Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

PROLOGUE

Avery rested her head on the steering wheel, blowing out a heavy breath.

It was getting really late. Avery felt her eyes droop, head getting heavy. She really needed to get some sleep. A groan escaped her, thinking about the physics test she had tomorrow. She considered pulling an all-nighter. Her head pounded harder at the mere idea.

Max was in New Castle to visit her grandparents for a few days. She’d be gone by Sunday.

Avery didn’t know what she’d been thinking when she’d put her physics textbook in her satchel. Maybe that she’d be able to get some stuff done and catch up with Max.

She should have known better, cause as soon as she got there, everything was a blur of Max opening the door and Max hugging her and Max leading Avery to her room, where she showed her the cool blacklights she’d gotten for sale on eBay before watching their favourite movies in order.

Max felt like home. Right then, she was home. And all thoughts of a physics test looming like impending doom were forgotten.

When it was getting late, Max had asked her to stay the night with a expectant smile. Avery had made a half assed excuse about Libby getting worried and said she’d better get home.

Now, sitting in her car, Avery felt so alone. She missed Max. She missed Mom. She missed her hugs. Everything was a blur of longing for what she had a year ago. When Max was in town and Avery and her mother would think about the places they’d go to. She pulled out her stack of postcards from the glove compartment.

All the places they’d go to. Together.

Avery felt her vision blur. She’d kept it in too long. She started crying.

Avery really needed to pull herself together. Girls like her didn’t have the privilege to sit and reminisce about what ifs. She fumbled for her phone. The bottom of her just-short-of-tatters bag was stuck in the glove compartment. When she gave it a rather forceful tug, it gave out from under, all the contents spilling into her lap.

If only giving in were that easy.

Avery resisted the rather strong urge to smack her head against the steering wheel.

A bluish glow illuminated her car.

She gripped her phone hard. Then relaxed her fingers instantly. She doubted it would take her bullshit anymore. And she couldn’t afford a new phone at the moment. She shot a quick text to Max.

got a blacklight of yours

will drop it by tomorrow

From the corner of her eye, she caught the letters in her lap glowing. Something written there.

Dear Hannah, the same backward-

What the hell?

Avery immediately turned on the overhead light.

But the only things staring back at her were the blank cards, almost infuriatingly in their blankness, as if mocking her for going fucking insane. She really needed to get some sleep.

But then instinctively, her hand went to the switch. And she was engulfed in darkness again. And slowly, slowly, the script on the letter was brightening.

Oh well,

Chapter Text

Dear Hannah, the same backward as forward,

I’m sorry for running in the dark. It’s what a coward would do. That’s what my father always used to say. But I’m sorry Hannah, because that’s what I am. I am a coward who is totally undeserving of every curse you spat at me, of your every shove, of every time you touched me like I didn’t take everything from you.

But it’s what has to be done. Despite the flimsy bandages you wrapped around my limbs, I am not strong enough to look you in the eye as I run away.

I hope you can forgive me. I hope you don’t forget me. I hope you know that, for whatever it’s worth, you will always be my one and only. I hope you don’t hate me. But I am a broken man who hopes for too much.

But this is my penance. It is what I deserve. I cannot let my father take me away to Dallas and wash me in his wealth till my skin has no trace of your touch. No trace of your kisses. Let him erase the mark you left on me. I couldn’t live with that. But I know he will find me here.

So I am leaving. But always know, that if you ever come to miss me, a part of me will always be with you.

Chapter Text

AVERY

Entering the principal’s office was something I had done exactly three times.

First, when my mother had been called when some girl hit me. Second, when she’d raised hell with the principal for assuming that I had cheated because the boy behind me wrote the same answers and I’d come home crying. And third, when she died.

This time was different.

Pushing aside the memories, I knocked at the door- the third from the right- I was told to knock, turning the knob to a ‘come in’ muffled by the mahogany door.

Dr. McGowan’s- who I was told had a PhD in education from Princeton- was seated behind a large wooden desk, rows and rows of gleaming trophies and keepsakes behind her arranged behind glass panels. Photos of students wearing the same uniform I in right now hung around the showcase. Some yellowed with age with dates under them, some brand new. I tried in vain to spot a faceless someone.

She smiled when she saw me staring around. “Wonderful. Isn’t it? We have alumni spread over the globe.”

“See that one,” she said, pointing to a picture behind me. A grainy shot of four boys smiling. “He was on the track to become President a few years back.” I didn’t know which one she was talking about. “But you’ll get to know all that as you settle in. Have a seat for now”

I tentatively settled into the plush chair opposite her.

Even the silver sleek Montblanc she was casually tapping on the textured wood sounded rich. “How are you liking Texas?”

I wasn’t one for small talk, but something about her ease made me want to show that I wasn’t all that fazed by all of this. “Haven't been around a lot.”

“That’s alright. You’ll have plenty of opportunities to discover it under the guise of school trips and expeditions.”

Yeah, I thought looking at a bright snowy picture. Cause sending a bunch of kids to Antarctica instead of learning about it from a textbook was completely normal. “Of course.”

She nodded, angled her head down. “Let’s get to work then,” she said, gestured to the papers on her desk. “As per your request, I’ve slotted you into the physics and math's classes which best align the course you had been following. If you face any difficulties with the load, which I doubt you will, given your record, you can always approach me.”

I nodded. There were infinite options I could have taken at a place like this, where the floors always appeared to be gleaming and the paint on the walls was never peeling off. Where I could get into a good college no matter the subject I pursued. But giving up the one thing I had thought about ever since I had become conscious enough to know that we weren’t well to do felt like… a betrayal of sorts. “Sure.”

“Now, for the rest of your schedule,” she slid a paper to me, “here are some activities and clubs you can have a look at. See if you're interested.”

I gazed at the paper, certain words jumping out to me.

“Now if that’s all-”

“Dr. McGow-”

“The students just call me Dr. Mac,” she corrected.

“Is there anything I could volunteer for.” Something that would let me be here while others were not. Get to know this place better.

Dr. Mac smiled. “I appreciate you asking. And there are indeed events with which we’ve been encouraging student participation that would look good on your college application as well. I’ll mail you the details.”

She stood up, clearly marking an end to this meeting. I stood up as well. She rested a hand on my shoulder and squeezed lightly. “You'll let me know if anyone bothers you.”

I nodded, making for the door when a knock, then another, reverberated through it.

JAMESON

I had lost count of the number of times I had been to the principal’s office. Unlike Xander, it wasn’t for exploding rockets. Or in Gray’s case, for ‘achievements far ahead of his age’. Nash didn’t really talk about how school was for him.

I usually ended up here, thanks to skipping classes or not bothering to attend at all.

Going to the principal’s office wasn’t something I particularly enjoyed. Especially when I the only thing I was aware of was the framed photograph of Toby along with the victims of the fire. Like they were staring a hole in my head. But it beat detention. And skipping detention got more detention. School was boring enough as it was. Especially when you didn’t really have people you could call friends. Only those on whom you could count on to get stuff done given the right price. And those you couldn’t.

You never entered Dr. Mac’s office without permission. The last student to try it had been thoroughly and publicly grilled about respecting boundaries. As much as I enjoyed trouble and making scenes, I respected Dr. Mac. She had put up with my bullshit, given I did good with studies, for as long as I could remember.

Just a couple more years.

Upon confirmation, I swung open the door, greeted by the sight of a hardly surprised and annoyed Dr. Mac and another girl about my age. She had hazel eyes, hair that would have been just past her collarbone if it hadn’t been tied tightly at her nape. I hadn’t seen her around. She must have been new. She also didn’t look like someone normally seen around here.

Forcing my attention to Dr. Mac, I said, “I believe I was told to be here.”

Her eyes narrowed. “At 9 a.m.,” she replied curtly.

I shrugged. “It’s called fashionably late.” That got me an eye-roll from Dr. Mac, which very clearly said ‘what did I do to deserve getting stuck with hormone raging Texas royalty’ and a surprised expression from Hazel Eyes. Definitely new.

I smirked as I extended a hand to her. “Pleasure to meet you.”

She eyed my hand as if I’d thrust a gun. Her eyes widened slightly. The furrowing of her brows and the way her lips tightened into a frown gave her an almost chaste expression.

“Cut it, Jameson.” Dr. Mac made for her seat.

I straightened. Hazel Eyes mumbled a quiet apology and shuffled past me.

++

“You’ve been good enough with your studies, Jameson. But your attendance is spotty at best. And your grades have slipping for a while now. More than half your time here is over. And I’m afraid you won’t be able to-” I opened my mouth, then shut it when Dr. Mac held up her hand. “And before you tell me that you’ll have it taken care of, Jameson, money doesn’t solve everything.”

It does though.

Dr. Mac took a deep breath. I appreciated her patience. I really did. And her capability to ignore my baits. Even though that was usually a desired result. If people were angry with me, I didn’t have to bother with niceties either.

“Jameson,” Dr. Mac said, folding her hands on the wooden table, “ever since I was appointed headmaster, I've worked in the interest of fairness. You're no different. If you don’t want to fail this year, you're going to be here on time and regularly.” Her voice was completely calm. She gave me a smile. “And I think I’ll need to have that chat with your grandfather after all.”

Chapter Text

AVERY

Who the hell did kids here think they were. Casually leaning against doors and flashing that smile to everyone they met. And who comes to school like they just rolled out of bed?

Hypocrite, a voice in the back of my head reminded me.

Alright. I’d shown up to school in much worse. But no one had been looking at me. And this boy, he looked like the kind of person who invited trouble, like dangling carrots in front of a rabbit.

That encounter was trivial, inconsequential. I pushed it out of my head. focusing instead on the words an awed Libby had whispered softly into my head, holding me- donned in the uniform that had lipped on like a second skin. ‘This is our chance, sunshine. You're going to kill it. And if it doesn’t kick off the best, that doesn’t mean it has to stay that way.’

The writing on my schedule (a glossy sheet of paper colour coded in earth tones. Overdone really.) was neatly printed but minute enough I had to strain my eyes to make it. I bumped into someone equally distracted.

“I’m sorry.” The face that spoke those words was almost as beautiful as the voice. Red hair that shone bright under the light, big eyes that instantly drew a person’s attention. A thought rattled in the back of my mind. Did everyone here look like they stepped out of a cover for Vogue?

I realised I was staring and immediately looked away. “I’m sorry,” I said, straightening my skirt, more as a reason to stop fidgeting my hands awkwardly at my sides than anything else.

“Could you please tell me where this class is.” I asked, pointing to the first class- Maths- in my schedule, staring in exactly ten minutes.

“Third door round the corner.” She gestured with her hand. “To the right.”

“Thank you,” I mumbled, brushing past her.

“Are you new here?” She called from behind me.

Did she know everyone around here or did I just stick out that badly? “Yes,” I answered, trying to sound neutral. “Why'd you ask?” I just couldn’t play it cool, could I?

That elicited a small practiced smile out of her. “Nothing. Just- See you round.” Or not, the way she whirled around said.

The class was I entered was big enough to accommodate at least a double the number of seats spread over. A man whom I presumed was the teacher had his back towards the class, writing something on the board. None of the students took note of my presence, a horde of flashing teeth, shiny hair and shinier prep school blazers. Chatting with one another, which I was very glad for as I made a beeline for the empty desk towards the end of the classroom.

In a flash, the seat was taken. It took me a moment to recognise who it was. The boy from the headmaster’s office.

Jackson?

He looked up at me with a smile. It was then that I realised I’d failed to notice the intensity of his green eyes before. “Sorry,” he said, eyes glinting, expression anything but, “seat taken.”

JAMESON

I scribbled over the what I had thus far written, Dr. Anderson moving on to the next question already. it didn’t help that the girl sitting behind me stared a hole in my head half the time. Which was weird since Dr. Anderson was making us do trigonometric derivatives and he had a habit of assuming that high school students could keep up with his pace. Half of them stared at their notebooks with an unblinking intensity, as if expecting the answers to appear on their own. The other half appeared to be on the verge of a migraine. It was no surprise that all the fifteen students in the class, including myself, wanted this class to be over as soon as possible.

So yeah, no complaints.

I snuck a glance behind me, expecting Hazel Eyes to be doing the same. I was greeted with an unamused face staring right back. I turned back.

“Are you done already?” I asked her quietly, feigning attention on the board.

She didn’t answer me. I debated calling her Hazel Eyes to get her attention, but somehow, I knew that she had. It was unusual for Heights Country Day to take in students even slightly after the start of the a session. there must have been something very compelling.

Money. Or connections. Or brains. Maybe all three. And I knew all too well that pissed girls shunned you like their life depended on it.

I didn’t want to piss her. She could be useful, after all.

++

The interesting thing about this class was that, sometimes if I forced my mind, I could see instructions for demonic rituals written instead of formulae. That would have been infinitely more interesting.

