Liar.
Traitor.
Cheater.
I run until the pound of words in my head fades into the pound of my feet against the pavement. I run until I can't hear anything except my breathing and the sounds of the city. I run until I can't feel the ache in my chest over the burning in every muscle.
Four miles, five miles, six miles, on and on and on, running from the lingering memories of the night before. Even with my head throbbing from how little I slept and my stomach roiling from that devil drink, I run. And run. And run.
I barely even see the city before me as it stirs for a cold, clear weekend morning. The cars tumble past in a blur. Snippets of conversation float by, little more than a flit at my ear. And I never stop, not once, until I throw open the door to our house an hour later.
My mom glances up at me when I step inside, my chest heaving and dripping with sweat, even in the brisk winter air. "You're up early," she says, raising an eyebrow, and I nod as I down a cup of water.
"I have Dad's work ethic."
"That or you were too hungover to sleep," she replies, shuffling through a pile of mail on the counter. "But let's go with what you said."
"Funny," I say, sighing as I tumble onto the couch. My legs can barely stand, shaking and burning from the pace I'd set, the miles I'd run, and I let out a small groan of relief.
"You act as if we weren't your age once," she tuts, but my attention's caught on the phone I'd tossed on the coffee table when I stumbled in at midnight, so drunk I could barely make it up the stairs. "And as if your father and I didn't get into far more trouble."
"Yeah, I know, Mom. You were a wild child," I say absentmindedly. My phone hasn't stopped lighting up since I sat down, even though it's the middle of the night back home. I don't think I've exchanged numbers with anyone here other than Jett, either.
It's not Jett, though, and in fact, it's not anyone I know. It's near-constant alerts from Wiztagram – a new follower, a comment on a post I was tagged in – streaming down my lock screen like a flood.
What the hell?
My brow furrows as I tap on one of the notifications, loading a picture of – me. And Dom. And Jett. And Connor. Flushed from alcohol, hair matted and sweaty, Jett's arm slung easily around me, matching Connor's stance with Dom. A photo from last night, apparently, posed and yet slightly blurry, taken at an unusual angle.
xoxo, reads the simple caption, next to a bolded justdom and blue check. Which must be – Dom? As in just Dom, not Dominique? Yes, it has to be. But she's – verified? Is she actually a model? What the hell?
The rest of the photos match the aesthetic of the first shot, casual and candid, yet somehow effortlessly flawless. There's her two siblings, Louis and Victoire, whom I'd briefly met last night, Connor looking straight into the camera while biting into some sort of pie, Jett pressing a sloppy kiss to my cheek as I throw my head back, laughing. Every photo so precisely chosen, always cropped carefully to cut any branded drinks out of our hands.
And the very last image, James leaning back against a wall, grinning down into a glass cup, shot in profile.
Oh, fuck.
Everything crashes back down the second I land on that photo, the runner's high dropping into oblivion. But I can't stop looking, can't stop staring, soaking in the sharp jawline and cut cheekbone as if I haven't seen that same side profile for hours next to me in Ancient Runes. It hurts. Every piece of me hurts just from looking at that snapshot in time, the aching so bad that I throw my phone across the couch.
But it buzzes and buzzes and buzzes, vibrating the cushions beneath me, and I barely last two minutes before I grab it again, scrolling through endless notifications. It must all be from Dom's post. Why she's verified, I have no idea, but she is and my jaw nearly drops when I finally click on her profile.
10.3k followers. The number stares up at me from her page, an eclectically cohesive mix of that same candid, muted aesthetic she'd posted this morning; artistic shots of family and friends, odd angles romanticizing daily life, shadows dancing in front of cobblestone streets. don't call me Dominique, reads her simple bio beneath a bolded name – Dom Delacour-Weasley – I hadn't realized she uses a hyphenated last name, actually – and I can't help but smile as I hit the follow button.
I never realized she was so online, for lack of a better word. She's never mentioned wanting to be an influencer, either – or maybe she has, and I've just forgotten. I'll ask her about it later, I guess.
My thumb hovers over the post she made this morning, tapping it once, and I blink in shock at the number of likes, still ticking endlessly upward. And there are comments, too, names I don't recognize as I scroll through, until –
What in the hell?
First Dom, now – James? That has to be him, right? A single comment on Dom's post with the bolded username jamesirius and next to it, just like Dom, a single blue check.
What the hell is going on?
