex. 

  "Are you a particularly traditional girl, Zoey? This is an important topic for you, too."

  "Maybe not at dinner, huh," Missus Matthews interjects. Zayde nods in agreement.

  Zoey considers what her reply would have been. "Yes, I want to be married to the right man." She wonders if she would have allowed herself to admit that she never really pictured who her husband would be as a child. Her visions were usually about different iterations of a wedding with the vague facsimile of a handsome groom waiting at the end of the procession. Or Orlando Bloom. If Zoey decided to be exceptionally bold, maybe she would have confessed that, for a while now, she has imagined him to be tall with thick, dark, curly hair and green eyes.

  That would- hopefully- delight the old man. She worries about how Chase would feel about any of that.

  Alma is unsatisfied. Rolling her eyes in unmasked irritation she says, "oh, please. It's not like I'm asking them what base they've gotten to. I can't even begin to imagine what all goes down at a boarding school full of horny teens and no supervision."

  "I'd say we're more supervised than others," Chase argues. "Roommates, RAs, and lots of faculty. Besides our own policing and self-control. I think teen pregnancy is usually more common in the places that feel the most high and mighty. In fact, the statistics bear it out."

  "Can't say I've ever trusted a teenage boy's self-control. Or a girl's, for that matter. I remember what that was like."

  Now it's his turn to roll his eyes. "That's fine. You ought to remember that you're with an 'adult' man who has twice knocked up his girlfriends and twice refused to take responsibility."

  Silence. No cutlery on plates nor creaking of chairs. Zoey can hardly hear anyone breathe. Chase sips his water while Alma, his father, and his mother glare at him. "But you know what they say; if at first you don't succeed, right? Maybe he'll be different this time."

  Mister Matthews shrinks.

  "He tried seeing you," Alma- unwisely- argues. "You got to an age you didn't want to-"

  "He wanted to see my mother. I was easy to give up. Her? Not so much. I mean, look at her, my mother is one of the most beautiful women on Earth." Missus Matthews sinks into her chair. Hands in her lap, food unfinished. Looking every bit like a reprimanded child. "Bet that never came up in conversation though. Because then he would have had to tell you he used to lock me in his buddy's closet so they could go out."

  Zoey feels like she could be sick. She turns her glare- and waves of newfound ire- to her boyfriend's mother. She had been so sympathetic to the fact that the woman only wanted to protect her son from further injury. Believing, of course, that any trauma and damage done to him in his childhood had been inadvertent or- at worst- the result of well-meant mistakes. Ones that any person might make. 

  But now, suddenly, it is perfectly okay to subject him to the presence of a man who never cared for him. It's okay to give him a front row seat to a life he was never allowed. That he could watch another child get the experience of a father that he was denied by the very same man. The same man whose presence was even more limited than Zoey ever knew. She racks her brain for any signs or subtle hints that this was part of the reason why Chase hated his father so much. She comes up with nothing and feels guilty for not pressing more.

  How long had Chase been holding that in?

  Again, he breaks the horrified silence. This time, with venomous mockery. "What was his name again, dad? Tyler or Taylor?"

November 15th, 2000

  It's the second to last computer lab day before Thanksgiving Break and Miranda is struggling to make the most of it.

  Mister Drummond helps where he can, but the computer lab's technician has gone on vacation early. He is but one teacher among 23 students. She turns to her neighbors for help in the interim. Her best friend, Marisol, is equally lost as an indecipherable script fidgets on her screen. "How did you even do that, Marisol?"

  Dark brown eyes give her a flat, half-lidded look. "Is this the face of someone who knows?"

  "No," Miranda concurs and then glares back at her own blank screen that- unsurprisingly- remains blank. "What are we going to do?"

  Atticus wheels his office chair over and leans against the fragile plastic armrest. He hums pensively. "Can I try?"

  Happy to relinquish control of the keyboard, she scoots her chair closer to Marisol's. Atticus puzzles at her screen, thick blond eyebrows furrowed, cheek resting on his fist. He clicks and clacks, creates a square of prompts from nothing, then puzzles some more. "I see what happened."

  The assignment is simple enough; creating her own webpage from scratch. Computer Sciences is a relatively new course and has many, many growing pains. Not a lot of kids in her grade- or the school as a whole- have computers in their homes. The school's library has two that have perpetual lines to use them and the internet is slow. The assignment was meant to be started and completed last week. A hurricane had other plans and knocked the electricity out for days.

  Miranda knew exactly what she wanted from the moment Mister Drummond brought them to the lab.