The collective sigh-- like pressure popping in the room- finally- signaled the end of class.

As students started filing out, I turned to Hazel Eyes behind me, pasting a smile. “I don’t believe I got a chance to introduce myself earlier.”

“You did. But you chose to steal my seat instead.” She didn’t even look up from the bag she was shoving her books into. Her voice was sharper than I’d expected it to be. An inference I’d drawn from her eyes.

“I didn’t steal your seat. I got there first.”

She rolled her eyes. “Whatever.”

“Jameson Hawthorne,” I said, waiting for the spark of recognition, then surprise followed by awe to flicker over her face.

All I got was indifference. “Avery. Avery Grambs,” she said impassively.

“It’s nice to meet you.” Somehow the confusion in my voice made that sound like a question. Did she really not know who I was?

She raised an eyebrow. We both know that’s not true.

Okay. Maybe she didn’t know. It was still worth a try. “So,” I said, dialing up the charm. I grinned when I saw her gaze linger in the vicinity of my mouth. “You aren’t interested in niceties. Neither am I. The thing is, and I don’t know if you’ve heard about it, but Dr. Anderson gives out a particularly challenging project for mid-terms every year. And I was wondering if you would be interested in teaming up with me.”

As if she knew exactly what I was doing, her eyes narrowed. “Why would I be interested in teaming up with you. I don’t even know you?”

“Yet,” I corrected her, fiddling my collar. “You don’t know me yet.”

She was amused. I could tell that much. Plus, if she was on board with this one, I didn’t have to worry about bribing Xander- who has a big mouth and is dramatic enough about being bribed as it is- under the old man’s nose.

“As enticing as that sounds, I’ll pass.” At least she made an effort at sarcasm.

She swung her bag over her shoulder, clearly marking an end to our little meeting. I quickly stepped in her path. “I don’t think you know who I am.” She would definitely be more inclined to accept my offer if she knew what the last name Hawthorne meant around here.

But her eyes hardened, and I knew I’d played the wrong card. “I know that now.” She gave me a smile that wasn’t a smile at all. “Perfectly well.” I know the kind of person that you are.

AVERY

By the time I sat down at an empty table in a corner of the cafeteria, my head was spinning. Part of it was seeing all the space wasted with useless decorations. All the kids who moved about as if they had no idea they were walking over polished marble floors. Part of it was trying to keep up with my classes. Modular scheduling. But according to my schedule, not all of my days would be nearly as busy.

Come to think of it, this was nice. Better than nice. I hadn’t been expecting my first few days here to be all handshakes and smiles (And they weren’t). But at least it wasn’t weird. No one looked at me like I didn’t belong here, spoke about me behind their backs. Like they could see just what I was up to

And the food didn’t suck, I thought as I twirled my salad around my fork.

I want to make something very clear. I did not expect the kids here to obsessive jerks with eerie smiles who participated in eerier cults. I did not. And they weren’t. But the dark academia novels I sometimes skimmed in between shifts may or may not have coloured my perception.

I had probably blown my only chance of socialising or making any friends here with refusing to team up with Jameson. But I couldn’t bring myself to be bothered, given what he’d said afterwards. I don’t think you know who I am. Everything about him screamed rich spoilt brat who hadn’t been refused a thing in his life. Like I’d think any differently of him if I knew who he was. Maybe I even felt a bit smug about the look on his face when I walked away.

(Maybe I was extremely slightly biased in my opinion to said brats. But it wasn’t anything they didn’t deserve.)

The screech of the chair next to me being dragged away from the table pulled me out of my mind. I turned to see the same red headed girl I’d bumped into in the hallway.

“Hi,” she said cheerily.

Um… “Hi?” I said, trying to keep the suspicion out of my voice. Did bumping into hallways count as an act of friendship around here? She seemed like the bubbly kind of girl who would have at least ten people she could call friends. And she was choosing to sit with me?

“So,” she looped her hair around a finger, as if nervous. “I saw the guy you were talking to.”

“After trig class.” She added at my puzzled expression.

“Jameson?” I asked, my stomach twisting when she nodded. “What about him?”

Red Head tugged at her hair. “Yeah. So he’s crazy rich. And he used to date Emily.” She paused, waiting for the words to sink in. She said this girl’s- Emily’s- name like it was supposed to inspire something. Awe? Fear? “And she doesn’t take kindly to anyone who would steal those boys from her.” Her voice didn’t break. I waited for her to apologise for her slip of tongue. What she had to stay next confirmed it wasn’t that at all. “So you know, just, stay away from him.”

And with that she was off to one of the tables in the centre before I could ask her name or process what she said.

Had I in any way implied that I was into Jameson? I most certainly didn’t think so. And who is Emily? And why does this girl care about- whatever it is that she cares about- if they used to date.

Stop, I told myself. I wouldn’t be curious about him. Curiosity towards someone was far more dangerous than attraction. Far more inviting. If I was curious, I’d want to figure out. Want to know.

Nonetheless, that was my clear cue to steer clear of this Jameson fellow. The last thing I wanted was unnecessary drama. Especially from someone who took offence to her boys being ‘stolen’. Like seriously?

Scratch that thing I said about rich kids not being obsessive jerks.

Chapter Text

Libby leaned against the door she’d quietly shut behind her. She exhaled through closed eyes. When she opened them again the tiredness wasn’t so crushing.

I wished I could do that, open my eyes to the same dingy apartment and still feel some newness to it. I looked away as I saw her pasting the fake smile she always made sure to greet me with. “How was school?” she asked.

Not great. “You're home late.”

I was just as good a liar as Libby, if not better. There was some difference though. While she actually seemed to believe in the lies she told herself in the name of hope, I excelled at giving no-answers that just didn’t lead anywhere.

Libby plopped down on the chair next to me, peeking over my shoulder at the list of clubs (not cults) Dr. Mac had sent me. “Robot Battle Death Match Fight Club seems fun,” she said, carefully enunciating the string of words.

“Not happening,” I murmured.

“You could at least consider it,” she said, nudging my arm with her elbow.

“I did consider it.”

“Whatever.” She rolled her eyes as she stood up. “Far be it from me to meddle with you and your long-standing rivalry with fun.”

The words pinched more than I’d be willing to admit, but I just stuck my tongue out at her. It wasn’t like she was saying anything wrong.

I wasn’t looking for fun. I was looking for something just short of invisible, something that wasn’t pasting fake smiles or shaking hands or making people believe in shit I didn’t.

At Knight Riders (why the hell they couldn’t have simply called it chess club was beyond me. It probably had something to do with Texas and all), there was always the possibility of running into conceited assholes who were incapable of speaking about anything other than the gleaming trophy- possibly self-procured- on their study desk that they’d won at some far-off championship nobody ever heard of.

But it seemed worth playing what I loved most.

Theatre was more impulsive. Slightly risky. Memories of cheap blinding lights and a drunk audience and billowing hair and barely-held-together costumes. I was hesitant about it solely for the reason that nothing would be same here. It would bleed into that familiar bubble.

But I could have a look around the school while I was at it.

Libby got up to fix something for dinner in the tiny space we generously referred to as our kitchen. Though she managed to hide it well, I knew her tells. She didn’t go out of her way to talk to me while we were eating, she kept blinking, as if confused.

Maybe she wouldn’t be her self-sacrificing self when she was this tired.

“Libby?” I asked.

“Yeah?” She said, eyes snapping up to me as if I’d caught her doing something wrong.

“There’s some pretty decent diners just round the corner,” I started carefully, “I was thinking-”

Libby swallowed, as if this was something she had to steel herself for. “No, Ave,” she said calmly. “You were not thinking.”

I sighed. Here we go again. My head dipped down. “Just- hear me out.”

“Avery, not this again. You're supposed to be focusing on you.”

She’s one to talk. “Who’s focusing on you?” I asked fiercely.

Her brow twitched, voice a match for mine, she replied. “I don’t need anyone to focus on me. I’m getting a raise. We can make this work.”

Slight raise. Funny she didn’t mention that. “Yes. We can,” I emphasised, gesturing between us. “And that’s why-”

“No Avery, there’s no move here.” Her face softened. “I’m your elder sister. And I’m going to take care of you. But-”

“I waited at a diner in Connecticut. Things worked just fine.”

Lips painted dark red thinned in an impressive frown. “Which I told you not to do, by the way. And this… it’s different, Ave.”

“Why?”

Libby stared at me, unable to form words. “It’s big Ave. Like really big.” Her eyes widened, as if to convey just how big. “Just think about all that you can do. You don’t have to limit yourself to some state college. You can aim for something you actually deserve. And you're going to burn yourself out if you keep on going like this. I’m not going to let you screw that up.” Her gaze wandered to her wringing hands. “We’re going to be just fine.” She exhaled, looking up at me. “Better than fine”

She smiled then. Like that smile wasn’t wearing her down; like the bags under her eyes weren’t. She brought her hand to my face, brushing off the hair from my eyes and gave a look so earnest, I wanted to look away.

“Plus, things are turning around. Don’t you see?” Her smile widened uncertainly. Like rent and gas and food were just technicalities that were there, obviously, but didn’t really affect us. It made me want to cry. “After everything with Sarah and Drake, things have been…” she trailed off. The shake of her head didn’t do justice to just how bad they’d been. “But they're finally looking up for us.”

Hannah, I wanted to say. Her real name was Hannah.

Libby kissed my forehead, dragged back her chair and got to putting the dishes away.

It was a losing game, I deemed. Libby had always thought that something huge was just around the corner. And this was it for her. Unfortunately, I knew better.

It was the same equation all over again, a fancy school the only changed variable.

++

Even though the summer- which was the worst of Texas heat or so I’d heard- was past, the weeks leading into fall were no relief. My Connecticut chill acclimated body and brain’s tendency to go into overdrive didn’t make sleep easy.

Just when obsessively replaying every word with Libby had died down a bit, the clock ticking well past the normal and healthy time to go to bed, and I’d started to doze off, the familiar ring of my phone jolted me awake. My first thought was how many more clock-ticks would it take to fall asleep again. Then I saw the person calling. Max.

I picked up.

“For someone who threatened to hound me with her calls if I made her do this, you sure aren’t putting much effort.”

“I was sleeping,” I groaned, letting my frustration pour into it. “Goodnight, Max.”

“Good midnight over here.” She chirped as if it was a bright morning and we were going camping.

I entertained a rhetorical question. “What are you doing up so late anyways?”

“Checking out the kids at your school. Who are ho-”

“What?”

Max snorted. “But more on that later. How was your day?”

“It was alright.”

“Alright?” She asked.

“Changing the place doesn’t change a person, Max.” My voice came out much harsher than I meant for it to.

Max didn’t mind.

“Avery, how’s it going?” She asked softly.

I sighed. “School wasn’t bad. The teachers are really good, the kids decent,” except for what Red Head told me, they weren’t. I chose not to tell that to Max. “But it’s just… Libby thinks that this is some sort of great escape, you know.”

“I know.” Max knew how heartbreakingly optimistic Libby could be at times.

“She cares so much and I’m lying to her face pretending it’s luck. But I wouldn’t be here otherwise. And she’s all I have. I can’t afford a disagreement right now.”

Max didn’t tell me that I didn’t get to make that choice for Libby; that I was selfish for wanting to know about my mother.

“It’s alright Ave, you’ll figure things.” She paused. “Yeah?”

Max knew about the letters; about mom’s games. She knew that she had a secret; and how much it meant for me to find what it was. Especially now that she was gone.

Max knew. And she understood. And for now, that was enough. That would have to be enough.

“Yeah,” I repeated.

“Plus,” she said, her voice intentionally muffled, “there are some seriously hot people in your school, it would do you some good to check that out.”

“Good night, Max.”

She was undeterred. “Like they have entire motherfaxing rankings about who’s hotter. Rich people make their own fun.”

I had to bite my lip to stop laughing. “Sure. Why not?” Something occurred to me then. Strictly out of curiosity, I asked Max, “Does it say anything about Jameson Hawthorne?”

“Um… Yup, there he is. Dude’s really fine.” Without warning, there’s some high pitched screeching on the line. “Avery, you met him? I mean of course you met him, he’s in your school.” (In a deadly serious voice) “What. Happened?”

“I thought you hated rich people. I recall your parting advice to be,” I tried my best Max impression, “show those privileged ducks what you're made of.”

I could practically hear her smile. “Don’t change the subject, Ave.”

“Alright,” I said slowly. “He asked me to work on some project with him. And before you start planning weddings, I refused.”

Max whined. “No. Why Avery? Life is only going to give you so many chances.”

“Can we please not talk about this. It’s stupid.”

Something in my voice must have given away my tiredness, or embarrassment, or whatever the reason for getting so flustered was, cause Max’s voice dialled down. “Alright, good night Ave, you’re my favourite beach.”

