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Moving on to sorting the disordered shelves of paints, I somehow end up cleaning the studio alongside Liz in a series of quiet demands. I wouldn’t exactly coin it as a therapeutic exercise, but by the time all of the labels are facing forward and the palette knives are organized by size, there’s less of a vice-like grip around my ribcage. Take that, Dowley.
“Well, since my work here is done early, maybe I’ll pay that teacher’s lounge a visit and see whose lunch I can steal without being caught,” Liz winks in my direction. I don’t even realize I’m smiling until my dimples hollow out, and I’m quick to swipe my hand across my mouth.
“Liz,” I stop her from leaving, although not sure why. Swallowing, my eyes rake over her floral jumpsuit and land on her white Converse shoes. “Do you think I’m destined to always be miserable?” Backtracking across the room, Liz plants herself before me and slowly lifts her hands to plant them on my shoulders with a jingle of her bracelets.
“What I think is irrelevant,” she starts as my eyes lift to hers. Maybe I’m shrouded in pity, but it seems whatever she was going to say changes with the drooping of the smile on her face. “But if my opinion means that much to you, I think you have more agency than you believe. Don’t let whatever you’re afraid of losing back you into a corner. You’re in control of your choices. You get to paint the narrative.”
Paint the narrative. Control the narrative. Those words turn slowly inside my head, taking root and drowning out everything else around me. That’s exactly what Nicholas would say. If there was something he didn’t like blocking his path, namely me, he wouldn’t just discard it. He’d create a story to distract everyone from seeing what’s really there. It’s all smoke and mirrors, and as much as I hate myself for thinking it, perhaps I should be a little more like Nicholas.
“There you go.” Liz pats my biceps, taking the small smile on my face as confirmation that she’s alleviated my current problem. Oh, she has. Making her way across the studio, she’s almost out of the door before pulling up short, swishing her head of grey curls as she peers back at me. “Oh, and Reid, remember what I always say.”
“Yeah, yeah. If you’re going to feel pain anyway, might as well paint it.” Giving a small wave, Liz disappears, and I shake my head. She told me that in my freshman year, and it’s seen me get top marks in all of my assignments since.
Wasting no time, I reach for a piece of paper and a pen, brainstorming the ideas that are now sparking within my skull. To get rid of Meg, I need a narrative. A story that she won’t be able to look past and see who’s pulling the strings. A plot so devious, she won’t even think about sticking around. As much as toying with someone’s fear response makes my own stomach churn, I’m going to have to scare her.
For a brief second, Meg’s face rises in my mind. Not the sketched version, but the real one. Furious blue eyes, defiant lifted chin, steely expression. Even in my own head, she’s daring me to do my worst. I rise to that challenge, my pen working overtime in an effort to keep up.
Before long, the plan is formed amongst a mass of squiggles and underlined pen marks. I stare down at it, practically panting. It’s vile, devious, and perfect. Folding the paper, I tuck it into my hoodie pocket and make a beeline for the door. Campus is still obnoxiously bright as I step outside, but I’m smirking as much as I’m squinting. Finally, I know what I must do for Everest to look at me the way he used to, like I’m the only thing that matters in his world.
Besides, Hollowbrook Academy has always liked gossip. I’m going to give them something to really talk about.
Chapter Twelve
Two days of hell, that’s what I’ve been subjected to. Two days of Cody completely avoiding me. Two days of Meg turning up to practice, only to not say a word in my direction.
I knew I’d fucked up by kissing Meg, royally fucked whatever I had left with Cody, and now I’m paying for it. His words keep replaying in my head.
My love isn’t enough anymore. My actions aren’t putting him first, aren’t giving him any reassurance that we’ll still end up together, and I hate myself for that. I hate that I’m hurting him, and I hate that I can’t seem to stop.
Late afternoon, whilst players are still clumsily working through drills on the pitch, I step aside to respond to a message from my father. My heart drops as I read the words, step outside of the stadium, but thankfully, it’s just his driver and a limousine waiting there.