There's a full thread beneath his comment, and I click it open, stifling a laugh at the chaos unfolding – Jett, Dom, James, Connor, all bickering back and forth, just like they do in person, as if it's the most natural thing in the world.
jamesirius ✔ connfinn soft launch
jetttnolton connfinn connfinn connfinn !
justdom ✔ jamesirius jetttnolton get out of my comments
jamesirius ✔ love you too justdom
connfinn jamesirius jetttnolton Stop tagging me
jamesirius ✔ connfinn no
jetttnolton connfinn not a chance
"What are you smiling at?" My mom's voice pulls my head up, away from my phone, and my smile only grows wider when she takes a seat beside me on the couch.
"Just some photos from last night," I say, shrugging. She leans over, hair falling like a curtain between us, to peek at the picture on my screen. "My friends," I add on, passing her the phone. "Well, some of them."
"Hmmm," she hums, swiping through Dom's post, pausing on the last image before handing my phone back. "You look happy."
"I am."
"And you like –" She gestures to my phone, and I glance down, stomach dropping at that damn picture of James she'd stopped on. "You like Jett? He treats you well? Dad seemed to approve."
"Yes. He's great," I say, flipping back to a picture of us. "It's not like – it's not like last year. I promise."
The words almost get stuck in my throat, barely eking out over the lump forming. I can't bring myself to look up and meet my mom's eyes, to see the sadness that I know is lurking there.
"Just take care of yourself, sweetie," she says quietly, standing, and I nod, still fighting the lump.
I don't blame her – them, my parents – for getting worried when I'd written about Jett. But every time I tried to convey in my letters what he's like, I could never put the words down on paper. Ink just refused to meet parchment. Acknowledging what he is would mean acknowledging what he's not, too, and I couldn't do it. I – couldn't.
I hope Jett didn't look at my profile when he saw Dom's tag. I hope he didn't see the last photo I posted, just a few weeks before we moved. I hope he didn't see how painfully unhappy I was, even though I was smiling. I hope he didn't see how haunted my face was – all sharp angles and hollow cheekbones, dark circles beneath my eyes – or how thin I looked, especially standing next to –
Next to no one who matters. Not anymore.
I can't even bring myself to delete that old photo. Deleting it would mean I have to look at it, and I don't want to. I don't want to see myself like that. I don't want to remember how desperate I was for approval that would never, ever come.
Even in the blurry, messy photos from last night, the difference is so striking, so glaringly obvious. Not just happy, but healthy. That's what I want the world to see. Not him. Not Ryan fucking Thompson.
Even now, even months later, I hate – I hate – that just his name still makes my blood run cold. That even after everything, after Jett, I still can't shake his voice over my shoulder, that voice I hear in my head whenever even the slightest twitch of doubt springs up. I don't want him to have that power anymore. He doesn't deserve it. He never deserved it.
So I scroll through my camera roll, eyes sweeping across all the poorly captured memories from last night – several shots of the floor, Dom's face cut out of a photo, pictures so shaky you can hardly tell who's in them – and pick out my favorites. Then I type welcoming committee as the simple caption and hit post.
Because this is what I want the world to see. I don't want the first image of me to be that awful, ugly reminder of the past. I want it to be a photo of me and Dom that Jett had taken, her arm over my shoulder, hooking around my neck, our legs crossed in front of us as we stumble forward. I want it to be the photo of me and Jett so close that we're nearly kissing, foreheads touching, with drunk inhibition written across our faces.
And I really hope Ryan fucking Thompson sees how much better I'm doing without him.
He won't, though. At least not for a few hours, since he's in New York, hours behind London. But that doesn't stop adrenaline from thrumming through me every time my phone vibrates, the anticipation tingling my skin like an electric current. Maybe he'll see it and stop dead on a crowded sidewalk and know how much he fucked up. Probably not, but I can hope. And I hope he sees the first comment, too, the one Jett had typed within minutes.
jetttnolton ariafields I'm so damn lucky
I wake up every morning at six and run for an hour, sometimes two, pushing myself ever faster and longer. And I run again in the evening, when my dad gets back from Appleby, jogging at his side as we work through scenarios and strategy and technique in short, puffed breaths.
I log mile after endless mile, hoping desperately that it'll somehow fill the hole in my chest, that one more mile will carry me so far away from myself that I can't think about anything other than putting one foot in front of the other.