“Your fake cursing sounds kinda weird on the phone,” I noted.

“I suppose I am going to have to cross to the dark side then. Gotta keep a girl entertained.”

I chuckled. “Yeah. You do that.”

“And you take care of yourself,” she said sternly. “Don’t let all this crush you.”

JAMESON

“Jameson, what do you mean you're not coming?” Emily must have been screaming at the phone, but her voice was barely audible over the music blasting around her.

“I mean I'm not coming Em.”

“Come on, Jameson. Don’t be a wet blanket. We ended things rough, but I thought we’d still be friends.”

Whatever me and Emily were or are or could ever be, just friends was never one of them. I knew that before we broke up (though can you really call wanting to keep what little was left of your self-worth that) and I know that now.

But delusion is such a wonderful thing. “Alright. I'm coming. And I'm not a wet blanket.”

++

The glass windows of the cul de sac shook from the assault of the music blaring inside. Parking my car in the driveway, I eyed the rows of bottles lining the lawn. Some of the kids from my class leaned against the house, pulling long drags from cigarettes.

This atmosphere was amplified tenfold on crossing the threshold. The air was heavy with the smell of booze. Almost everyone from my class was here. Some on the makeshift dance floor at the center of the room, some leaned against the wall, drinking from plastic cups.

It had been a while since I’d been to one of Thea Calligaris’ parties (ragers was a better word, really). But damn if they didn’t stand up to her reputation.

++

After searching for almost half an hour, with several drinks and unanswered calls to Emily, I found her in the backyard.

Her silhouette stood starkly against the neon pool lights. She had her hands cupped around her mouth, cheering for whoever was hooking themselves up with the keg.

“Hawthorne!”

That voice, self-assured and obnoxious, came from the boy jogging towards me. I couldn’t really recall his name- Ant something. But that wolverine smile and demeanour of a three-year-old child strutting with a wooden sword, I knew that well enough.

Except now that child was additionally validated in his strutting by the oh so extravagant title of football team captain. Spawn of some bloodthirsty pharmaceutical mogul, literally.

I grimaced at the thought of what he was going to try now. Ever since having his ass handed at a very public brawl at a charity gala, he’d assumed the very exhausting position of my one-upper.

He slapped my shoulder with a smile that said he knew he wasn’t being light. “Jameson, the keg’s right here man, lets hook you up.”

I would’ve like to say that I was above falling for his baits. But this wasn’t totally one sided. I was a Hawthorne. I wanted to win more than anything else. And that might be the reason we were still doing this.

“See if you can live up to your name,” he added.

++

My chin glistened as I put the nozzle of the keg down. I felt a familiar buzzing sensation. My body felt warm and head light. The backyard blurred pleasantly around the edges. I stumbled over nothing.

“Watch your step, Jameson.” That voice- sweet and clear as the ringing of a bell- came from behind me. Emily.

It was like time slowed when I turned to her. She’d done her strawberry blonde hair in waves that fell down her shoulders. The strappy light pink dress she wore accentuated her curves and fell just short of her knees. But that smile she gave me, that was something else.

I thought of all the other times I’d seen it. I’d seen her happy. With me.

Never for long though

“Em,” I said, awed. She looked so carefree and light. No Grayson or Nash or old man to tell her what to do. This was someone who wanted to live. And lord, what hadn’t I done to be the one she lived with. It was never enough.

A certain steely, grey eyed presence was lacking. “Where’s Grayson?” I asked.

Emily threw her head back and laughed, like we were sharing some inside joke. “You know Grayson,” she said. No I don’t, not like how I did. “He never stays. Always running off to some thing or the other.”

Though I knew Emily never cared much for how things looked. Or at all. But within me there was a sense of stifling inadequacy. He isn’t so useless as to be stumbling at stupid parties. He’s holding meetings and you're not even able to hold your alcohol.  

Emily’s eyes were dark with intent. The expression was so painfully familiar, I wanted to take it all back. I wanted to play her games just for her to step on me once again. “Yeah,” I said. “That’s Grayson.”

She reached out to brush her thumb across my cheek. Her eyes changed, became softer. “Jamie,” she cooed. Look what’s become of us.

This isn’t right. I caught her wrist, but Emily had different plans. She leaned towards me, grabbed my hair and pressed her lips to mine.

For a moment, I was too confused with what was happening.

When the moment ended, I didn’t pull back.

I knew it wouldn’t be the same tomorrow. I knew she wouldn’t be satisfied.

But she was there, and her skin so so warm under my fingers, and her hands bunching into my hair wasn’t an unpleasant sensation; and the buzzing in my head made it easier to believe this was somewhere I was wanted.

And with no games or racetracks or walls to distract me, I could let myself continue feeling wanted for a little while longer. Right?

She smiled against my lips.

And because I needed something to sell that illusion, I let myself believe it was because of me. Just me. Not because I’d come back to her. Because once again, I’d lost. Not because I’d broken the only real promise I’d ever made to myself.

Delusion was a wonderful thing indeed.

Watch your step, Jameson.

Chapter Text

JAMESON

“Your grandfather looked a little uptight.” Emerson gave me a stern look from the driver’s seat.

“He’s always uptight,” I grumbled, running my thumb over the ridges of my nails.

“That’s not what you say when you talk my ear off about some clue when he sets the four of you running around the house like headless chicken.”

Emerson didn’t like the old man. She didn’t like the shit he swept under the mat. And she was nothing short of vocal about it. She’d even had the nerve to say it to his face once or twice. If for nothing else (though there was a lot else), I respected her for that. “I don’t talk your ear off.”

“Funny you think that. I’ll record it for you the next time.”

I knew her well enough to know that she would. “Please don’t.”

“So what’s the fuss about?” Emerson sounded nonchalant but I got the sense that she wasn’t feeling so easy about this.

The old man’s words replayed in my mind. I closed my eyes. I got a call from your school. He had paused then, took a deep breath. I knew the trick all too well. It was an old one in the Hawthorne’s unsurprisingly thick ledger, still got to me every time. I want you to be extraordinary son. Your brother hauling your drunk ass home is not the mark of an extraordinary man. It’s the mark of a drunkard. Stop moping around cause the girl you didn’t even love chose your brother. You lost Emily. You don’t have to lose your brilliance as well.

And by extension, your dignity. He hadn’t said that. Then again, making things known without voicing them was another Hawthorne speciality.

I’d woken up in my bed today, head throbbing, the night returning to me in flashbacks. The party at Thea’s house. The keg. Kissing Emily. And then there was a very angry Grayson dragging me into his car and driving us home.

To say I was surprised to not have woken up with a bruised face would be an understatement. Considering the fact that I’d baited him endlessly the ride back home, spoiling for a fight. But he’d been as composed as ever, sitting beside me, hands stiff on the steering, rolling his jaw, and oh, the worst, looking at me out of the corner of his eye like he couldn’t be more disappointed.  

Why couldn’t he just have shouted at me, or tackled me as soon as we got home. Honourable asshole. This was just worse, waking up with a reminder that I could never be like him, the flavour of Emily’s lip gloss lingering like regret in my mouth.

“Jameson?” Emerson prodded.

“It’s nothing,” I said. “We’ll just be going to school a lot more often now.”

She sighed. “It’s not nothing boy. You're going to be the first face I see in the morning. And trust me, that’s not pleasant.”

Emerson hadn’t been any less vocal about me being a pain in the ass either. But I occasionally caught her grimacing out of the corner of my eye when the old man was grilling me on something. That counts for something, maybe close to fondness, not getting my hopes up. There was something else as well, being brought up with lies and secrets, Emerson’s no nonsense and brisk nature was a refreshing change. The fact that I’d picked up on how to swear properly, like, with feeling, was just an extra perk. No one needed to know that.

All four of us had been trailed by personal security since we knew to walk. I didn’t like having security. Didn’t like the idea that I was never alone. And until eight years old, had successfully driven away -with some aid from Xander- anyone who had been appointed. Nothing personal, of course.

The first thing that I’d thought of when I met Emerson was that she was definitely not someone I wanted to have on my bad side. From the way she held herself to the way her frown could shut a grown man, including Grayson, by the way (It had been so refreshing to see the change of roles). And she appeared perennially pissed.

++

“I'm not going to tell you what to do, boy. I’ll drive you places. I’ll take care of anyone who messes with you. And you don’t mess with me. You come to me when I say so. You get out of a place when I tell you to. And if you think that someone’s trying to harm you, I want to be the first person to know. Are we clear?”

I could only nod. “My name’s Jameson.”

“Emerson.”

“What do you want me to call you?”

“Emerson.” She made to walk away, then turned. “And no noisy music in my car.”

All sounds were vibrations through medium, and therefore noise. My response died on my tongue, consequence of the look she gave me.

Even Gray hadn’t been as pissed when I’d stolen his violin.

 ++

"I had a knack for retaining facts. Cramming the night before? No problem. Who cared if it wasn't perfect as long as it was highest? But the knowledge never stuck. It was a cycle, test after test."

There were better things to do with my little time in the world. Such as finding passages, scaling the wall even higher than last time and my perennial favourite: pissing Gray.

Most of my physics classes were spent roaming the terrace or camping out in the car. Better spent, actually. Though it was the only subject that didn’t suck. At least it had some semblance to the real world. What would I even do with the knowledge that the sum of the squares of cos and sin functions equals 1? And why the hell did it have to be proven if it was a well-known thing? That’s just pointless.

Walking past Dr. Sen, who was demonstrating some sort of set up at the front of the lab, I settled down on the first empty seat I could spot. She shot me a disapproving look (as if she really was about me being late), but didn’t say anything as she got back to her experiment.

I hadn’t realized that the table I sat at was already occupied until the girl sitting next to me groaned frustratedly. Avery. And from her side eyed glance, it became clear that her frustration was directed at me and not at the bunch of wires- which were actually neatly arranged on the table, connected to different ports. 

Her gaze darted around the lab, as though to confirm that no one was looking our way, surreptitiously collecting her books from the table.

Curiosity got the better of me. That’s just nasty, now.

I slid her manual away. Annoyance wrinkled her nose. “Please return that,” she said, nodding to my outstretched hand.

 “What, you're too good to even sit next to me now?”

AVERY

The physics lab looked like something I would dream of getting to work in at a really good job with a six-figure salary.

The expansive walls would have been immaculately white if it weren’t for the equations and expressions written on them in jet black ink. The rows of identical wooden tables across the room decorated with shining equipment.

I was arranging the wires in the required setup for today’s experiment to stop staring around me, jaw open- that would definitely look stupid amongst my peers who didn’t bat an eye- when Jameson sat next to me. Asking me if he was even beneath being sat next to.

How exactly did you tell someone that you didn’t want to be on the bad side of some girl you haven’t even met? That the last thing you wanted was drama, especially over something as trivial as him.

You didn’t.

“It’s not like that,” I said. Something akin to hurt flickered on Jameson’s face, and those damn eyes. The sentiment was gone as soon as it came, leaving me wondering if I’d imagined it.

He thrust the manual towards me, huffing, a resigned expression on his face. “So you’re in it too.”

What? I tried again. “I don’t know what you're talking about. I just-”

“Is there a problem over there?” Dr. Sen's voice boomed across the laboratory. Or maybe it felt that way, because I’d made a scene. Great.

Alright, maybe not a scene, but I had a prickly feeling that every head in the room was swivelled towards me. And the boy next to me.

I shook my head in response as I sat down. Jameson looked pretty satisfied with himself as he did the same next to me.

“Look,” I whispered to Jameson, ducking my head, “can you please sit somewhere else.”

He only hummed as he pulled out his something out of his bag.

Before I could say anything else, Dr. Sen clapped her hands and began. After taking the roll, and a brief about the grading scheme and what to expect in the class- the whole of which Jameson ignored, intently scratching something into the wooden desk with his head bent- she got down to lab procedures.

“In the lab, safety is our first concern. Any activity that you perform can turn dangerous very quickly. I expect you all to be familiar with precautions. To further ensure personal safety, all activities will be performed in pairs. I hope you're getting along well with the person sitting next to you, as they will be your assigned lab partner for the rest of the year.”

Great. Just great.

++

This couldn't get any worse.

Jameson was bent over the table, his hair falling into his eyes (Rule 7 in the given manual said that long hair should be tied back. But apparently, that’s only for girls.), furiously fussing with the wires, like getting them in the right shape will get the circuit working.

As soon as Dr. Sen had finished explaining what we had to do, I turned to Jameson and told him how this would work.

I’d have thought a person like him would be happy that someone else was offering to do all the work provided he let me do it.

He was not amused.

He had the nerve to smile and act offended, telling me that I had no right to assume that he was not as smart as me. If not smarter. Not even an assumption anymore, given that he didn’t even know which terminal to connect to. He’d called them ports!