  Straddling The Millenia: Beginnings and Endings.

  She had plans to enshrine her own personal time capsule. Music that she and her friends listened to, major events (personal and worldwide), games, celebrities, and shows. Her weblog replete with splashes of color in text and backgrounds. Glitter and fun designs that reflect her style.

  Until she broke something.

  "Here, try this." Atticus finally says. He rolls backwards away from her desk.

  Miranda sees the beginnings of her page taking shape again. "You're a lifesaver."

  He chuckles and moves to help Marisol. "Why don't you wait to see if I actually fixed it first."

  "You're too modest, Atticus," Marisol bats her eyelashes at him. Miranda struggles to not snort or roll her eyes.

  "Flattery will get you nowhere, Mar," he replies, deadpan. 

November 17th, 2000

  The computer lab is alive with mild chatter. Most students have finished their work (to the best of their abilities) and have little else to do but play in the Paint program or shoot the breeze with their classmates. The waning hours of school on a Friday before Break. Miranda, never one to leave well enough alone, fiddles with her site. She figures out how to enable comments for her friends when they visit. Mister Drummond watches over her shoulder as she animates her navigation buttons that lead to tidy text screens listing songs in alphabetical order or pictures of things she would like to immortalize.

  A birthday card from Grandma, a ticket stub to the first movie she went to with her friends and no parents, a picture of Buck lying on the porch, grey-faced and tail wagging.

  "This is good, Miranda," Mister Drummond nods. "Nice work. Girls tend to struggle with technical jobs and computers. This is A+ effort."

  When he shuffles off, she rolls her eyes. "Gee, thanks."

  Her site goes live despite her gender.

November 20th, 2000

  It's a rare occasion that Miranda has the house to herself. When she is home, so are her parents. When she is gone, so are they. Dylan is out, too. Gone to a doctor's appointment with Dad- who is off from work. Mom stresses to them that the house must be ship-shape for company. 

  Miranda has done her part in preparing the guest room for Aunt Jane and making sure everything in the linen closet is clean, folded, and neat. She scrubbed the hall bathroom top to bottom and helped Dylan tidy his room. Dad has only just finished clearing the gutters as well as the lawn debris from the storm. Their pantry is full to bursting with snacks and ingredients. Their turkey swallows half the space of the freezer.

  They prepared flashlights and battery radios. Candles, too, just in case.

  But for now, Miranda surfs the web. She loves the internet and finds new ways to make use of it all the time. Her voracious appetite for new music satisfied by an infinite supply of links that lead to new artists, discovered songs around every corner. The best part is that she doesn't even have to buy it. With her pile of blank CDs, she can have all of it for free.

  Without her parents knowing she is listening to 50 Cent and System Of A Down. Her Walkman and friends keep the secret.

  Miranda spends hours on chatrooms when she can. Taking her time to read over days, weeks, months, of conversation and debate. Pausing her scrolling only to impart a comment or opinion and continuing onward. Sometimes she gets replies that open communications between her and other netizens. Around lunch she gets a new message from a user she vaguely recognizes. One of dozens of regulars, she thinks.

MTitanM: Hey, don't listen to DWilliams77. You're right, there third album has exactly that vibe. I listened to it almost everyday on the bus home from school until the disk died :p.

MirandaSheWrote: Fo realz. And me too. I still have it in my mix to listen on my walk to and from school. Classic.

MTitanM: Mix? What, you carry albums on you to class?

MirandaSheWrote: My mama would kill me if I asked for a CD rated explicit. x_x

MTitanM: Oh, you burn CDs. That's cool! 

MirandaSheWrote: Tanks! I'm kind of a pro :D. I make them in alphabetical order and mix bands! My friends always want some!

MTitanM: Wow! You really know your stuff. Any chance you could teach those who are less fortunate? I need some to keep in my truck :).

  Miranda's phone rings. She startles at the sudden sound then glances about herself. The family computer is in the living room. If anyone were home, they would be able to read what she says and does. Dad doesn't like her talking to people on the internet and Mon thinks the whole thing is a farce. 

  But her house is empty as ever. Sunlight pours in through the blinds and washes the room in its glow. Miranda answers her phone, "hello?"

  It's her mother to ask about the chores. She takes extra effort to log off her chat account and delete her cache and search history without so much as an audible keystroke.

  Zoey does not go to bed.

