The Ice Between Us

Unavoidable

The library is like a sanctuary after yesterday's oversharing and emotional whiplash. Everyone here is so... open. Like, oversharing open. I'm used to keeping things to myself or between close friends, but in Sandviken, privacy seems overrated.

Agnes being a lesbian? Still processing that one. I thought she was into guys—I didn't see that coming. She seems too popular among the jocks, but maybe they speak the same language. Boobs and butts. Who knew?

I slide into a chair at a table tucked between two towering shelves of books. As I set my laptop down, it clatters against the wood, and the chair lets out a long, grating creak.

Great. I'm going to drive myself mad listening to this chair every time I so much as breathe. I consider switching to the other chair, but a quick nudge reveals it's even worse—louder, more defiant in its protest.

Fantastic. The universe really knows how to match my mood today. It wasn't enough that Dad insisted on driving me this morning—which I refused—now the chair insisted on continuing to make my day worse.

I open my laptop and stare at the image on the screen, trying to will my thoughts into order. Instead, my mind keeps drifting back to yesterday.

Maybe I'm the weird one for being so surprised. It's not like I've never met a lesbian before. They'll think I've been living under a rock all these years.

Geez. I wish I had nodded and commented, "Wow, what a relief it must be to be free of stupid guys. Yada, Yada." But no, of course, I didn't.

I sigh and adjust my chair, which groans in response. Yep. This sound is definitely going to drive me mad.

As I hunch over the laptop, a chatter starts distant, muffled by the shelves, but it grows louder with each passing second. It's impossible to ignore.

A dark voice cuts through the quie like nails on glass, dropping a casual bomb about how "Eva is seriously the hottest girl in school" and about "meeting up on Thursday after practice to give her a good fuck."

I freeze, hand hovering over the mouse. I wish I hadn't heard that.

My eyes roll so hard they could orbit the Earth. Guys. They are so predictable, always so gross. I get it—bragging rights, locker room talk, whatever. But do they have to bring their play-by-play commentary into the library of all places? Seriously?

Why not save it for the couch at home? Lounge in their sweatpants, crack open a bag of chips and spill their steamy little secrets there. Spare the rest of us from horny confessions and insatiable need for validation.

My finger taps the table, trying to focus, but their voices only get louder. My heart does this stupid little jump as I spot them—the jocks, all broad shoulders, puffed up like roosters, grinning like idiots and loud laughter. And, of course, among the pack is none other than him. Felix Kroon. Mr. Golden Boy himself.

They flop onto the couch like they're staging a hostile takeover, books hitting the table with a bang loud enough to make me jump. The chair creaks under me, obnoxiously loud, announcing my presence to everyone within a ten-mile radius. Fantastic. Just what I needed.

I bite down on the inside of my cheek and grip the mouse. Don't look at them. Don't even glance. Pretend they don't exist.

My fingers thread through my hair as I focus back on the screen, scrolling through the pictures I'd snapped on my way here. Black-and-white shots of random Sandviken corners. A rusty lamppost here, a man on the sidewalk there. Riveting stuff, really.

The chatter continues—still loud and infuriating—but now my brain can't ignore their voices.

"I swear, Becky has world-class tongue skills," says the towel guy from yesterday.