There was no way this was going to work. I considered asking Dr. Sen to change my partner. But I didn’t want to be seen as the type to ask favours from the very first day. Instead, I looked over at Jameson and repeated for the hundredth time.

“This is not working, Jameson.”

He didn’t even look up, further complicating my neat setup. “It is working, just turn up the power on that thing.”

Now he’s ordering me around. I don’t know what inspired me to feel bad for him. He clearly didn’t deserve it. I gritted my teeth as I answered, “it’s potential difference, not power. And that thing has a name.”

He shot me an annoyed look. “Whatever. You don’t have to be so-”

“Bossy?” I suggested.

He smiled that stupid prep school smile, looking at me through his lashes. “I was going to say insufferable, like about what you know, but bossy is fine.”

Before I could stop him, he shuffled past me and cranked the knob on the battery to the highest it will go. I immediately twisted it down. “Have you studied overheating?” I asked. The question was rhetorical, but he still opened his mouth to answer. I cut him off. “These wires are too thin.”

“Ah ha.” His face lit up as he pointed to a loose end where two wires stuck together. “See that’s why nothing’s happening.”

“No-”

Jameson’s shriek cut through the quiet chatter and clanking of instruments going on around us like a knife, putting an end to all conversation. My cheeks flushed in embarrassment as every eye in the room turned to us. Jameson stared at his hand, as if he couldn’t quite believe that he’d gotten electrocuted. Sans gloves. Because wearing them took away his feeling, that he needed so desperately to work.

The set up on our table hissed and crackled like a beat-up radio. My eyes widened. I grabbed my bag and the back of Jameson’s collar, hauling him back with all my strength. He stumbled, consequence of his stupid height, pushing me into the table behind us. His manual, that’d been perched on my bag, fell over the setup as it set off in three different places, sounding like gunshots ringing in the distance. A couple of girls in front of me raised their hands to cover their ears as the last piercing shot gave way to the pages catching fire.

JAMESON

Avery swung her legs under the bench, staring at the blinking sign that read INFIRMARY.

We’d been sitting here for almost an hour now. The nurse had left, saying she’d be back in a minute, and hadn’t returned since. I didn’t know why Avery was waiting alongside me, given that she’d scoffed at me when I asked if she got hurt. And if the way she looked at me in the lab- lips turned down in a frown and hazel eyes unyielding- was anything to go by, you'd think that a storm wouldn’t stop her from returning to class.

She didn’t seem to notice anything around her, eyes glazed as she stared at the neon sign. I used the moment to study her properly.

She didn’t come from money. At least not old money. Her hair was messy in a way that wouldn’t be deemed fashionable, skin taut over her features, a bit tight around the eyes and mouth. The patches under her eyes were darker compared to the rest of her face, like not getting enough sleep wasn’t something new to her.

Sleep wasn’t really my best buddy those days either.

I wouldn’t have thought twice about letting Avery do all the dirty work if she hadn’t said it like that. Like she didn’t expect anything form me anyways.

Then I just had to do it. Had to show her that I could do it.

(Even though, as it was later proved, I couldn’t.)

The door leading to the hallway outside slid open with a creak. Grayson stood in the doorway, worry creasing his brow. He crossed the distance between us in quick strides and sat on the stool beside me. “Is everything alright?”

I waited a beat before smiling. “Yes. Everything is perfectly right.”

Grayson took a deep breath, as if reminding himself that I might be hurt. “I heard there was an explosion… sort of.”

The zing of electricity. The shots. Stumbling into Avery. “Yeah, the thing we were working on backfired.”

“It’s not a car Jameson.” The glazed look on Avery’s face was replaced by the same I-can’t-believe-you’re-this-stupid face. “It doesn’t backfire.”

I turned to her, deliberately slow, and replied with a face of my own. “God forbid I go one sentence without you correcting me.”

Grayson spoke in before she could say anything. “Did you get hurt?”

I looked at my hands, flexing my fingers at the knuckles. “Did I?”

Grayson ground his jaw. “I’m serious Jameson.” On my arched eyebrow, he added, checking his watch, “Don’t waste time. I had to miss class to come here.”

What do you want? An award? “No one asked you to. Don’t you have better things to do?” Like hanging out with Emily.

From the corner of my eye, I saw Avery stifle a reply. I turn to my dear oh-so-worried brother in front of me.

“For once, I think you're right.” Grayson stood up and huffed out a breath, brushing off the invisible dust from his uncreased shirt cuffs. Such a show. “In that case, Jamie, I’ll better get going.”

Chapter Text

AVERY

When mom was alive, I could afford to read silly books that weren’t class readings. Sometimes, I came across a character who rolled their eyes and stuck out their tongue when reminded how lucky they were to have a family.

I never thought it was real.

But that could be chalked up to the number of people I’d had longer-than-necessary conversations with.

My mom was there for me, my person. I didn’t need a-good-for-nothing father.

But all my birthdays were spent wishing to be a part of something bigger, to have my back if things went wrong.

A lively house to come to from school, nights spent watching TV, making bets on games.

When I went to sleepovers at Max’s, her little brother would rush in without bothering to knock. Despite Max’s reprimanding tone, he’d be unfazed and excited to show that he’d beaten her record at some crappy video game.

I’d think how lucky she was to have him. To muss his hair over a stupid mischievous idea, hold his hand when he felt scared at night.

I’d even told her all that, making sure to keep my tone flippant and light, like I was making an observation about the weather.

She’d just laughed. You have no idea, she’d said, rolling her eyes.

++

That someone like Jameson- a moody, extravagant, utterly unbothered idiot who defaced school property- got to have that, somebody who would miss class for him, a huge ass rich as sin family

I don’t think you know who I am.         

Of course he’d say that.

Earlier, I’d bitten my lip to keep from saying that’s not how you talk to your brother.

He hadn’t said the boy who showed up was his brother. They didn’t look all that similar. But there was something Hawthorne-y about them. Whatever that meant.

But what would he have done? Thrown his head back and laugh at me? Mocked me for sounding like his grandmother?

I didn’t need that. Having him be my lab partner was bad enough.

JAMESON

Until I met Emily, my mind running non-stop felt like a good thing. Lying in bed, thinking about all the possibilities the next game could unfold into, the old man’s words, beating Nash or discreetly double-crossing Grayson. Anything. Everything.

With Emily, it was different. Sometimes, the blanket spread on grass in front of Wayback Cottage where I first met her, and the thrills. Oh, the thrills. Race car. Helicopter. Skinny dipping. Wine tasting.

Cliff diving.

++

Recently, I just wished it would switch off.

++

“Can we talk?” Desperate, meek, even. Not at all how I wanted to sound.

Rebecca’s- Emily’s room was closing in on me. A photo by one of the twin beds. Emily, smiling wide at the camera. A tiara on her head, the flowers picked by Grayson.

Emily, with her sharp cheekbones and her sharper green eyes. With her amber hair always just messy enough to be deemed artful. And her smile, the missing centrepiece of a jigsaw puzzle. I’d do anything to see it, to solve that puzzle. A million butterflies in my gut.

But that night, the first time I’d let my broken heart lead me, lead me against ‘you're giving up the game, fucking idiot. Who you are.’

That (fateful, unfateful, whatever) night, she wasn’t. She wasn’t all that.

She was a crumpled pale face and red eyes and redder tearstained cheeks that almost broke my resolve.

A scream. “What do you mean you’re done?”

A sob, barely holding back the waterworks. “I can’t do this Emily. I’m really sorry. I can’t do this to myself, to Gray. I’m so sorry.”

I would have hugged her and begged her to forgive me if I’d stayed a moment longer.

But she’d made me feel so alone.

To her credit, Emerson didn’t tell me ‘I told you so’ on the ride back home. Didn’t repeat all her grim-faced wisdom verbatim.

‘She’s playing you both, boy.’ or ‘Where’s your self-respect, huh? This ain’t done’ or ‘You're more foolish than I thought if you think it’s gonna end well. For either of you.’

She played some music, kept her mouth shut about me curled up on the back seat, trying my best not to cry.

It felt worse that I didn’t cry because I was sad it was over. I cried because something I’d kept deep inside of me- my constitution, in Gray’s fancy words- turned out wrong.

Games didn’t make me anything extraordinary (extraordinarily foolish maybe).

They just left behind a feeling of being done wrong.

I just felt stupid then, believing for one lousy second that she could be mine, when I thought myself hers already. For thinking me surprising her with an impromptu trip to the tracks or my may I's before leaning in to kiss her meant anything. I wasn’t sure what I was thinking when I broke up with her. That I was sick of games. That this wouldn’t come between years of brotherhood.

Or maybe, I’d held out hope that after I informed her I was tired of games, she’d do the same.

But she didn’t. So I left.

And then grinded my teeth and listened to people squeal about what an angel Gray was with wherever I went.

Chapter Text

AVERY

The next class, Jameson didn’t bother to show up at the lab, though he’d come to school. I’d seen him earlier in Geometry.

Which was splendid, by the way.

No ‘backfiring’. Or trying to uselessly convince him what he was doing was wrong.

Though an extra set of hands would have been useful to note down observations.

++

“Did you see the girl who partnered up with Jameson in Physics?”

Who Jameson partnered up with, I thought.

“Yeah. I haven’t seen her around. Must be new.”

“I'm pretty sure I saw Leah talk to her, Em.” A heavy breath released at someone naïve. “But here we are.” This happens every time.

“Nah, I know Jameson. He’s not interested in her like that.” A huff. “I mean, look at her. Pretty sure he’s in it just to share her grade. Thea said she’s pretty good with maths. She’s not his type anyways.”

Someone chuckling. “Right.”

The sound of shoes clicking on the tiled floor gave way to the door closing.

I counted till ten before stepping out of my stall; stood in front of the mirror and stared at my reflection; took a deep breath.

The act solidified something I’d felt since I stepped foot here, that’d clung like a sticky, uncomfortable wrap.

That I’d get swept off my feet here. At this place, where everything- from the walls to uniform blazers to the bathroom sinks- were slick with money, I would get swept away.

It was silly, getting so worked up over hearing a couple girls talking about me. 

But after mom’s death, if there was one thing I feared, it was losing control, slipping out of my hands like fine sand.

I won’t let that happen. I curled my fist tighter around the imaginary sand.

I’d come here for answers. Not to lose my mind. Not to help some prick who thought he could feed off of me.

++

My last period on Thursday’s was Stagecraft.

Last time I was behind scenes, I’d gotten an introduction from a drama fanatic who couldn’t have been more vocal about his love for Shakespeare walking me around students buzzing about sets and costume rooms that looked plucked right out of high-end movies, ending with a vague flick of his tattooed wrist around the place followed by that prep school shrug and a you get it right?

Objectively, I knew how theatre worked. I’d watched it several times, always from behind glass panels though, never behind the scenes. Though it would take some time to get hold of the literal ropes offstage, there was something fascinating about being behind the magic, bringing something to life on stage.

That was, until I found Jameson Hawthorne was going to be the male lead on the stage I would help design.

My initial excitement deflated like a balloon.

“I would never have pegged you as the dramatic type,” he said, flashing a cheeky smile, looking me up and down. Before I could say I'm not, he made a disheartened face. “Too bad though, the roles were locked before summer break.”

“Not interested.” I replied, brushing past him. I'm interested in gaining additional access.

Jameson turned on his heels, long strides easily catching up with mine, walking a little too close. “Like I said, too bad.”

He -admittedly- must be good at acting, cause his shrug almost felt genuine.

“We’re playing Pride and Prejudice this year,” he continued, “and you would have made an excellent Elizabeth; small town girl, big dreamer, annoyingly clingy family, madly and irrevocably in love with a charmingly tight-lipped rich man, shares a part of his fortune. It’s very-” he hovered an appraising hand over me “-you.”

I swatted his hand away, narrowed my eyes. “Let me guess. You're Wickham.”

Hitting a fist against his chest, “oh, how the lady wounds me,” he moaned.

Suddenly, he straightened, and I realised just how tall he was when he wasn’t leaning or slouching or whatever. He crossed his legs and curtsied- looking ridiculous in his school uniform, then took my hand and brought it to his lips. “Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy of Pemberley, Derbyshire at your service” he pronounced, words thick with a -rather impressive- posh accent.

I blinked, hand still in his, before remembering to snatch it away.

His serious face morphed into a smirk. He looked me out the corner of his eye; nudged my side. “I had you for a moment, didn’t I?”

I managed a flat look. “Not even close. You're just a sad lonely rich man.”

“It sounds bad when you put it like that. I prefer to think of myself as a misunderstood soul, lost in the complexities of high society, bogged down by the tremendous weight of position and responsibility, freed-” he fluidly moved his arm outwards from his chest “- in a sense, by love for an intelligent young woman.”

“Of course you do,” I muttered.