And every night I lie awake until one or two in the morning, trying everything I can to keep the intrusive thoughts at bay. But I can't – I never do – and my thoughts go on and on and on, spiraling endlessly into the dark pit of my mind until I finally pass out.
But as the days trickle by and my runs go longer and longer, sleep starts getting easier. And my thoughts start fading, too, no longer shouting liar, traitor, cheater at me whenever I'm not distracted. By the end of the week, I even stop making up excuses to avoid Jett and finally meet him in the city, wandering around aimlessly while he shows me his favorite spots and shops. Then we go out for lunch or for coffee, and before long he's a near-constant presence in our house, perpetually charming my parents with his impeccable manners and knack for always saying the right thing.
And when my mom finds out that his parents are out of town, she invites him over for dinner permanently, a standing invitation with an extra place set at the table for him. He always shows up right on time with flowers or a box of chocolates or some little thoughtful gift that melts their hearts.
It melts mine, too. The icy freeze of panic and worry starts slowly thawing, and I think it's maybe the fourth night he comes over that I know it's all going to be okay. Choosing him feels right in my head like it once did. Like we've gotten back to where we were before.
"Remind me how this works again?" he says with a yawn. We're curled up on the couch after dinner, about a week or so after he started coming over to eat, and I lean my head against his chest as the WizTV flickers on.
"So you get four chances to go ten yards –"
"Yards?"
"Sort of like meters. One yard is three feet, which means they have to go thirty –"
"One yard is three feet?" Jett scoffs and flicks my temple gently with a finger, then shifts so he can pull me fully against his chest. "That makes no sense, Fields."
"Don't take it up with me. So anyway, you have four chances to move the ball, and those are called downs. And if you get the ball in the end zone, it's six points."
"Six? I thought it was seven."
"It's seven if you kick the extra point, or you can go for a two-point conversion –"
"Oh my God," Jett moans, and I can practically feel his eyes rolling behind me. "American football is mental."
"It's just football, not –"
"Just be thankful I'm watching at all," he teases, pulling at a bit of hair. "Now, which side are we supporting again?"
"Jett, the Rams, for Merlin's sake, the ones in blue –"
"They're both wearing blue –"
"The blue shirts."
"Ah."
The teasing doesn't stop there, but I don't mind. I try to break down every play in real time, and I know he secretly enjoys it well before he starts yelling with me at fumbles and inordinately stupid penalties. It almost doesn't feel real, sitting there with him, watching football of all things while curled up on the couch.
But it's so nice and comfortable and warm that I barely fight it when my eyelids start to droop, when I'm lulled to sleep by his heartbeat beneath my ear and the dim roaring on the television. And it's not until I hear the sharp creak of wood that my eyes fly open to the half-baked sunlight of dawn filtering into our living room.
We fell asleep watching the game. The television's still on – some random broadcast I've never seen before – and I'm in the same position as last night, leaning against Jett's chest with his arms around me, tucked into the corner of the couch.
"Well, I guess it's a good thing he's already here," my dad cracks, and I groan as his tall figure steps into the room, gaze assessing us carefully. I can't tell if he's mad, disappointed, or just entirely uninterested. "Wimbourne match is today. Now I don't need to fetch him."
"Huh?" Jett yawns behind me, shifting slightly, and I sit up, rubbing at my eyes.
"Good morning to you, too," Dad says, that never-ending sass seeping through his voice, and Jett bolts forward, eyes wide in panic.
"I'm so sorry, Mr. Fields. We fell asleep watching –"
"I can see that."
"I –"
"Dad, it wasn't his fault," I cut in, but my dad simply shakes his head, expression still unreadable.
"Aria, please," he says, letting out a short breath. "I'm not that ancient and uncool. Why don't you go clean up, Jett, and we'll have breakfast before shipping off for the match. And we need to pick up your friend, too."
"All right, Mr. Fields," Jett says simply, but relief courses through his voice. He glances over at me in sleepy dishevelment – hair mussed up, shirt crinkled, and eyes half-awake – and smiles, that warm, half-dimpled expression that always lights up a room. "Sorry," he tacks on to me under his breath, whispering.
"It's fine," I whisper back. "Go get ready."
It's so strange to see him here in the morning, wandering up the stairs to shower in my bathroom. It's even stranger to see him at our table, sharing breakfast with my dad twenty minutes later, even though he sits in that exact spot every night. But what's the strangest of all, though, is how the house feels so empty when they Disapparate after breakfast for the Wimbourne match, leaving me to simply count the hours until they're back.