I received a call not long after I left Cody’s the other night, my father informing me he’d heard of my co-captain agreement and he approves. Not that I needed his approval, or wanted him involved at all for that matter, but it was inevitable. My father meddles in all areas of my life. Apparently, he works quickly too, as I’m handed two garment bags and an itinerary for this evening.
A photoshoot and question panel to announce the new unisex Hollowbrook Vultures team. I scoff to myself. Those fumbling idiots on the field aren’t a team, since none of them seem to be putting their egos aside long enough to be one. Still, when my father’s calling the shots, there’s no use arguing. I don’t have a scrap of fight left in me anyway. I’m simply rolling through the motions, accepting that no amount of spreadsheets or preplanning can put my life back on track. Perhaps it’s best I take a step back and let others control my choices for a while.
Although that thought lasts for all of three seconds when I unzip the garment bag with my name on and see the charcoal suit that has been selected for me, paired with a red tie. The second bag is heavier, some kind of satin shifting against my forearm, and has a tag labelling it as Meg’s. I briefly close my eyes and exhale through my nose. It seems Meg’s ignoring me is about to come to a swift end. The driver lowers into his seat, pulling out a newspaper to sit and wait out his orders. I hope he’s comfortable, I don’t plan on rushing.
By the time I step back into the stadium, practice is ending, and the locker rooms are full of noise. The men’s side clears around me as I walk through the center, the suit bag slung over my shoulder. I shower and change, swapping out the practice gear for slacks, a smart shirt, and the charcoal jacket. The red tie is shoved into my pocket for now.
Catching sight of myself in the mirror, I smooth my hair back and stare at the image of my father’s son. The person he wishes I was by nature, not by force. This isn’t the reflection of someone hiding a secret boyfriend, who kisses his stepbrother in the dark, who keeps his rival close in case she should ever have need of him.
No, this is the perfect image of a Calloway heir, the man who’s supposed to be taking over his father’s empire whenever he’s ready. An outcome that’s never going to come to fruition, because the second my trust fund is released, I’m running. Whether Cody agrees to still come with me or not, I’ll disappear into the wind and leave every ounce of expectation weighing me down far, far behind.
Once enough time has passed, and the players have emptied out of the stadium, I lift Meg’s garment bag and make my way to the temporary women’s unit. She doesn’t hear me step into the doorway, her head in her locker, hair thrown up and jersey tossed carelessly into her bag. I stare for longer than I should until her shoulders tense, sensing she’s no longer alone.
Her sigh reaches me before her words, and I stop beside her, shoes clicking against tile with more confidence than I feel.
“Whatever it is, save it,” she grunts, shouldering her bag as she tries to turn away. I catch her arm, just hard enough to pull her back before she can make it too far past me.
“I’m afraid neither of us has that luxury.” Meg spins to face me then, her large blue eyes roaming over my damp hair, my clothes, and finally the garment bag in my arms. Suspicion sharpens her expression, which is a pleasant surprise. Suspicion is better than the panic I thought might rush through her at our first public appearance. “Unfortunately, you’ll have to suffer my company this evening.”
Taking the bag, only because I thrust it into her, Meg peeks inside, and a small, bitter laugh escapes her. I spy the red satin, slim straps, and shoe bag tucked inside, my own throat working.
“Absolutely not. I already have plans.” She thrusts the bag back at me, but I step away, raising my hands.
“Your plans can wait,” I drawl, forcing boredom into my voice. In reality, I’m already picturing her in that dress, and two days of pent-up frustration slip away. Ordered or not, I’ve decided I’m seeing her in satin, end of story. “My father has planned a small photoshoot with a select group of journalists. Put on the dress and show up, I’ll take care of the rest. The car is already outside, so don’t take long.”
Meg’s eyes narrow, and I hold my ground. I could tell her I’ve had just as short notice as she has, but that would go against the front us Calloways put on. We’re never flustered, never caught unawares, always prepared. Instead, I step toward the door because if I say anything else, she might find out that I care. That I want a supporting role in this, her first moment in the spotlight. It’s bound to happen, with me or otherwise.