He clapped his hands. “Great. Now that we’re on the same page about the light I should be portrayed in, we can come up with some great costume designs.”

Wait a minute. “We?”

“Yes.” He gestured between us. Duh. “You and me, we? Not as romantic as you’d like, but still.”

It took a monumental amount of will power, honed through years of ignoring insults, to focus on the problem at hand. “But I’m doing stage design, not the costumes. I held up a finger. “Hold up a minute, there must’ve been a mistake, I’ll talk to the director.”

++

There had, in fact, been a mistake- of informing me that I’d be working on stage design and printing it on my schedule.

When I’d looked over the Director’s- Thea, a dark-haired girl with a smile that spoke who the hell let her in’s- shoulder, I was pretty sure I’d caught my name scribbled over someone else’s. Alexander? It was hard to tell.

“So,” Jameson said with a grin, chin delicately poised over his knuckles, “shall we begin? I have to polish up my accent, after all.”

“Of course,” I sighed, like someone whose access had been revoked. There were more than a dozen people working on the stages, no one would notice if I slipped out, instead I was stuck being the personal curator of Jameson’s ridiculous eighteenth -or whatever century- costumes.

As Jameson prattled on about his acting prowess and his supposedly impeccable portrayal of Mr. Darcy, the intricacies of his character and how he was channelling the essence of a Regency-era aristocrat, I fought the urge to roll my eyes.

It was hard to discern whether he knew he’d landed the lead because of his last name or was blissfully- and conveniently- oblivious of the fact that his family was the richest in Texas.

“So, what brings you to Texas?” he asked, breaking his monologue.

“What,” I responded, distracted.

“I mean you're obviously not from here, so what is it? New oil fields? A castle on a ranch? An affinity for cowboys?” he asked, smiling. “In case of the last one, it is with immense sadness that I inform you, they’re criminally overrated.”

“Then you have no reason to be sad,” I settled for.

“If you say so, Mystery Girl. Can I call you Mystery Girl?”

Here’s a tip for unsolicited nicknames: the only way to get rid of them was to show that it didn’t bother you in the least. “As you wish Mystery Boy,” I retorted, not half as smooth.

Jameson gasped. “Oh, we are on. Though do tell, are all your ‘clever’ comebacks so blatantly unoriginal. Plus,” he drawled on, winking, “I don’t necessarily have to be a mystery to you. You only have to say the word, darling.”

“Shove it, Hawthorne,” I snapped. “And if you start again about the struggles-” I wrung my hands “-of being an emotianlly impaired Darcy, at least acknowledge that you had nothing to do with it.”

He stood very still, arms crossed. There was no intonation in his voice as he said, “So you're into choking?”

He. Did. Not.

He raised his hands, shrugging. “No judgement, by the way, but didn’t your mother teach you its rude to assume, and I only say that cause mine did.” He chuckled, dry. “To assume that she loves me.”

I stopped listening, something ringing. He spoke on, mouth moving, no words coming out. I grabbed his wrist; said as calmly as I could. “You don’t talk about my mother.”

Jameson seemed struck for a moment, before smoothing it out. “Enough with the poor-girl-touchy-about-mother card. You know, I almost fell for it. But look around, face it, there's no way you’d have gotten in without dad’s dollars.”

My stomach twisted at his words, thinking of Ricky, but I refused to let it show. “Those are rich words coming from someone who can’t even face the fact that his crazy ex-girlfriend thinks him fucking property,” I spat.

His face paled, mouth hung open, sputtering, and I liked the fact that I’d rendered him speechless, made me want to push until I saw him break. “That’s a low blow,” he managed, voice strained.

“You know, lab mishaps are incredibly rare. Our table caught fire because you just wouldn’t listen, so forgive me for assuming that you don’t care,” I said.

That was when I caught the few looks being sent our way, attracting more attention by the second. We were far enough to not be heard but-

I immediately released his wrist, stepped back.

But instead of an ouch written over his face, I was met with a careless shrug, something dimmer in his eyes. He leaned down to whisper in my ear, taming his voice back to the usual, bringing his face dangerously close to mine. “I'll let you in on a personal secret, heiress. I’ve never really been good at listening.”

What the hell did he just call me?

I wasn’t an heiress.

And I didn’t want his personal secrets.

I’ve never really been good at listening.

He said that like it was justification. To him, it probably was.

“Just because you're not good at something, doesn’t mean people will put up with your bullshit. You didn’t even show up today,” I reminded him. Then, before I could stop myself, I blurted out the words that’d occupied my mind since I’d seen him today, standing backlit against the testing lights. “And you're mistaken if you think you can feed off of me.”

He stared at me for a second, face red, almost uncomprehending. “What,” he ground out. His hand twitched at his side. In a breath, he regained composure, trained his face into something nasty. “Don’t flatter yourself thinking I would feed off of you, of all people.” He scowled at me. “Why would you even say that?”

Because I overheard a couple of unknown faceless girls- one of whom was said crazy ex-girlfriend?- while they were probably reapplying lipstick.

I at least had the good sense to bite that. Seeing the grimace that didn’t suit his face nearly as well as his lopsided smile, I almost felt like telling him I didn’t mean it that way.

But being sympathetic with Jameson is what got me in this twist.

He turned on his heels and stomped off before I could.

Chapter Text

Dear Hannah, the same forward as backwards,

I wonder sometimes, what if lightning hadn’t struck that exact moment? What if my lungs hadn’t filled with smoke, stopped working for a second? What if you’d never found me as I was gasping for my last breath, when there were no burns on my flesh for you to wrap? What if…

Would I have realised, otherwise, passing you—oh that clueless boy, fearless, he thought himself—that in a different life, I’d been completely, irrevocably in love with you. Hopelessly, that’s the main part. Would your face have stood out to me when I drove, the windows of my car rolled up, haughty, drunk on that so-called betrayal.

So while I may curse my father for all the scars on my body, for the family I left, for the way my hand still itches to hit a coke. I can’t hate him for you. For that small eternity, the most beautiful time, just me and you, you and me.

When, numb to the core, I couldn’t feel anything but your hatred for me. You, cursing till I took my first step, at my side the very next instant, saving me from a head crushing fall. Oh, Hannah, what wouldn’t I give to go through that torment again. Do it right, maybe?

There’s a selfish part of me, keeps thinking, what if we had more time, as if what you gave me wasn’t so much more than I deserve. Maybe we’d have settled down, the new charming couple for a small town. Had a small home? Had Avery?

A new beginning, ray of sunshine after that spell of rain. Whenever I read your letters, I think of every lost moment. Watching her first steps, being there to kiss her goodnight, tending to her first scratched knee. You may not believe me cause I only saw her that once, but there’s a kaleidoscope in my mind, and I see her Hannah, clear as glass, in fragments, sliver of her smile, the shine in her eyes, small hands reaching for you, the glare you’d send me on her angry face. All these little comets bouncing against each other, colliding, something I can wish on, pray to, never touch.

And how I want to touch, even if it’d burn me whole!

Chapter Text

JAMESON

“Jameson, you're not doing it right,” Thea clucked for the umpteenth time. “Like, try to angle your body slightly more towards Rebecca.”

I sighed. That’s rehearsal for you.

“Angle your body to Rebecca. No, don’t completely show your back to the audience.”

“You’re slouching. People in the 1800s didn’t slouch.”

No, they walked with a stick up their ass.

It’s not manners so much as necessity that drives me to give context of this piteous situation, however boring.

The only reason I’d joined the drama club was Emily.

The only reason I worked my ass off for the lead was to kiss her in front of Grayson. (Not petty at all!)

After Thea was appointed director, it only made sense for her to make Emily the other lead. And voila, she did.

And things stayed that way.

Until we broke up.

Then, the only reason I stayed, after Emily deciding theatre was too boring—something suitable for Rebecca, the playacting dimmed her holier than thou aura—was because backing out of your yearly talent wasn’t really an option.

Also, because one fine day everyone decided I (lying piece of shit) had lead Emily on until Gray came to her rescue, Rebecca was the only one who sort of stood up for me. No fake smiles or thinly veiled buttering.

Sort of, because that’s all someone like me could expect.

The only person resembling a friend I could show for a place I’d attended ten years.

“Are you alright, Jameson?” she asked now, hand hovering over my chest.

Thea cut in sharply. “Jameson, you look like someone stole your favourite toy. Just, just be yourself, normal, yeah?”

Yup. Chill, charming, broodingly grave when required. Isn't that all I was?

Agh, goddamn it!

I just can’t seem to use my usual approach towards bullshit. (Not grumbling!)

First of all, I hadn’t even known she was sitting there. And just because of a little mishap (Xander would’ve been thrilled) she thinks I’m trying to feed off her.

Second of all… well, there's no second.

No really, someone thinks highly of herself.

People judge me. All. The. Time. (It’s more of a laugh now, a sport). They cluck their tongues as if they couldn’t worry more. Nothing surprising; doesn’t usually bother me. It isn’t same with Avery.

Everything, from her tightly tied ponytail, not allowing a single hair to go awry to her close-trimmed nails to her knee-length skirt to her flat shoes screams rational. Or, since screaming isn’t her style (not that I would know!), quietly conveys it through a glare. Not someone to draw inferences from last names.

Alright, she wasn’t wrong; I may have slipped a little something (read: $10000) to a little someone. As tribute, mind you.

++

Grayson and Emily were fighting; their voices carried over the pool patio.

I’d managed to ignore them until I heard my name.

“Emily, please, just listen, I didn’t mean it that way! I was just asking you.”

Grayson pleading? That’s a new one.

“No, it means you don’t trust me! Why else would you say that?”

“It’s not about trust!” Grayson shouted. “I saw you kissing my brother of your own volit-.” A pause. “Hey! I’m sorry, okay? Hey! Please, I didn’t want to hurt you. I just- I thought we were over that shit. It’s so tiring.”

Emily’s voice was laced with tears, a special effect, distressed damsel. “We are. You're the one who keeps dredging it up. The only tiring thing here is your insecurity over Jameson, aren’t you supposed to be the better one? It’s not my job to deal with that shit.”

“But- no, yeah, I'm sorry it feels like that.”

And that was the end of that.

I quietly padded to the bookshelf, feeling watched as always, and pulled out the black, thick, surprisingly light hollowed-out book.

I downed the pill with a glass of water from my nightstand and lay down, closing my eyes. The familiar numbness crept in. I hoped this was a lucky day, it was fast, willing the restlessness to calm, but to no avail.

Minutes ticked by. Still restless.

I considered popping another, but that implied a problem, which wasn’t even there.

Finally, I kicked the sheets off.

Instead of pulling up some crappy movie I knew I wouldn’t be watching, my hand went for the textbook Avery had rescued, and flipped to what I thought we’d be doing tomorrow.

You're mistaken if you think you can feed off of me.

I’ll show her who’s trying to feed off whom.

AVERY

Jameson was leaning against our lab table when I entered.

"You're late," he yawned, lazy, sparing a glance at his watch.

I bet you didn’t have to do two people’s laundry before school. I kept my mouth shut as I shuffled around him, struggling to keep my eyes open after the night I’d pulled digging up stuff about this Toby person.

There wasn’t much, to no one’s surprise. Every report buried under as many cheques as that burnt house was under debris.  

Jameson didn't look particularly put together either, eyes slightly bloodshot, hair sticking out in all directions, uniform wrinkled.

We weren’t doing that no more.

"Tie your hair," I shot back, pulled out a wooden board from under the table and thrust it towards him. I wasn’t doing the dirty work here.

His lips turned down. "What’s wrong with my hair?"

"It compromises your vision, and I'm not really opposed to letting things blow up in your face. Literally and/or figuratively.”

He scoffed at me. The way he’d at his brother. "You're just jealous your hair isn't nearly as fashionable," he said, fluffing his curls, tying them up nonetheless.

I shot him an unimpressed look. “Actually, I hope you didn’t tip too much for that, cause a head like a crow’s nest went out of fashion with that-” I paused, thought how he must see himself, hand hovering between us. “-bad boy persona."

I regretted it the moment I saw his eyes, green and lit up like a firefly. He smirked at me. “So, you think I’ve got a bad boy persona—oh,” he laid a hand at his chest, swaying slightly at his feet. "How you flatter me, Mystery Girl."

"Shut up,” I said, refusing to fall for his jibes. Rolling my eyes at the grandson of Texas royalty wasn’t the wisest thing, but he didn’t seem to mind, more like he enjoyed it. “Not going by the rules isn’t something to be proud of."

That smile, the one he’d flashed before telling me listening wasn’t exactly his forte.

“And don’t tell me it’s not something you're good at,” I added.

“I won’t then,” He retorted without missing a beat, leaning forward on the table. “But tell me.” His voice was low and smooth, like we were confidantes. My body angled forward of its own accord; straightened with his widening smirk. “Does everyone have the courage to defy something bigger than them.” A pause. “Do you?”

