It takes all my strength to stop myself from texting Blake the minute I get home. Even the next morning, when I turn up at the bikeshed to find he's not there, I don't succumb to the urge. If he'd wanted me to text him, he'd have given me his number.
Still, even though I'm sure he's okay, I can't help but worry. I get through my classes on autopilot, choosing to spend lunch in the library so I can work on my debate, but my efforts are ruined when all I can do is glance at my phone, wondering if I should message him. It's a line I probably shouldn't think to cross given how I obtained his number, but God, do I want to.
Frustration at his absence soon turns to annoyance. My speech is on Tuesday, and my campaign captain is AWOL once again, which wouldn't be so bad if he was actually sick, but something tells me he's not.
Temptation wins out as I pull out my phone, glancing at Mrs. Markley to ensure she's not looking. Any sign of a phone in the library's vicinity gets confiscated and added to her drawer of abandoned cellphones. When she's busy staring at her screen, I open up the chat Freddie made and ask Blake if he's available tonight to meet up for the campaign. Then I tuck my phone away, pick up my pen, and get back to planning my debate.
Or at least back to staring at my page. The seconds' tick by as I sit here, unmoving. Things like this usually come easy to me – I'm the queen of planning and preparation – but all I can think about is how likely it is that Chase will do something to sabotage me.
I won't see it coming, either. Chase is clever enough that anything he does will be too subtle for the untrained eye. But he'll know, and I'll know, and that's what's so awful. If I say so much as point my finger, it'll sound like I'm crazy.
I sigh and play with my bracelet. If Blake were here, he'd tell me to relax and focus on my debate, but he's not, so I spend another few minutes stressing and obsessing before deciding to get it together. Head down, I brainstorm a bunch of ideas and scribble them out again.
Maybe it doesn't mean anything that he hasn't texted me back – maybe he's still asleep. I bite my lip, tempted to send another, which means I've officially entered dangerous territory, so I take a brief walk around the library to help clear my head.
As I'm scanning the bookshelves, a familiar voice sounds on the other side. I peek through a gap in the books and see Chase whispering with Libby. Libby looks upset; she folds her arms, and her eyes are big and wide like she's on the verge of tears, but she doesn't speak.
I back away slowly. If I had any sense, I'd either listen closely or get away, but I do neither. Just like that night at the party, I freeze. It doesn't matter – Libby's voice grows louder as she says, "You could have told me, Chase."
"No," he says, "I couldn't have. We both know you wouldn't have gone through with it."
"So you took away my decision?"
"Libby." His voice softens. He's using the same one he'd use with me whenever I'd disagree with him. "Did you forget what she did to me?"
"I didn't forget," she says, barely audible. "I'm just tired, Chase. I know she hurt you, but isn't it better to move on? This revenge stuff just isn't you."
Except it is him – I just hadn't realized. I don't know how: I've always been the type to scream at the tv when some poor girl doesn't realize how twisted her boyfriend is, but it turns out that girl was me.
I lean forward a little to get a better look. As I'm twisting my neck to see Chase through the books, one of them falls, and they both turn to look at me. Chase's eyes hold mine before he says something to Libby, who gives me a pitiful look before leaving.
Chase disappears from view and rounds the aisle I'm in. I hold my breath as he closes the distance between us, hoping that Mrs. Markley will hear me scream if Chase goes full psycho mode.
"Hey," he says, leaning against the shelf.
I don't say anything. Seeing him so calm like this, as though no time has passed, is unnerving. Some part of me still wants to step forward, to wrap my arms around his neck the way I used to.
"How could you?" My voice is soft and somewhat pathetic, but I can't help it. Everything I've been holding in for the past few weeks starts to seep to the surface. It's the first time we've been able to talk like this, face to face and alone.
"Come on, Rose," he says. "You thought you'd kiss my friend, and I'd just sit back and take it?"
"No, I thought you'd believe me when I told you I didn't do anything."
His eyes cool. "I saw you."
"You saw him kissing me."
"You know," he says, leaning closer, "that speech would be a little more convincing if you'd stopped him."
There are few things more aggravating than having somebody accuse you of something you didn't do. "Even if I did, you think trying to ruin my campaign is a normal response? You need help, Chase." I go to shove past him, but he grabs my arm, yanking me back. I let out a noise that makes Mrs. Markley glance up from her screen, and Chase drops my arm.
"I'm not trying to ruin your campaign," he says, and he sounds so innocent I almost believe him. "Libby wanted to campaign, so I'm helping her."
"By stealing my speech?"
He tilts his head, leaning closer. "I don't know what you're talking about."
I'm on the verge of screaming. "Why are you doing this?"
He shakes his head like he can't believe me, as though I'm the one in the wrong here. "Look, I'm going to do you a favor," he says, looking back. "I'll end this right now if that's what you want. Make Libby drop out of the running."
I swallow hard. "In return for what?"
He shrugs. "Admit what you did."
I'm tempted to do it: I'll tell him I kissed Adam despite knowing it's not true, hoping he'll leave me alone. But then I look at him, really look at him, and I can't bring myself to do it. "Campaign or don't campaign," I say, pushing past him, "I don't care what you do."
