Page 35

But he’d never asked. And I’d never said anything otherwise.

“That wasn’t . . . I just—” Holden starts pacing, while I settle myself against the door with my arms crossed and let him sort through whatever it is he’s working out. “We were working on a project. And I . . .”

I’m enjoying this slightly flustered side of Holden Dougherty a little more than I probably should, but when his eyes turn red and his face starts to grow pale, I interrupt him.

“I don’t give a fuck what you were doing, all right? None of that shit matters to me.” The words are crass and quick, but I keep eye contact with him. So he knows. So he understands that I understand.

“Just relax.”

He blows out a breath and nods, before sitting down on the end of his bed. It’s unmade, teal and cream sheets and a Lord of the Rings plush blanket—from what I can tell it’s Legolas themed—tossed over the end in a swirl.

“What are you doing here?” he asks, his green eyes softer now as he looks up at me.

Shit. Whatever I was planning to say is suddenly gone from my head; I can barely remember why I thought coming here was a good idea, only that I didn’t want to be alone.

And I couldn’t stop driving past the damn brownstone on my motorcycle.

Maybe that’s selfish, especially when Holden’s the only one on the team who will even speak to me. He’s made efforts and I’ve made none, and now I’m here, in his room, seeking out his company and I can’t even admit it aloud?

Fucking pathetic.

Anger sours in my veins.

“I just needed to get out of the house,” I say with a shrug.

He nods. “All right. Well—want me to grab some beers and we can play?” He motions toward his gaming console in the corner. “Might take your mind off whatever is bothering you.”

“And you, yeah?”

This time he looks at me with more of the usual smile I’m used to seeing on his face. “Sure, sure.”

Holden runs down the stairs, leaving the door open so I can hear the groaning of his friends and a few catcalls most likely due to his seminaked state. He gets along with everyone, so it’s not surprising that his housemates adore him.

I’m all too aware that most people on the team tolerate me because of him.

That this tense, frustrating dynamic I have with the other Waterfell players could be so much worse. I should be more grateful.

Shame and guilt only pull at me stronger as I clock the photos on his bedside table. The first one is of Freddy and Holden singing on the bus, the memory so vivid I can almost hear them blaring “Cupid’s Chokehold” as we drive to an away game. But it’s the second one that hurts: Holden dressed as a Ninja Turtle with one green-painted arm slung over my white dress shirt, his smile too bright next to the Ghostface mask I’ve got pulled over my features.

I rub at the sudden ache in my chest.

When he returns, Holden boots up some game I’m familiar with but haven’t played much. Was never really a video game guy myself, spending my very scarce money on hockey equipment or sharpening my skates—and if I had a little extra, on secondhand vinyl, a thrifted guitar, and parts for my bike.

And expensive books on a famous dead painter.

“I like Lily,” Holden says, unprompted. The words slip out easily from his mouth, but they strike me like a hammer.

Nostrils flaring, I mutter, “She’s something,” dying in the game because I’m angrily hitting every button at once instead of attempting to play well.

Holden shifts slightly where we’re sitting on his bed playing toward his screen.

“She’s smart, in that one class—art history? It’s like she’s taken it before.”

Wrong. It’s her singular interest. Take her out of there and I’m sure—

“I think she’s gonna fail math though.”

I freeze, tempted for a moment to pause the game.