I couldn’t help the snort that escaped my mouth. He may break rules because of courage. Or whatever the rich people word for madness was. But he was sorely mistaken if he thought he got away because of guts. “No, they don’t. Because not everybody has that privilege.”

“What privilege?”

He really was dense for his I-can-only-talk-in-riddles-everything-is-a-game (paraphrased) Instagram profile (an ironic description, considering it was filled to the brim with thirst traps, which was something to look at, maybe longer than I should have). “Rich snob privilege.” I answered, training my voice dry and rough.

I excelled at giving reality checks. (See also: my ability to count friends on a finger.) “You wouldn’t get away with nearly everything you did if it wasn’t for money.” Or the way you look.

He narrowed his eyes. “I see, you follow the conventional stream of thought regarding pretty rich boys. But tell me, since you seem to know better, what do I do?”

I would have raked my gaze over his body, gesturing to him and said: you know, what you do. Skipping classes. Defacing benches. Smiling that smile. Getting lost in hallways with girls you don’t know. I would have, if Dr. Sen’s greeting hadn’t come, signalling start of class.

There was no conventional stream of thought when it came to rich snobs, pretty or not.

++

Despite myself, I was impressed.

Jameson didn’t use incorrect terms this time. He didn’t mess up the arrangement of resistors. Or touch any live wires. Or excessively heat the set up or vary the length or cross section.

Physics period passed sans incident.

When Dr. Sen said we’d done a good job, I expected him to smirk at me, call me out. But instead, he looked at me… almost expectantly, face slightly falling when I turned to put back the equipment in the drawers.

“See you next time,” I called over my shoulder.

“Wait,” he said, little too loud. When I turned to him, an eyebrow raised, his face did the equivalent of withdrawing a hand after an accidental brush. “Umm… nothing.”

I stared at him a moment longer. Realisation was slow, and oh so sweet. The smirk it brought couldn’t be helped. “What? You want a chocolate for learning ABC?” I cooed. “A pat on the back?”

Jameson’s cheeks reddened, gaze progressing downwards. And if this wasn’t our first interaction without a spat, I might have found the look adorable. “Shut up,” he grumbled under his breath, slung his bag over a shoulder, and slipped outside.

JAMESON

God, who am I, and when the hell did I start seeking academic validation from Avery?

Actually, scratch that. When did I start seeking academic validation, period?

But it wouldn’t have killed her to say something good—or something at all. I’d stayed up all night.

There weren’t many that could change my opinion of something. Proving people wrong was a lot of work, for a hard earned, oh, well. But-

But, tight-lipped Avery, had somehow, with her tight-lipped words, made me want to go out of my way to smooth the crease in her forehead.

And I couldn’t even recall her last name!

Okay. Stop. There’s a limit to being pathetic.

Distraction. Diversion.

I focused my frustration on the golf ball rolled on the turf, relishing the sharp it made, watching it soar over the forested grounds behind school.

Trees had started turning yellow, leaves scattered under them, heralding the arrival of fall. The air, despite decaying leaves, felt crisp, rife with possibility. Good and bad.

Maybe the real distraction had been Avery.

From what I’d found in the old man’s office.

I didn’t like venturing into it. It had a suffocating air of insufficiency exclusive to me.

All the Hawthorne boys’ lives stacked reduced neatly into pristine walls. As if they were just that. My name a rare appearance.

I thought of those racks as assessments, the Hawthorne Boy’s resumes.

Nash. The nomad; what a pity the oldest turned out that way!

Grayson, perfect Grayson. Heir apparent. What more was there to say?

Jameson. Black sheep. Somebody solve this puzzle please, figure it out. This mystery, it’s getting tiring, getting old. What more was there to say?

Xander. Genius. The living, breathing Rube Goldberg Machine.

I forced myself nonetheless. Maybe enough would make the prickling, the breathlessness, there, stop.

The ornately decorated envelope I’d picked from the desk sat in my back pocket.

But it was the name scrawled messily over the front—matt black with silver lining—that’d caught my attention—and my breath.

Ian Johnson Jameson.

The thing didn’t sit right. Expensive envelope, the old man just leaving it on the desk of his office that was more often than not visited by any of us without reservations. Intentional, or hurried. The unflattering (a kind word) search results.

A gambler making noise. The so-called black sheep of a very influential English family—Earl or whatever. That was when I’d stopped reading.

I lined up another shot, took a deep breath. But the itch in my hands made me drop the club, clatter forgotten as I pulled it out.

I didn’t heed the tremble in my hands as I spread the moderately crushed black parchment over my palm.

I should have.

My brother keeps telling me to take responsibility for my mistakes. And I’m thinking I finally might do that. Not because I care or anything. But because I’m broke. And not a single penny of the family fortune seems to be in my favour, consequence of losing Vantage—my ancestral house, but you wouldn’t know that, you old bastard. Too busy coddling your broken family. But big brother is rather generous when it comes to useless heirs, unless they’re his own brothers, of course.

So if you don’t want your —or should I say my—pretty boy (it runs in the family) to be shipped to London before he knows what hit him (you know I could do it, the media would eat it up! That, and Simon’s righteousness, God save me) you're going to send me the money I asked for. And you're going to do it soon. I’ve had some interesting conversations with Vincent Blake, after all.

P.S. You’ve done a shitty job at keeping things subtle. Like naming him after me? A bit under the nose, wouldn’t you agree?

Chapter Text

AVERY

“Avery, is it?”

“That’d be me.”

I palmed my hopeless attempt at a costume sketch, turning around to face the boy that’d spoken.

The first thing my brain caught on about him was that he was every bit dolled up as the other kids around; checked every criterion for another rich asshole: smooth skin, shiny hair, expensive cologne preceding him—except for the fact that he had a missing… eyebrow.

“Look, Avery, I don’t know how to say this,” he said, most gravely, but I was more focused on his eyebrow—or lack thereof—to pay attention to what came out of his mouth. His voice lowered to definitely not a whisper. “We’re being cheated on.”

What?

“I’m sorry,” I told him immediately. Too immediately. I’d reached—and crossed my threshold for rich kid theatrics. “But you’ve caught the wrong person.”

“Have I?” he questioned, shaking his head. “We need to talk and smooth this out.” Taking my hand, he tugged me towards the dressing room.

“Hey!” I extricated it from his grip, glaring. I was so done being pushed by these people. “I told you, you’ve caught the wrong person. Just leave me alone.” The words came out loud, rawer than I’d meant for them to.

The boy stilled, let go, arms halfway up in a sort of defensive, or calming gesture. “I’m sorry,” he said. The way he twiddled his fingers nervously, brown eyes bouncing, was completely at odds with his tall frame, uniform that wrapped over it neatly. “I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable,” he added. Somehow, despite the fact that I almost had to crane my neck to catch his face, he looked at me through his lashes.

My hands fell to my sides. I’d been preparing for another eye roll. Now I didn’t know what to do with the fact that he’d apologised straightforwardly. “No worries,” I tried slowly, “but I really have no idea what you're talking about.”

He chuckled weakly, ran a hand through his hair that was probably meant to be smooth but got caught halfway in his curls. “No, that’s my fault.” I could see him consciously speaking slow. “I just jumped into it. You’re handling Darcy’s costume, right?”

That caught my attention. “Yes,” I answered, and now he had my attention. I was eager for him to say what I wanted to hear.

He did. “And I was supposed to do that—”

“Are you by any chance, Alexander?”

“I prefer Xander—”

Before the words were out of his mouth, it was me this time, tugging him towards the main stage. “Please tell that to Thea,” I pleaded. To my credit, I was only a little curious how Her Majesty would react to being proved wrong. “She wouldn’t believe me—”

He skidded to a halt.

I looked at him, confused.

His forehead creased in a way that I thought was habitual of raising his right eyebrow when he had one. “See, that’s the thing. They’re doing it on purpose. And I daresay Jameson had a hand in this. But—” A smile spread over his face, as dazzling as any. It almost made up for the lack of an eyebrow. He excitedly gestured his hands between us. “I’m finally getting to say this: They don’t know we know and—”

 But I only had one thing on my mind. “What did Jameson—”

Xander deflated like a pricked balloon. And he didn’t seem nearly so big, tall and daunting when he pouted. He went to take my hand again, but paused halfway, remembering. “Avery, overlooking the fact that you interrupted something that’d been centuries in—well not centuries, but decades, but not that either, let’s just say a big huge while in making, would you indulge me for a few minutes. Scones make excellent chaperones.”

What was it with Hawthornes and thinking people wanted to hook up with them?

++

Xander took a bite of his scone, munching thoughtfully before setting it aside, and returning to his hand-puppeted (it might as well have been) and intentionally exaggerated (definitely was) narrative. “So, he must’ve known I’d be coming for revenge. And for once, thought prevention would be better than cure, and had me thrown out of this.”

I couldn’t help but snort. “It’s just a costume for a stupid play.”

“That, Avery,” he said solemnly, “is where you are absolutely wrong. The most powerful people in Texas and around come to see this.” He shrugged. “Well, mostly for the family shots on the carpet, acting like they give a shit that their cousin’s niece or their second wife’s daughter is playing a maid somewhere in the background. This kind of thing happens every year, preceding the donor’s gala, loosening pockets. You have alumni, all types of admirers, stalkers, fanatics, fangirls, fanboys, fanpeople, in general—"

“Xander!” I interrupted him. “Those are a lot of fan-words. I got the gist, sounds brutal.”

Xander gave a theatrical shake of his head, which would have made sense if he had hair to bounce back as a way of making a point, but he didn’t, so it just looked weird. “It is,” he said in a deep voice, which wasn’t actually deep but different from his high pitched and paced—

Something in me said he’d had first hand experience.

 “Anyways,” he looked up, extended a scone to me. “Do we have a deal? And you can’t break it, it’s scone-timonious.”

I smiled. My hand itched to accept the invitation solely because of its scone-timoniousness, but I let it hang, thinking of some ridiculous obstacle in this equally petty arrangement. “But like, couldn’t he just have it changed. Or have someone else appointed.”

At that Xander’s face changed, became softer, eyes darker. “Everyone here hates him almost as much as they try to rub up to him, so no. Plus, we’re really big on (cocaine addicted and rehab cover up) student’s initiative and authority blah blah.”

He didn’t say that part, but it was the idea I’d gotten from the personal letters of one former student playing the current enigma of my life.

“Why do they hate him,” I asked instead. Hate was a strong word. It made sense for me to dislike him. but what was their incentive?

“Long story,” was all he volunteered.  “So, do we have a deal?”

 “We do.” I took the scone and bit in too it, and God, is that lemon—

JAMESON

The Hawthorne wine cellar really stood up to its reputation. The cloying sweet smell of expensive wine floated in the air, stuck to damp brick walls. The lack of embellishments added to the feeling of getting lost here, artificial flames kindled in sconces giving it an almost medieval touch.

But after a while, everything starts to lose its novelty. The wine cellar was no different. Neither were the rows of bottles lining the wooden shelves.

What was new, however, was finding Grayson at one of the tables, pouring a drink until it flowed over the rim of the glass.

“Fancy seeing you here.” I commented. His knee hit the foot of the table, startled, and catching him off guard felt good, like a win.

Grayson choked on his drink when I feigned grabbing a flute from the bottom of the pyramid show piece standing tall in the corner. I smirked. Showing off wasn’t nearly as fun without Grayson to show off to. And those occasions had been rare in the past year. “Looks like I'm finally rubbing off on you. Not bad, Gray.”

“What are you doing here?” He ground out, apparently unaware of the irony of the situation.

“I should be asking you that,” I shot back.

The bottles I collected clinked the way only rich glass could, trailing along the shelf. Grayson glowered at me through his lashes as I deposited them at his small table. The scorn was almost enough to cover up the redness in his eyes, the watered look in them. I hip checked him into scooting to the edge of his bench, made space for myself. “Aren't you supposed to be like, hanging out with-”

He turned to me. This close, I could clearly see the grey in his eyes, almost completely consumed by black. “Don’t-” Despite dilated pupils, his voice was sharp as ever, if a little hoarse. “Don’t start about Emily. If you guys ended things, why do you only ever appear concerned about her.”

I felt chagrined by the truth in his words. Somehow, until then, I hadn’t realised—hadn’t wanted to realise, rather— that invoking Emily for a cheap dig at Grayson had come so easily, almost naturally. But hell if I’d let him know. “The first thing you need to shed at the threshold of the wine cellar is your tendency to use big words.”

“I’m not using-”

“Disagree to agree, Gray” I chimed, snatching his bottle.

“That’s not even a thing-”

“Agree to disagree,” I cut in, “or is that too much for your tortured drunk brain to comprehend.”