I flick on the television at ten to catch the start of it, snuggling into that same spot I'd fallen asleep in last night. I could've gone with them, technically – my mom and I always have allotted space in the players' box – but when Jett told me he'd invited James to use the other ticket I'd given him, I just – couldn't.
That probably makes me a coward. Actually, it definitely makes me a coward. I'd spun up an excuse about seeing a million matches before, wanting him to just enjoy the whole VIP experience, and Jett seemed fine with it. I think he was kind of excited to have a boys' day out, honestly. But even now, tucked into the couch, so far away from the two of them, the match blaring on the television –
Liar.
Traitor.
Cheater.
Bright blue jerseys streak across the screen, little more than a blur in my vision. Bright blue shooting skyward as the whistle sounds, bright blue hanging from my fingertips beneath the barren tree.
Liar.
Traitor.
Cheater.
Bark pressing against exposed skin on my back, desperate for every touch, the world little more than a hazy mess of hungry need.
Liar.
Traitor.
Cheater.
The words ring and ring and ring in my head, just as loud as they were on the first morning. Tearing apart every stitch of peace I've managed to sow together over the past two weeks, shredding straight through to the brutal guilt and shame and every other unspeakable thought I've locked away.
I don't even bother to turn the TV off when I slam the door to the house five minutes later. I just need to run. I need to get away. I need every step to drag away the unbearable ache in my chest, to bury it so deeply down that it never claws its way out again. I run until I can't feel anything other than the sharp pain in my side, until every breath burns, until it feels like I'm about to pass out. I run until I find myself back upstairs, sinking into a shower, and let hot tears spill down my skin because no matter how far or how hard I push myself, I'm never going to outrun my own mind.
I'm curled up in an armchair with a book when my dad returns home hours later, Jett nowhere to be found. "Did you finally scare him off?" I ask, raising an eyebrow, and Dad chuckles before collapsing on the couch across from me. He splays his feet out, shoes still on, and absentmindedly tosses a Quaffle he's brought home, adding yet another to our ever-growing collection.
"Not even a congrats on beating Wimbourne first? Just straight into interrogation?"
"Of course."
"Exactly like your mother," Dad says with a sigh. "Don't worry, sweetheart. I was on my best behavior and Mr. Nolton had a wonderful time. He loved seeing all the behind-the-scenes stuff – the box, locker room, training facility, all that."
"And – James?" I say, hesitating. My heart squeezes as he flashes into my mind again, sitting alone beneath the tree. "He was well-behaved?"
"Oh, yeah, of course. But I'd expect nothing less."
"What do you mean?"
"What do you mean?" Dad counters. The Quaffle pauses in his hands, breaking its up-and-down rhythm. "He's probably been to a thousand special events before. I'm sure it's been ingrained since birth."
The Quaffle thunks quietly into his hand as he resumes tossing it, signaling that he's moving on from his cryptic comment. I'm not, though. I've got no clue what he's talking about, or why I should have an inherent understanding of James Potter's manners. It's not as if he acts like an angel at school – not in the least.
"Catch," Dad says suddenly, and my hands fly up instinctively at the crimson ball streaking towards my face. A good thing, too, that we've done this countless times because my head's certainly not present in the slightest. "All right, what's on your mind?"
"How do you always do that?"
"Do what?"
"Read my thoughts."
"You're not that hard to read, Aria. And you're also so much like your mother that sometimes it feels like I'm seeing double. Now spill," he prompts, and I toss the Quaffle back towards him across the coffee table. It lands softly in his hands, a punctuation to his order.
"I just – have no idea what you're talking about," I admit. I feel stupid just saying it, as if there's something obvious I'm missing.
Dad throws the Quaffle back at me, but this time I'm ready, snagging it one-handedly out of the air. "About your friend?"
"Yes." Another toss, another punctuation.
"Seriously, Aria?"
"What?" I ask defensively. The Quaffle comes spinning back, this one a light underhand toss, and I flip it around in my palms.
"You are serious," Dad says, and I nearly chuck the damn ball back at him for the teasing in his voice. "Come on, now. You're smarter than this."
"Dad –"
"The American school system really failed you, huh?" There's a twinkle in his eye now, a glint lighting up the blue that mirrors mine, and it only grows as I let out a frustrated sigh. "You didn't have any units about the British war in the nineties? MACUSA never got involved, I suppose, but wasn't it at least mentioned in your global history course?"