  Zayde sits up with the teens well after the other adults left. Missus Matthews cleared the table- wordless rejecting and efforts to assist- and then just as silently retreated upstairs. During their talks, Zoey hears the shower run, and one of the doors closing. Dustin's attempts to buoy conversation are stunted by the uncomfortable air that has settled over the house. They talk about music until Zayde heads off to his room. 

  Dustin stands up and stares at Zoey when she makes no move to follow. Chase wanders off to the downstairs bathroom to get himself ready for bed.

  "You staying down here, again?"

  "Probably," she quietly replies. "Are you going to be okay on your own for a few hours?"

  "I'm fine," he looks off in the direction Chase has gone. "He just better keep his hands to himself."

  Zoey rolls her eyes. Mostly because "keeping his hands to himself" precludes them from cuddling and that's the whole point of her sleeping on the floor with him. "I think we'll be fine."

  With a nod her brother leaves up the stairs and she sets to laying his blanket and sleeping bag exactly as she remembers from the night before. Chester's nails click as he moseys over from his spot in the kitchen entry to settle immediately onto the sleeping bag. He turns in a circle three times before lying down. Zoey sets the pillow and blanket out and then leans forwards on her knees to pat the dog. "Good boy."

  His tail thumps the flannel.

  "Thanks for keeping an eye on him for all these years," she whispers. 

  "Oh," Chase rounds the corner and freezes, "thanks. I thought you went to bed."

  Deciding to be outrageously bold again, Zoey responds by laying out more fully to get comfortable. "I did."

  The shock that flashes across his face makes the gamble worth it. Wide eyes and cheeks pink. It could be from washing his face but, somehow, she is confident it isn't. "Oh."

  "Chester and I were having a riveting conversation."

  "Oh, I'll bet," Chase snorts and strides past her and to the fireplace to stoke the flames. He adds another bit of firewood. "He loves to gossip."

  "We were talking about you."

  "Yeah, he loves to talk shit," Chase slowly, somewhat awkwardly, lays in the space between his girlfriend and dog. When Chester huff and rests his head down on his paws, he continues. "See? Nothing but attitude."

  After a pause. "Hey, Chase?"

  "I don't want to talk about it," he sighs. Zoey shifts and moves so when he turns his head to face her they are only a few inches apart. "I already feel like shit. That- Alma just pissed me off. But she is a pregnant lady and maybe she wasn't thinking straight beyond, I don't know, 'defend my man from this stranger kid.'"

  "Maybe," Zoey shrugs. In their reproductive unit in Human Bio they did learn all the ways hormone fluctuations during pregnancy can affect the mind as well as the body. The woman may very well have bot been with it, momentarily. "But she needs to know at some point."

  "I wish it were sooner. Like, before she was risking having a baby with a guy who might not be there."

  "That isn't up to you."

  "I know. Freewill and stuff."

  Zoey kisses his shoulder the follows the seam of his shirt to its neckline. "Why didn't you tell me about your dad? Like, more stuff about... what he did."

  He turns his face to the ceiling and doesn't reply right away. She has enough time to press her lips to his pulse point and feel him swallow. She is pleased he hasn't stopped her or pushed her away, yet.

  "There was a long time I thought I was over it. It's not like he beat me or starved me or anything. Not that he could have in the limited time he was around, I guess." Then, pensively, he tilts his head. "I guess there is other stuff like that, too. Things I thought I was over but... maybe not. Forester thinks I don't let myself 'process' or whatever."

  "She said that to me, too."

  Chase raises his watch to set alarms on it again. "You have issues from Louisiana, right?"

  Zoey frowns. "Yeah."

  He doesn't push any further. "You should at least change into pajamas, Zo."

  She groans and squeezes more into him. Roving one of her hands recklessly across his chest and burying her face into his arm. "But I'm comfy."

  "Your feet will freeze." He moves his shin to bump her bare toes. "Besides, sleeping in that sweater can't be comfortable."

  "It would help if she had more of the blanket."

  The couple jump to find Missus Matthews gazing down at them from the stairs. Chase tenses under Zoey's hands and she- strangely- feels nothing but mild annoyance. As if one of her roommates interrupted rather than an authority. "I, uh, don't need it. I'm close enough to the fire that I think I'd get too hot."

  "You should change anyway," the woman continues back up to the hallway. "We'll talk about it in the morning."

Chapter Text

November 22nd, 2000.

MTitanM:  )))):

MirandaSheWrote: OMG! Sorry! I have family in town this week and never got a chance to reply. 

MTitanM: jk lol. I'm just messing around xD What have you been listening to, lately?