I brought the bottle to my lips—and almost spit out the mouthful of absinthe all over his pristine suit.

He gave me his most unimpressed look, or tried to, but I was more drawn to his damp, stuck together lashes. He seemed to realize this, and averted his face. “I know what you're doing, Jamie, baiting me. You're bored. You want to butt heads with someone to entertain, or distract yourself. And I'm not going to engage and give you the satisfaction.”

If only you knew Grayson.

But things, or people, only hurt when you let them, so I rolled my eyes, said, “there you go with the big words. Plus—” I held up his bottle, grinning “— as a beginner, you shouldn’t go all out with this one. It won’t suit your anal-retentive stomach.”

“I’m not-”

“Anal-retentive?” I asked at the same time he said, “a beginner.”

He stared me down— better this time, and I expected him to churn out more nonsensical flapdoodle, already outlining the piss off strategies. Instead, he said, “fine, give that here.” The bottle was snatched out of my hands, a gulp straight from it into a wincing Grayson’s throat.

He set it down dangerously close to the edge.

“Attaboy,” I said, patting his tense shoulders deliberately soft, pawing at something known to strike.

I let my hand linger, sweeping it over his shoulders. Grayson flinched.

“Gray?” I asked softly.

He shrugged my hands off. “Don’t do that, just, Jameson— I can’t—” He clenched his teeth, breathing out slowly through his nose. A single loud sob escaped him, which he tried to cover with a sniffle. “Oh God,” he sounded mortified, let his head fall to the table. “Oh God!”

And because he was Grayson, and had to face what stood in front of him, he half turned to me, his cheek on the wood. But his face was weird, like it was held up. And in my bones, I knew that he was too exhausted to keep up that pinch in his nose, like for once, it took something, it hurt to look Grayson. The same way I knew that on the other side was Gray, really Gray, not some condescending-way-of-having-the-upper-hand-while-we-both-wept-from-the-memory Gray. “You always did have a knack for ruining a perfectly good drink,” he managed through the vestiges.

“I try.” My voice fell flat as he turned away, buried his face in wood again, and somehow, so did all the other elaborate gestures in my mind, replaced by this heart aching urge to touch him, bunch up his hair in my fist and lift his face; to know just how unfamiliar it would look without the mask. Would it be completely unrecognisable? And, strangely, to make a joke then, let him know it was okay.

That was a sign of danger.

“Hey!” I poked his good shoulder instead. “This is my domain, and it’s a mope free zone.”

He nodded—unconsciously, or to himself—and glared at me with his upper lip twisting, and that was good, it was good.

Then why did it feel like I’d dumped a bucket load of icy water on the fire keeping us warm?

His smile was all teeth. “Self-proclaimed domain, self-proclaimed risk taker—” And despite all the shit between us, the fact that Grayson was usually stuck up, lecturing about having a fucking bed time, and contrary to what you think, there’s nothing extraordinary about your specific brand of teenage rebellion—he wasn’t so cruel, or rather true, was just another testament to how much he was hurting. “Is anything about you other-proclaimed, Jamie?”

And it really sucked to not have an answer to that.

The silence that succeeded weighed more than the elephant in the room. I considered strangling myself then, because really what was there? Why’d I even bothered to stay. Grayson was correct—he mostly was. But now this was distraction turned acute reminder, and—

Grayson exhaled audibly, shaking his head. “Plus,” he said, and whoa he really must be fucked because it was a while before I picked up the concession—an olive branch— in his tone, the deliberate not-apology in his tone the way only brothers could. And oh how long it’d been since he’d kicked my shin like that. “Nash discovered it first.”

I couldn’t stop the words, memories, unbidden. “Xan thought it was some kind of dungeon. I’m pretty sure he’d have held a séance if wasn’t for Nash hell bent on keeping us away.”

“Well,” Grayson said, as if he wasn’t currently sloshing the bottle over his chest. “His fear wasn’t unwarranted.”

And Grayson may be the heir apparent of a billion-dollar fortune, but even he needed the middle-class kick that came from gloating at the expense of his brother.

I let him have it, given it was kinda the only source of joy in his life at the moment. Almost.

“Pot,” I kicked his shin harder, “meet kettle.”

And (what should have been) the incoming swing of his leg was interrupted by his phone buzzing from his pocket.

And for some reason, I didn’t want him to notice it. Because Grayson wouldn’t just notice and slap a mental all caps LATER note. He usually noticed and then he got up from where he was sitting, or sleeping, or swimming and called a car and ran to The Foundation like it was on fire.

What happened instead was surprising. He noticed, and took his phone out, and his face soured more than it had from that rookie sip of absinthe. He pressed decline as soon as I caught a glimpse at the caller id. Emily.

And then it was all back to base one, because Grayson went stiff as a rod, and every second ticked away like the boom of those wires in the lab powering up until they couldn’t keep it in, take the energy anymore, and I had to do something, say something, because this was rarer than that meteor shower Grayson had been so proud about catching sometime so long back it felt like it hadn’t happened at all.

“Trouble in paradise?” I choked out as soon as I found myself capable of forming words.

It was the wrong thing to say, because the reaction was physical cues associated with intense discomfort (because it felt better to acknowledge it vaguely, and also because I might just be on the verge of using ‘stiff’ past it’s threshold for cool in a single evening.).

“It’s nothing,” he said, and didn’t he know that it was synonymous with most definitely something. Something bad.

And I knew it was over then—it had to end, though I wished it’d lasted longer than a precarious minute, but I still had to say something, end it in a way that showed I’d at least tried. “You can talk to me, Gray.”

It took a considerable conscious effort to not swallow down the words that seemed so daunting in the face of that formidable silence, or to say them in some form so diluted it was hard to infer even in sobriety. Or to not say it at all. “I want to help if I can.”

That sounded incredibly cliché, but what else could I have said. Isn’t that what they said in the movies?

Grayson was silent. I recognised the infinitesimal shake of his head as a mental reprimand, it’s not worth it.

It felt like being rejected.

I snapped. “Spit it out.”

Grayson stewed over that, and I almost wanted to walk out, test him, see if my presence mattered enough for him to open up.

Even though I’d done nothing to deserve it, a voice, not-mine, reminded me. Quite the opposite actually.

“Help,” he repeated, and my brain supplied the mirthless chuckle that might as well have accompanied. “You do know that things are like this because of you, right?”

“Gray—”

“You just saw your convenience- you walked out, as you always do, and you left me alone. And it feels like being trap—” He stopped. “Like there’s nowhere to go.”

What? The occasional drop dripping from some crack in the ceiling amplified so that it was all I could hear, like my ears were ringing. “Okay,” I said, voice ringing false, “now I think you're just being a bit too ridiculous. How much have you drunk?”

This just angered him for some reason. Instead of going higher, his voice was several octaves lower and more resigned. “I think I should leave.”

Before I could say anything, he’d gathered his suit on his left arm, and was halfway up the stairs.

A flare of panic, bright red, shot through me. “Wait!” I blurted. It felt like my throat closed on itself when he turned, eyebrow raised. Stay Grayson, I wanted to say. I don’t want to be alone right now. I don’t want you to be alone right now. Please.

But there was no way those words were making it out of my throat. I opted instead for the only other way I knew to make him stop. “Do you ever wonder who your father is?”

And god this was the hundredth time, and wasn’t he getting cramped by now(?); his body went rigid.

Steely eyes widened in surprise before narrowing on me. “Why?” I could see him discarding everything, going into protect mode. “Did something happen?” he asked. “Is someone claiming to be your father trying to get to you to meet him?”

No, just using his share of my DNA to extort money.

There was an urgency in his voice. “Jameson, are you going to keep playing hard to get or tell me what happened?”

“It’s nothing,” I lied. And now I understood because it’s nothing equalled it’s going to be nothing to the speaker.

The shake of his head again. And this time he must have determined that it was, in fact, not worth it; that I wasn’t worth it, because he left. And before I knew what I was doing, I’d thrown the bottle against the opposite wall which was actually quite close, and the sting of glass ricocheting off it felt better than not being worth it.

Chapter Text

AVERY

Jameson didn’t show up to school the entire week. And that sucked because every time practice was hindered due to his absence, Thea’d look at me as if I was the one who’d kidnapped her precious male lead and locked him in a basement I didn’t even have.

When he did show up, a week later, he was in a sour mood. Not that he grunted excessively, or intentionally shoved shoulders, or anything. He seemed too tired for that.

He was quieter (not eerily so, or anything).

It was just a bit odd — to be standing next to him, expecting some tirelessly clever quip from him, when I–intentionally or not– gave him an opening.

Like I said, it wasn’t something I missed, per se. It was just different .

At practice, he had all of his British charm, but he didn’t go out of his way to make Rebecca blush; didn’t seem to think of Darcy as a misunderstood soul, lost in the complexities of high society, bogged down by the tremendous weight of position and responsibility yada yada yada…

For lack of better words , goddamnit . 

+++

Thea’d had enough of it. Of this un-Jameson-ness from Jameson.

“For god’s sake, Jameson, drop it already. We’re already lagging behind, thanks to you up and dusting, and now you decide to clam up your mouth?”

Yeah, she’d officially lost it.

All around the stage, there were grimaces, thinly veiling interest over how he’d bite back. Jameson seemed to notice them, and his fingers flexed, but he pasted a smile—painfully obvious in its falseness— and turned to Rebecca.

Before they took it from the top, again , Rebecca pulled him closer. “Ignore her,” she muttered, hand over his bicep. “She’s just stressed.”

It was always a bit of a challenge to figure out what Jameson was thinking. What the twist of his mouth, or the pinch in his nose exactly meant. 

But it couldn't have been cleared then. 

Stressed, my ass. 

+++

Rehearsal was coming to an end. 

I wasn’t expecting Xander to show up. It was just a little laugh after all.

And so I was surprised when he did. 

He noticed this, winking as he dumped the load of clothes on me, before slipping out just as surreptitiously.

It was almost dark by the time they wrapped up things on stage with Darcy’s confession in the rain. Everyone was eager to escape after Thea's (mostly threatening) dismissal. I shot Libby a text, letting her know I’d be late.

When Jameson entered the dressing rooms after that, he leaned against the door, rubbing his eyes.

“Jameson?” I spoke softly.

He startled against the door, hand inching for something—the vase on the counter, I realised with wide eyes, stepping back, tripping over a chair leg.

“Oh God,” he said, face bunching up alarmingly, shoulders dropping. “God, you scared me, Avery.” Then finding the vase still poised to attack, he put it back. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s alright,” I conceded, grabbing the edge of the counter to haul myself up. I let it go. But only because everything in him looked so tight and wound up. On edge.

“What’re you doing here?” he asked, finally.

“You’re the only one left for costume fitting.” I pointed to the multiple packages on the table.

He groaned, head falling against the door. “Can we do this another time,” he pleaded, “I’m really tired, and you must be as well, so…”

But I’d already waited so long. I just wanted it done. I did not look up to another day of the same. “No.”

He waited for further explanation, for me to justify myself, clipping up his chin when none came.

“Okay,” he sounded frustrated now, “how about you come to my house. When I’m not feeling like dropping dead, preferably, and we can do this then?” He tried to smile. “I’ll treat you to your favourite whatever.”

“Oh,” I fawned, “and what an effort that would be.”

“Truly,” he agreed. “So, it’s a yes—”

“No, Jameson, and I would very much prefer to not be bludgeoned by Thea. So—” I plucked the gaudy costumes and dropped them in front of him. He started forward to catch them.

“There are so many?”

“Well,” I patted his shoulder, pasting a smarmy smile, “I doubt you wear the same clothes every day, so why subject poor Darcy to it.”

He stuck out his tongue, a small grimace hidden in the lines of his face, and snatched the package, heading to the changing room.

+++

“Avery!” he shouted after about fifteen minutes of peace (who took that long to put on a pair of shirt and pants?). 

(“ In vain I have struggled. It will not do. My feelings will not be repressed. You must allow me to tell you how ardently I admire and love you.”

“You are too hasty, sir—”)

I clicked my phone shut. It obliged after a few tries, the text of the book I’d been reading panning to black.  

“What?” I shouted back.

“ What ?” He asked, almost hysterically. The door slammed open, and there he was, a mess of fabric. “What. Is. This?”

Yeah really, what is this, Xander?

He looked worse than a schoolboy getting ready for his first day. His socks, sorry, stockings , hung near his ankles, and the ruffles on his shirt seemed uncontainable. His waistcoat was lined awkwardly. I couldn’t point out what was wrong there, just that it was . 

Wrong, that is. Everything mismatched.

A laugh I tried very hard to stifle, clawed its way out my throat in broken stutters. I did my best to disguise it into a cough, but the expression on his face just made me double over again.

“I’m sorry,” I said, once I’d reeled it in enough to not burst laughing at a second glance. Because it wasn’t good to laugh at someone in such a vulnerable situation, even if that someone was Jameson Hawthorne.