The nineties? I think we covered them towards the end of last year, but when the scale is centuries, not decades, it's hard to keep track. A war? I don't remember a war. Unless – oh. Oh. Is that what he's talking about?
"Oh, you've got it, haven't you?" Dad says, and I shake my head, pressing my eyes shut.
"We briefly touched on a terrorist insurgency in the nineties, but it was never a full unit," I say slowly. Notes and lectures blur past, and I can almost feel my Global History of Magic book beneath my fingertips. "And it mostly dealt with the political side. Our textbook never called it a war."
"I suppose it depends who you ask. His parents might feel differently. And so would all the people who call them war heroes, too."
I find my dad staring at me, one eyebrow raised challengingly, when my eyelids finally flicker open. He's still lounging on the couch, and I toss the Quaffle back half-heartedly.
"War heroes, huh? I guess I'll have to dig my old textbook out tonight."
"That's my little Horned Serpent," Dad teases. "And you of all people should understand what his life is like. It's not so different from yours, I'd wager. Comes with the famous parent territory."
"You? Famous?" I say, scoffing. "And here I thought going through yearly training on what I can do and say was utterly normal."
"Our life has never been normal, and I'm sorry about that," Dad says quietly. The Quaffle hops up and down in his hands again, spinning gently as he tosses it to himself. "I don't think I can ever fully understand what it's like for you. But I suspect your friend James does, and that's probably why he's taken a liking to you."
"A – what?" I choke out.
"A liking."
"Excuse me? How do you –"
"His mother told me."
"You know his mom?" I ask in disbelief. Dad ricochets the Quaffle towards me, this one hard and fast, trying to catch me off guard, and I just barely manage to snag it before it goes over my head.
"Of course. She's the sports editor for the Daily Prophet and an annoyingly good one at that." He pulls a face like he's reliving a tricky question, and I take the opportunity to throw the Quaffle back. "She said he wrote about the first time he met you. I guess you made an impression."
The first time we met? On the train? That doesn't make sense. I hardly said anything to him at all. A few sentences, maybe, if that. I didn't even like him. But he – what? Why?
"Anyway, I am utterly starving," Dad says. He sits upright and drags a hand through his hair, eyeing the kitchen, and tosses the Quaffle towards me without looking. "But your mom will kill me if I ruin my appetite before our last family dinner. Why don't we go grab a snack? One last father-daughter activity before you head back to school?"
"All right," I agree, setting the Quaffle down on the living room floor. There's another beneath the coffee table and a third in the corner by a plant pot. Dad has a bad habit of bringing them home after matches or practices, always tucked under his arm absentmindedly. "Let's go."
My mind never quite leaves our conversation, though. It doesn't for the rest of the night, not even when Jett pops in at six sharp for one last dinner, a beautiful bouquet of snowdrops and winterberries in hand. The familiar ache in my chest doesn't leave, either, and it's still tugging at my ribs like a string wrapped around them while sleep eludes me.
It's like all the puzzle pieces are finally starting to slot into place. Little bits and fragments floating through every conversation we had after Ancient Runes, on those long, winding walks through the sixth-floor corridor. Always asking the right questions, always seeming to guess where my thoughts were drifting.
How many times did I tell him how uncomfortable I feel in my own skin? How nobody ever sees me as just me? How I love my parents desperately, but I just want to feel normal?
I told him about everything – all of it, spilling my guts endlessly. Is that how he feels, too? Why has he never said anything?
The thoughts twirl and twist, keeping me awake, and it's not until I rip apart my room in a frantic search for my old global history textbook that my eyelids start to grow heavy. And by the time I find it, buried beneath a gigantic stack of things from Ilvermorny and Salem, I can barely bring myself to flip through the pages, searching for that small section on the nineties insurrection. My finger skims across lines and down columns as I dip in and out of sleep, fighting to stay awake once familiar names start floating across the page.
I think I manage to read a quarter of the section before I finally nod off, and when I wake the next morning to my mom's frantic pounding on my door, the textbook falls off my bed, completely forgotten. I'm late. I'm so late, as she informs me through the door, that if I'm not downstairs in twenty minutes, we're going to miss the train.