MirandaSheWrote: OBSESSED with Blink-182 right now. Loved Enema of The State even though haters call it "poser" music for being so "poppy." -_- You?

MTitanM: You know who Eminem is? The Marshall Mathers LP?

MirandaSheWrote: Yes!!! I just ripped Stan and Real Slim Shady!

MTitanM: What are you? A music wizard? xD You must have an endless library.

  Miranda mulls it over. She feels she is making a new friend, and there is no way she could list all of her library within character limit of the messages. Isn't this what weblogs are for? She goes into her favorites tab, copies the link to her homepage, and sends it to MTitanM.

  Then she nervously quits the computer for the day. There are chores that need to be done. Aunt Jane wants to teach her how to make table decorations out of colorful tissue paper. 

November 30th, 2000

  Missus Simons lectures about the recount in Florida for the whole period. "American history is being made on this day," she announces, "there is no telling what the future holds. The impact this will have on the years and decades from now."

  Which lands just about as flat with a room of fourteen-year-olds as expected. Miranda's thoughts are centered around what she wants for Christmas and Buck's limp. Every night she prays he either gets better, or passes away peacefully in his sleep. Every morning she finds her prayers have gone unanswered. Her mother shoots pained looks after the old boy as he struggles to get his hindlegs through his dog door.

  She thinks about Michelle and Arnie going out over the coming weekend and the paper Mister Sikes is having them write on the flora and fauna of native Louisiana species. How their team, The Vipers, got absolutely decimated and were not contenders this year at all. 

  The stuff that makes up her daily life. Not Bush versus Gore. Her parents seem split on Bush, but she feels a certain loyalty to Gore for creating the internet. 

  In her passing period, Marisol asks, "hey, who is Matt?"

  "Hoffman or-"

  "No, on your blog," her friend clarifies. "I saw his comments on the Listens Lately tab."

  Miranda is thrown off momentarily before she remembers. "Oh, that's probably one of the people on those music chatrooms. He seems cool. Had good taste in music. Why? What'd he say?"

  Marisol shrugs, "nothing. Just, he commented on, like, all the song recs."

  "Well, I have excellent taste. Oh, wait, now I remember; he wanted to submit some Eminem to my list. That was it."

  "Does he go to our school?"

  What a fantastic question. Miranda is so used to talking to strangers that sometimes she forgets those usernames are attached to real, living people. She wracks her memory. He said he had been in high school- no indication of currently. He has a truck. "Probably not. I haven't been able to get back on in a while. As soon as I can, I'll ask."

  Chase sleeps hard and dreamless.

  In fact, he sleeps so deeply it isn't his watch that wakes him, it's Zoey. He wakes up groggy and moderately disoriented. The flat plane of the ceiling burnished in the glow of a dying fire. Warmth swallows the whole of his body and presses him into the sleeping bag. Zoey murmurs something into his neck and grabs his wrist.

  "Morning," he mumbles into her hair, "stop moving. Go back to sleep."

  "I have to get to my bed." She disarms the alarm and climbs off him. "Even though you are much more comfortable."

  It doesn't occur to him that she did all that until he is properly awakened by Zayde's insistence they make their guests breakfast again. It was mostly the dense rubber foot of his cane rapping against the top of his head that woke Chase up fully. He does get to his feet after a few seconds of complaining and goes to the kitchen.

  Zayde goes about the cupboards and fridge muttering to himself. Chase wonders if Zoey actually slept on him through the night or if he had ignored his alarm so thoroughly he hadn't even felt her roll onto him. It wasn't anything indecent, really. The same amount of contact with the same parts of the body as a hug, just more pressure. Lots more.

  He decides it's a bad idea to think on it further. "Why are you so stressed, Zayde? I promise, Zoey and Dustin are already impressed by your hosting-"

  "Bah," the old man huffs, "it is not me that needs to do the impressing. I have already done that and lived a full life."

  Chase sighs and arranges the countertops with all the food his grandfather keeps piling on them. "So, what? Making omelets will convince Zoey to marry me?"

  "Good omelets."

  "Is that how you won Bubbe over?"

  The old man chuckles. "It was baking. Also, she was low on choices since so many of her eligible suitors starved to death or got gassed. My heartbeat was second to the loaves of bread I gave her and her friends after."

  "How did you know with her," Chase asks, "that she was the one?"

  "Lack of eligible suitors for me, too." Zayde jokes, eyes gleaming. Then he shrugs. "It was immediate. I saw her and knew. I burnt my hand on the oven door because I was transfixed. She was skin and bones with bruises the size of my hands around her eyes and even then I knew."