“Are you done,” he asked, face red somehow, “or should I wait another fifteen minutes.”

I didn’t dignify a response. “What’s wrong?”

“Really, Avery,” he said indignantly, folding his hand over his chest, only accentuating the bursting ruffles. “The fact that you laughed for fifteen minutes doesn’t tell you enough?”

Point .

“You better not tell me this is what you have for me.”

“No,” I choked out. “Obviously. You're wearing it wrong.”

To not look completely clueless, I went through the packages for any catalogue or instructions Xander put there. But there were none. “Um,” I held up a finger, already at the door. “Just give me a minute.”

“Yeah, sure, take a minute while I'm being smothered,” he shouted after me

I stepped out sheepishly, already looking up Regency dress code. My screen flooded with an abundance of those gorgeous gowns and corsets and shoes. But men’s outfits were few and far in between.

I sighed, turning to the one who’d convinced me scones were worth enough to get yourself in a mess with his brother.

You’ve reached unarguably the most intelligent, charming, unpossessively hot person in the world, and I understand what a loss it must be to not be able to talk to him, but no worries, drop a bomb, sorry, message.

A loss indeed.

I pushed back my shoulders, and stepped back in.

“I’ll be there—” Jameson immediately put down his phone when I stepped in, slipping it into his uniform slack’s pocket.

I raised an eyebrow at him. He waited for me to say something.

“Interesting,” he said after a while, looking right into my eyes. The long silence preceding it gave it a strange effect. Like no place for his words to hide. I noticed that the practiced hoarseness in his voice sounded, well, practiced when he said it like this— overflowing fabric softening all his edges. It occurred to me that maybe he intentionally dressed that way, messed his hair just so, so that he could belt out something he was not.

“You didn’t make it,” he observed, breaking me from my reverie. “Why, Avery? Why?” he whined, actually whined, whole body deflating. “I had you put because I knew you’d at least get me a decent costume.” 

The jab on my work ethic pinched. Yes, even for something I hadn’t signed up for, and coming from someone as ridiculous as Jameson Hawthorne. “I’ll work it out,” I said defiantly, “just- just let me see.”

He opened his arms— the undersides again, hanging with fucking ruffles. God, Xander must love those things as much as his scones. “Oh, I’m all yours to see, darling,” he purred. Through a scowl.

I ignored him in favour of swiping through my phone again, holding up my hand.

Jameson sighed. “You know,” he said. His voice tried hard to hold on to that smoothness. The anger in his eyes told a different story. As did the defeated slouch of his shoulders. Like this was some kind of last straw. “I’m starting to get the feeling you did this to get the satisfaction of seeing me make an ass of myself.” 

Huh?

Okay, so I didn’t feel bad for him. He had all the privilege in the world, more than I could ever imagine.

But my gut churned with unease nonetheless—something startlingly like guilt. Because I’d boxed him under a label; punched him in it violently; continued to treat him that way, even when he perhaps didn’t deserve it. Even when it might’ve hurt him.

Falling bait to every snark, knowing it only spurred him one. It spurred me on, instead of making me question it might’ve been a cover-up.

In consideration of the aforementioned realisations, I texted Xander with a vigour that was limited to that text.

Xander , if you don’t help me make sense of this mess you’ve dumped on me, god help me, I will—

Letting Xander dread what I’d do, I turned back to Jameson.

“Can I,” I asked, pointing to his collar.

He flashed a watered-down version of his lopsided smile. “No foreplay? Oh, I like this version of you.”

Oh God! Oh God, this guy. Cursing under my breath, I turned away from him, marching for my stuff— not before shoving his shoulder.

“Hey! Avery!”

He remained unwilted under the glare I sent him.

“I had to say it,” he said solemnly, gently tugging at my wrist. “For a moment, you looked like you didn’t hate me.”

I huffed. If that was what he wanted, asshole.

“Ouch!”

Chapter Text

Dear Hannah, the same forward as backwards,

I never would’ve made fun of it, or used it as an excuse to get out of anything I didn’t want to do if I knew the meaning of what I was talking. I felt so high fooling them all, and my father.

It was just a nuisance before. Haha, attack? What attack? (I know you're sighing in that worried way right now, Hannah, but don't worry, really.)

That was before. Before the coughing felt like it was emptying me out, turning me hollow. And I remember how I used to clam up at a hint of smoke, and the way I hated the sound of my breath rattling, and the fact that it took any effort to breathe at all.

But please know that the purpose of this letter is not to worry you, but to assure you that I’m doing better now. The attacks are not nearly so frequent, sometimes I can go weeks without one, and I’ve even been seeing a doctor. Well, sort of. You know how it is.

You know there was a slogan painted on the walls of my health class, Health Is Wealth . And in Country Day too, I’m sure you can imagine the irony of that. But God do I wish if just somehow, by some miracle, I could get back untarnished lungs that didn’t constantly make me wheeze like an old man (it rankles so much once you're over the self-pity thing), which only required for the asthma box to be ticked in as a precaution more than anything.

I do wish a lot nowadays, mostly useless. But then I don't know if there’s any other type.

Chapter Text

AVERY

“Huh,” Jameson spoke to himself in the floor length mirror, hands on his hips. He turned to me, gesturing to his outfit. “See? Now that’s what I’m talking about.”

“I put up more than half of that,” I reminded him— busy checking himself out. I’d also put up with the whole of it. I deserved to gloat a little.

“Whatever,” he dismissed. He made that face again— and I groaned, because we’d been over this and since when the hell did start to recognize which face it was. “Though you must be able to do something about the brown one, right?”

“We’ve been over this, that’s how he’s supposed to look then—”

“Okay, so I’ll just give you my last argument, and that’s it, yeah.” Without waiting for me to agree if that was it, he had another face one— one that said— Oh God!

“See, like, it doesn’t matter what a character is supposed to look like if no one pays any mind to me because, well, I might as well be the background. (A pause for emphasis) Like if I was playing beast or something, you wouldn’t give me a mouldy beast costume right, like you’d try to make it look sexy, or something.”

“Weren't you feeling like dropping dead?” I reminded him.

“Ha! Not anymore, and—”

“Wasn’t that the last argument? No, no, stop being such a baby about it, Jameson. And it’s getting late, I have to get home.”

He stood back on his heels, shrugging. “Your loss,” he said. “I can give you a ride home?”

As if I’d let him see where I lived. “As if I’d trust your driving.”

“Good call,” he chuckled. “But Emerson doesn’t allow me to drive. It’s a shame.”

JAMESON

I’m (mostly) not stupid. But it doesn’t take a mastermind to connect the pieces. Things summed up straight enough.

I pulled up the profile the investigator sent me.

Vincent Blake, good old chap, going strong, even at 73.

(I’m totally not practicing my accent.)

Net worth of almost half a billion dollars. Old oil money, shifted to ranching. Owns extensive estates across Texas. No heirs; only son died years ago.

Now that wasn’t anything big. Scores of folks across Texas, each with their own version of the same tale.

(Okay, yeah. Enough.)

But then, why Vincent Blake?

Was he just some rando that my father had an arrangement with.

Possible. But highly unlikely, given what he’d written. I’ve had some interesting conversations with Vincent Blake, after all.

That was history there.

And when (the investigator) dug deep enough, let’s just say that was an understatement.

Vincent Blake was the old man’s first employer.

They’d filed a patent together, a failed one.

Later, the old man filed another patent—one that actually worked— cut ties with Vincent Blake and never looked back.

The old man’d betrayed him. And if not the betrayal itself, the wealth he’d amassed after leaving Vincent behind was sure to turn anyone bitter.

Then, there was the photo.

I knew what my grandfather looked like when he was younger. But none of the pictures had been as real as this one; people huddled around a dining table, though no one seemed to be paying any attention to the photographer.

A much younger Vincent Blake at its center. His son, William— pale boy, not more than sixteen— sat beside him. But I didn’t pay any mind to that. Sitting next to Blake was a woman.

Alice, I realised with a gasp. My grandmother, Alice. It was weird saying that word; grandmother.

The old man was right next.

There wasn’t anything ominous about the picture itself, except there was; a kinda forbearance. In the sense that something couldn’t last, like a shoe waiting to drop.

(FYI, I don’t believe in that shit. Most probably thinking in retrospect, now that I knew what was to happen.)

But still, the twinkle in the old man’s eye when he regarded my grandmother, the flash of the camera captured as a blur, outstood anything hung in the house.

It felt like a discovery, like finding a huge clue in the puzzle that was the old man’s life, and I wanted to rush home, skipping all the way, and boast about how I was the one to have found it. And also about how fucking cute both of them looked.

I didn’t, obviously

Another strange thing about Blake was his son. Not the dying part, but the absence of any acknowledgement of said death part.

I’d grown up around yearly charity events where the whole family was supposed to pretend that there was nothing more important than Toby’s loss, and how after x many years, nothing saddened us more.

Like anyone actually remembered him.

Well, I could let myself get a slip on that because I wasn’t even born.

But there was nothing like that for Blake’s son. It was as if he’d just ceased to exist— which he had. But in this case, even in memories.

It was just, unusual, compared to Toby.

Wait, Toby. Toby!

My mind almost didn’t catch up with how fast my fingers pulled the result on my phone.

William had died unnaturally, under suspicious circumstances— body never discovered. Shortly after the old man broke ties with Blake and filed the second patent, and the year before Toby must have been born.

I shouldn’t have felt vindicated, but I did.

I was staring at the screen, at the year highlighted in bold— 2000- when a message popped up.

Took you long enough, Jameson Hawthorne. Let’s see what else you can find.

AVERY

The risk was worth it, I reaffirmed.

I wasn’t technically breaking in, was my defence. Just staying late. And it wasn’t theft when your intention wasn’t to derive the owner from some property, just look at it. Right?

So I was just doing something. Something in the grey.

There were four people— three boys, one girl, all of them barely above twenty— on Hawthorne Island when it blew up. All of them died. Well, all of them were supposed to have died. Except that the letters to my mother were dated much much later, and continued right up until she died.

As soon as those pieces had clicked together in my mind, the imaginations began.

That my mother had an extremely intense beachside romance, such that they didn’t stop corresponding until one of them died. Till death do us part, my mind had supplied as I read them, something tugging in my chest. A weird sort of elation I hadn’t felt since I’d found there was maybe hope for mum.

Needless to say, that hope was misplaced.

But for all my talk about being logical, about choosing a field of study concerned with recognizing patterns, I just never learn, I guess.

And this is where it’s led me: Thinking that this mystery man— a coward, he calls himself in one letter, a spoilt brat in another— might be, might be, and this was the most dangerous one: THAT HE MIGHT BE MY FATHER!!!

But I’d reeled myself in time, just as I was about to fall off the precipice. I’d had to remind myself to think logically about it. I couldn’t let my mind, and those beautiful, appealing beach filter fantasies carry me away. Literally. 

But I wonder if they did anyway, if their force had me dragging Libby from the only home she knew, carried me all the way here, standing in front of the records room of my school, about to commit what might constitute theft, depending on interpretation.

(…commits an offense if he unlawfully appropriates property with intent to deprive the owner… Oh God, shut up brain!)

I’d say they did.

+++

Colin Anders Wright. David Golding. Tobias Hawthorne II.

Colin Anders Wright. David Golding. Tobias Hawthorne II.

Colin Anders Wright. David Golding. Tobias Hawthorne II.

Class of 1998.

My fingers sifted through the files to locate the names. Unfortunately, there was no mention of their school year on the internet, but it had to be somewhere around that time.

No matches.

Class of 1999.

Colin Anders Wright. David Golding. Tobias Hawthorne II.

A, B, C—

Colin, Colin, Colin— Yes!

Colin Adams, then Daniel whatever

I breathed out, then shut the drawer.

Class of 2000

Colin Anders Wright. David Golding. Tobias Hawthorne II.

This was the last year of my estimated time frame, and maybe I’d miscalculated, maybe the press had gotten their ages wrong, or maybe the article had been wrongly dated or maybe…

This had all been for nothing, for nothing at all, and those letters were just a fluke, or a sick joke, or sent to the wrong address, or just about something else entirely.

My throat welled up, suddenly thick, and I ignored the tears pricking my eyes. It was the last year of my estimated time frame, I told myself. And that was still one year left to check.

But my hands wouldn’t stop shaking, no longer so confident, and a thought struck me. I shouldn’t check it. Let myself have the benefit of the doubt, then all of this wouldn’t have been for nothing, just something that I lost interest in along the way.

I shook my head, opened the drawer.

Colin Anders Wright. David Golding. Tobias Hawthorne II.

Then I saw a silhouette through the frosted windows.

Did that work both ways, I wondered, what with my phone’s flashlight on, and— Shit.