I can feel his eyes on me as I head back to my table. After grabbing my bag, I exit the library without looking back, my stomach in knots. Even though standing up to Chase is the right thing to do, I know it won't be long before he makes me regret it.
For the rest of the day, I long to be back in Blake's basement. Maybe it's because of my encounter with Chase, or because Blake's absence brings with it this cold sense of loneliness, but I've never wanted anything more.
After school, when I think I've escaped the worst of it, Tristan and Georgia cross the parking lot as I head to my car. "Where's your boyfriend?" Georgia calls over, sneering. "Finally been arrested?"
"Come on, Georgie, even he wouldn't go there," Tristan says, and the pair walk away, laughing.
My eyes prickle as I climb into my car, because this day can't get any worse. I pull into the road, my chest compressed as I fight back the tears, but I can't keep them in any longer. I hadn't realized until now how much better I feel when Blake is around, even if it's only for a few minutes in the morning while he blows vape in my face. Without him, I'm lonelier than ever.
I turn on the radio to focus on the music, but I can't. Even he wouldn't go there. It's obvious what Tristan had meant. I'm obsessive, boring, the complete opposite of the kind of girl Blake would want, and the worst part is everyone knows it. I know, but part of me wants to prove Tristan wrong anyway.
As soon as I get home, I say hello to my parents and head upstairs to take a bubble bath. It's supposed to be relaxing, but as I lie here, soaking in my favorite rose and lavender bubble soak, I can't untwist these knots.
The rest of the evening comes and goes without a word from Blake. I get through my piano lesson before retreating to my bedroom, my conversation with Chase still fresh in my head. To distract myself, I decide to make tester Vote Rose cupcakes for the campaign, which I'll take a picture of and send to Blake to make double-texting him less stalkerish.
As I pull out the flour, Dad walks in and takes in the rows of baking trays. "Are we making something?"
"Campaign cupcakes," I say. "I'm going to make a test batch and send a picture to Bl–Angela to get her opinion."
He frowns. "Who's Blangela?"
I laugh it off as a slip of the tongue and focus my attention on mixing. It works for a while: I don't have time to think about Blake or my campaign when I'm baking. I focus on the mixing, on the back-and-forth motion of my spoon in the bowl, folding in the eggs. It's not long before I'm putting them in the oven and twenty minutes later, taking them back out. I let them cool down before frosting the top in red, white, and blue, the words Vote Rose imprinted in a delicate scrawl. And that's that.
I glance at the clock and see it's only half seven, which means another few hours of wondering how Blake is. Of replaying Tristan's, even he wouldn't go there. Of wishing I could be in Blake's basement. It's insane even to think it, but somehow I know that the moment I see him, I'll instantly feel better.
It's why, even though it's about the stupidest thing I can do, I get ready, grab my cupcakes, and make the journey to Blake's. The whole way there, I tell myself showing up is psychotic, considering he'd ignored all my texts, but I don't care. If I have to choose between staying home on a Friday or being in his basement, I choose the latter.
The drive to his house is precarious. I have to balance the tin of cupcakes on the passenger seat so as not to disturb the icing, which means I have to drive extra slowly. A few cars behind me beep as I crawl along the winding road leading up to his street, but I'll be damned if I ruin these cupcakes. They're my alibi, the reason I'll give when he asks me why I'm there. The campaign needs more promotion, I'll say, and I need your advice on which cupcakes look better.
When I pull up outside, I kill the engine and stare at the tin. What if he's not home? Or what if he is and I show up with the cupcakes, and he thinks I made them for him? Not only would I look like a stalker but a downright sociopath. I open the door, leaving the cupcakes on the passenger seat, and head to the basement door.
The lights are off, and Blake is lying on the sofa watching what looks like a horror film. A joint smokes gently in the ashtray on the table, a burning ember in the dark. Heart pounding, I knock on the door, still wound up by today's events. Where have you been? I rehearse in my head. Why didn't you come to my campaign meeting? But the moment the door opens, and those dark eyes meet mine, I forget what I'm thinking and kiss him.
For about a milli-second, he kisses me back. But then his hands clamp down on my shoulders and stop me. I pull back a little, watching as the muscles in his neck throb. "Forget it, Matthews."
Rejection burns through me. Clearly, he's been using these two days apart to rethink things. "Why?"
His eyes darken. It looks like his body and mind are at war, but it's hard to tell which is winning. "Because you're Rose Matthews," he says, lowering my wrists, "and because I don't want you to expect anything from me."
There it is, I realize, the real reason he keeps everyone at a distance. Sometimes it's easier not to expect anything than to end up disappointed.
"I won't," I say, and I mean it. I don't want the fairytale, the labels, the romance, because I had that with Chase, and look at how that turned out. Maybe Blake was right all along – romance is capitalist bullshit.
He stares at me like he doesn't believe me, like maybe tomorrow I'll turn around and demand he be the perfect guy, but that's not what I want. For the first time in my life, I'm faced with something that isn't perfect, and that's why I need it. So I reach for his t-shirt, pulling him closer until the sliver of space left between us is gone.
"Don't overthink it," I say and kiss him.
A/N
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