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Hunter waved before he rolled to the van—and past it.
With heavy steps, I followed him to a local graveyard. Pretty. And morbid; fitting to my mood.
He stopped at a pond filled with giant fish, watching me through the reflection on the surface of the water.
“It was so disappointing,” I murmured to his unasked question.
“Ah.”
“I knew they didn’t end up together, so I should’ve expected disappointment, but . . . I thought it was because Kyle never tried.” In an alternate universe, they would have lived happily ever after.
What fairytale world did I think I lived in?
I kicked a pebble into the water and it rippled away our reflections. “Aren’t you bummed?”
Hunter remained quiet, focused on rows of veteran’s gravestones. “I understood Victor.”
My knotted gut sank. He took Victor’s side? The letters meant nothing? My voice cracked. “You understood?”
“Yes.”
Hunter’s answer felt like a betrayal. Like confirmation no matter how much I . . .
“Right.”
I shuffled away. It was for the best. I didn’t want to dig up more emotions than necessary. What was the point, if we fundamentally disagreed?
“Marc?” Hunter called after me.
“I, um, need a walk,” I said with a Herculean effort to mask my pain. “I don’t live far. I can get myself home.”
“Wait—”
Curious frustration in Hunter’s tone had me stalling. I glanced at him over my shoulder. “How could you agree with him?”
He stopped rolling after me, hands braced on his wheels. “I just . . . I do, okay?”
I nodded and turned away, nodding some more. “Yep, okay,” I said, but I wasn’t.
I didn’t message him for the rest of the day, and he didn’t either.
Our disagreement continued into Tuesday, making that week the crappiest since visiting Jack in prison.
Sunday and Monday, I’d itched to play Demon-Slayage and had compromised by reading chat archives instead. Not because I didn’t want to talk to Hunter—I did, so fucking much—but realizing that things would never last between us depressed me. I wondered if I should cut my losses.
Uncle Ben muttered about respecting my space and being there when I was ready. Oh, and Jason was flying in this weekend.
Five o’clock sharp, I sat in a creaky wooden chair across the desk from Mr. Wyatt, the senior adviser overseeing the redevelopment of Lover’s Loop.
I’d entered on the aggressive, and he flashed his bleached teeth in an impatient smile.
A rap came, and Hunter rolled into the room.
I stopped arguing and stood, rushing out his name in surprise. I mean sure, Hunter said he’d come, but I thought after Sunday he wouldn’t.
He wore a nerdy Byte Me T-shirt under an open leather jacket, brown jeans, and forest green Pumas. Clean and neat, except for his messy hair. Had he been just as miserable as me?
His eyes shot politely from Mr. Wyatt to me and held, his chest rising on a sharper intake of air.
My heart whickered in my chest.
“Can I join you?” Hunter asked.
I nodded stupidly. Yes, join us. Please.
Fuck, I missed you.
He searched my face and I searched his. Uncertainty and something thick and desperate stretched taut between us. I resumed my seat, gripping the base.
Fuck cutting my losses. I was too selfish for that. I wanted to see Hunter again. Surely we could make this fooling around thing last longer.
He swiveled beside me. Maybe?
He turned his attention to Mr. Wyatt and handed over a folder from his chair.
“What’s this?” Mr. Wyatt slipped on a pair of spectacles and perused the contents.
“From a simple search online,” Hunter said, “there are over a thousand pictures taken of Lover’s Loop gazebo by past alumni and the public that imply altruistic feelings about the landmark. Over three hundred scratched initials and locks mark it. It has been used as a set in two local films and one international one. The gazebo has an incredible sentimental value and it should be conserved.”
Mr. Wyatt shut the folder. “As I was about to tell Marc before you joined us, the plans to take it down have been in place for months, and the university will most definitely move forward with them.”
I cursed. “We’ll hold a protest. Rally students, find support.”
“It won’t change anything.”
“It’s a way of creating awareness, of being heard.”
“Your enthusiasm is admirable, boys, but—”
“What if we ask Kyle Gable Green to step in? His family founded this university, surely he could stop these plans.”
“I daresay he could. But that won’t happen.”
I stood, smiling tightly. “We’ll see about that.”
Hunter and I moved toward the exit, and Mr. Wyatt called after us. “It won’t happen, because Mr. Gable Green was the one who asked for the gazebo to be taken down.”
“What?” I said, blindly following Hunter across campus. “Like, what?”
I still hadn’t processed Mr. Wyatt’s parting bomb. “How could he?”
I started panting before I realized we were heading up a familiar zigzag path. My step stuttered and Hunter moved ahead with controlled pushes.