  Chase hums thoughtfully. "So it's genetic."

  "What is?"

  "Nothing. Zayde, what is the flour for?"

  "We're making our guests pancakes today." Zayde gestures for his grandson to open the lower cabinet. "Get me the large glass mixing bowl. We'll make enough to feed an army."

  "Do we need to feed an army?"

  "A word to the wise, my youngest grandson, should I die before you marry-"

  "Zayde," Chase chides, quietly, "you know my mother hates-"

  He waves off the concern. "Listen to what I tell you. It is said that the way to a man's heart is through his stomach, and this is true, but it works in the opposite direction too. Most young men will never learn this because they cannot manage a kitchen. A well-fed wife is a well-loved husband." 

  Chase masks his mild horror at the implication be feigning he doesn't catch the implication. Then, he feels guilty for being disturbed. He should be glad his grandparents were so happy for so long. That they enjoyed each other's company for all the time they had together. "I'll keep that in mind."

  "Why do you think you have so many aunts and uncles?"

  "Okay. Um, anyway-"

  "I think we made your mother at the kitchen sink in Baltimore."

  "Anyway!"

  Zayde guffaws. 

  It happens in the stupidest way possible.

  Serves her right.

  Zoey is surprised by the level of genuine concern in Lola's face and demeanor. A hand-wringing level of nervousness. "Are you guys... safe? Every time?"

  The blonde huffs in exasperation. Her face heats again from humiliation. This is the best possible outcome of the mess she has created. Had it been Dustin searching the drawers the conversation would be way more painful. If Lola hadn't thought fast enough on her feet to come up with a good lie to dissuade her brother's curiosity this could be so much more awkward. God forbid- "There is nothing that needs to be done 'safely.' I already said we aren't doing that or anything like it."

  Lola raises an eyebrow in disbelief, but her expression is softened, edges rounded, by worry. "You can tell me anything, you know that."

  Not a question. A pure statement of fact. Which is utterly and completely true. Since Zoey told her roommates about Tommy and the dust settled, they have treated her as they always had. Her confession didn't swallow up the space in their friendship, the friendship just grew to accommodate it as well as it had with all their developments. They don't treat her like glass or something tainted, she is still Zoey to them.

  And it was so much more than she dreamed it would be like.

  "I know," she agrees. 

  "Has Chase brought anything up with you?"

  "No, not without the broader discussion of our relationship." A half-truth. "He isn't pushing or so much as asking for a timeline on that. It's... me. I'm new to this stuff. It makes me anxious and I- it made me feel better doing something to make myself feel prepared."

  Lola snorts a miniscule laugh, "yeah well, you are Miss Action. Doing stuff to make stuff happen."

  "Would that be considered a redundancy or like, a tautology?" Zoey muses, then shakes the thought off. "Whatever."

  "What about just telling Chase about..." she gestures to the drawer that, as of now, is littered with spilled condoms. "That?"

  Zoey snorts, "he'd die of mortification. Like, 'hey babe, got nervous about the rest of our relationship so I bought condoms and my roommates found them.'"

  Lola smirks. "We should tell him."

  "No! Lola," the blonde laughs. 

  "But it would be so funny! Can you imagine his face?" Her eyes widen as she is apparently struck by an idea. "Ooh! We can tell him that Quinn was the one who found your stash and she has experiments in mind!"

  That makes Zoey's lip curl in distaste. "Absolutely not. She already X-ray visioned him and that's... she knows enough about him."

  Lola's jaw drops for a second, and only a second, before she bursts into peals of laughter again. "I don't mean for real! God damn, you're so possessive!"

  Zoey hurls a pillow at her roommate who only squeals and laughs more. Jumping to her feet and running to their door. "I'm telling Chase!"

  "Oh, no you don't! And don't think you can outrun me, Martinez!"

Chapter Text

  She wakes up entirely disoriented.

  It's dark. Nigh on pitch black and her body is resting on a cold, unyielding surface. When she inhales it hurts. Dust particles cluster in her nostrils and stick to her lips. The cold invades her flesh and digs to her bones but it also quiets the disorienting thrum in her head. Moving as little as possible, she tries to glance around. Her face as a whole- but especially her nose and cheeks- ache. Her ribcage throbs.

  Finally, Miranda lifts her head and presses her palms on the ground. She detects the odor of fuel. Something grumbles outside of her field of view. Behind her. Steady and rolling like-

  The garage.

  Fear strikes a spark in her brain that ignites the primal urge to survive. It's dark enough that she has no idea what time it is but the pain radiating all over her body inform her that it's is passing all the same. The numbness provided by the icy cement floor washes away with each lurching ache. Her heartbeats are almost agony. They're mostly relieving. A double-edged reassurance. With great effort, Miranda gets to her knees and finds her legs sore. From scalp to sole, nothing seems right. Inside and out. Her tissues throb with her heartbeat.

  Somewhere- as she peers about her surroundings- it occurs to her one of her eyes is still closed. She uses the lightest touch with the tip of her finger to examine it and winces at a hard, crusty sensation. Miranda's headache swells. Reaching out with her hands, she searches the dark for something. Anything. The movement pulls her shoulders and twinges her chest. The seconds grind like hours until her her hands find purchase on and object. Smooth and cold and metal. 

  The door in the front and knobs along the top indicate that it's the dryer. Her memory sketches out the room as she labors to stand. 

  Maybe it's the wooziness in her head, but even her own imagination struggles to draw straight lines. Miranda's knowledge of her own home places her near the big garage door. About ten feet to her right as well as the door into the house to her more immediate righthand. She wonders if Matthew threw her out here after he knocked her out. Then why.

  Again, survival instinct cuts in to reprioritize her thoughts. 

  Going back in the house is probably a death sentence. Alerting him to her escape from the garage door's motor roaring in the night is also potentially fatal. There is another door to the outside world. Difficult to access from inside because Aunt Jane's boxes are stacked close to it. Enough to block the view of said door from most angles.

  Which makes it her most possible escape.

  Miranda's flesh is so cold to her own touch she can't tell if she is also wet. She is still nude. With a stiff, pained hop she blindly feels about until her foot touches wicker. It is an effort, but she stoops enough and grasps the first article of clothing she can. Air squeezes out through raw vocal chords like a rasp at the exertion. By smell alone she identifies it is her father's. By feel it's his fleece jacket. The sleeves still hang over her hands and the lower hem falls about her midthighs. Zipped up, it is no more revealing than-

  Than what matters.

  Her open eye tears up as she hobbles across the room. Her right knee wobbles and buckles such that she catches herself on her hands and a gasp then simply crawls the rest of the way. In doing so, she follows the draft sweeping under the door. It washes over her like ice while her body burns. It takes some fumbling to get the door unlocked and Miranda back on her own feet again. Then she discovers it won't open all the way. The boxes are piled too close and the door swings inwards.

  Finally, she catches sight of the outside through a window. It's hazy. She supposes she has an hour before dawn. 

  Though she is unwilling to waste so much as a second.

  Everything aches so badly that each movement comes with a stifled sob. Heavy breathing through her nose and grit teeth unleashes a torrent of (what she knows by taste) blood down her lips and to the back of her sore throat. Still, she does it. There is no other option but to die. Soon, enough boxes moved aside so she can squeeze out. The fresh air wafts over her like an exhale.

  It's too dark to see far, but her memory draws a map. Bare feet follow concrete past the dark shape of Matthew's truck in her driveway. She pauses at the hood to catch as much of its license plate as possible before staggering along. Her dad's jacket is slick enough that Miranda utilizes the truck to bear some of her weight as she goes. Sliding her right forearm down the whole thing. A wide step has one foot on the lawn and the other on concrete. She feels her way to the sidewalk until her feet touch the rougher, courser surface of asphalt.

  A dog barks. Howls. Yuma.

  "Yuma, no," Mister Rossetti's voice cuts in, "that's just-"

  Miranda can't see him. He's too far and too dark. She wonders what brought him out so late (or early) and decides to accept the miracle as it is. She moves to speak. Her jaw hurts something fierce, but her mouth moves to make the words. They don't come. A raspy whimper falls out instead. She hopes he is close enough to hear.

  "Jesus Christ!" Dog paws and human feet rush towards her. "Oh my, God!"

  And all at once they are upon her. She didn't realize they were so close. Her hand reflexively moves to block while she jolts violently at the sudden pair of man hands on her arms. They are supportive, cradling. They frighten her all the same. "Who- what-"

  "The man in the truck," Miranda's wooziness rushes her all at once. Mister Rossetti scoops her up. "Ma-Matthew."

  Exhaustion crashes upon her like a wave. Her senses are dragged into the depths where it is darker and colder, but the pain dissipates to something much more manageable. Vaguely, she hears Rossetti shout and feels her gut lurch as she is carried away. To where, her brain deems, is no longer important. All at once- just as she had reentered consciousness- she loses it again.