So I hustle as quickly as I can through showering, brushing my teeth, and throwing on clothes, and we're out the door fifteen minutes later, speeding through London towards the train station while I comb my hair in the backseat. My dad doesn't want to get out of the car – he's not in the mood to talk to fans, he says, and he hates disappointing anyone – so I peck a kiss on both of my parents' cheeks and walk in alone, skimming the station and platform for any familiar faces.
It's not quite as chaotic as at the start of the year, but only just. At least most of the first-years' parents aren't crying this time around. Steam smokes and eddies up into the air from the train, a whistle blasts, and I'm still glancing around when two strong arms appear out of nowhere, pulling me into a hug.
"Hey, Fields. I've been looking for you," Jett murmurs, dropping a kiss on the top of my head. "Come on, then. I've got a compartment with James already."
"I –"
But the rest of my words get lost as he pulls me into the swirling crowd, up onto the train, and about halfway down the corridor. I slide to a stop the second I see the figure lounging alone through glass, shuddering before Jett even reaches for the door.
Fuck.
Fuck.
I don't know if I can do this.
I practiced this moment in my head over and over for hours, trying to envision what I'd do, how I'd act, what I'd say. And it always seemed so simple when I was lying awake at night over break, staring up at the ceiling. We'd just go on as we had before like nothing ever changed. Because it shouldn't change. I should still feel the same way I did about Jett, and that's all that matters. That's what I decided.
But I guess the unchecked, irrational side of me doesn't care what I decided.
I want him.
The thought pierces through fear and panic, sharp as a knife, and I take a deep breath to fight it. No, I don't. Isn't that what I'd told myself after every hour spent analyzing, going back and forth down endless rabbit holes? It was just a kiss. It was just pure, physical attraction. That's all. That's it.
Liar.
Traitor.
Cheater.
"You coming?" Jett asks, and I snap back into the moment. He's standing in the car, offering me a hand, a twinkle of amusement in his eyes. I mentally grab onto that – onto him – like an anchor, holding tight to every laugh, every dinner, every time he'd called me to say goodnight before falling asleep.
"Thanks," I say, and he smiles as I grab his hand. It feels warm and calloused beneath mine, so familiar and comfortable. Not anxious or nervous like I'm on the edge of a cliff, about to tumble off, not aching or painful. Not like how I feel when I grab a seat and glance over at James's position by the window, legs sprawled out casually, almost exactly the same way he looked the last time I saw him.
"Hey, Fields." Even the way he says it sounds the same as it did that night, just before I'd left – flat and empty, totally removed from the world.
"Hi," I say softly, and he simply nods in acknowledgment. "Did you have a nice holiday?"
"Bloody fantastic."
"How about you?" I say, turning to Jett. He laughs, eyes bright, and throws an arm around my shoulder as he sinks down beside me.
"You know I did."
"Even though you had to watch American football ?" I tease, dropping my voice and attempting to mimic him on the last two words. Jett snorts, shakes his head, and opens his mouth to respond, but the door to our car slides open again before he can get it out.
"Oh my God," I breathe, and Dom grins at me from behind Connor's shoulder, waving with one hand as they step into the car. Her other hand's twined with the boy who's tugging her in, beaming broader than I've ever seen. "Oh my God!"
"Fucking finally," Jett exclaims, jumping up to tackle Connor in a hug. I launch myself at Dom, mirroring Jett, but her squeals are so sharp that I have to pull away, laughing. Even James smiles slightly from the window when we all fall onto our seats, Connor and Dom across from us.
"What? When? How?" I demand, but Jett waves me off, leaning forward on his knees.
"Better question – is this why both of you were absolutely nowhere to be found during break?"
Dom grins mischievously and lets out another melodious laugh, blonde hair spilling over her shoulder like molten gold. "We were busy," she says slyly, and Connor's face immediately reddens.
"Good for you, mate," Jett says, nudging Connor in the shin. His eyes look ridiculously blue against the flush of his skin, and – Merlin, they look so happy. Dom's glowing. I swear there's an ethereal radiance shining off of her, like her joy can't be contained.
"Now before you make a mistake, Connor," James says slowly, and all of our heads turn to look at him, lounging languidly by the window. "Let me just remind you that you may be my friend, but Dom is family first. I would think twice before revealing anything you wouldn't want to know about your own cousin."
"James," Dom huffs, and he glances over at her, bored. She looks like a teapot about to steam, as if there's anger boiling up inside her waiting to escape. "First of all, you can piss off with your patriarchal bullshit."
"Just because I don't want to hear about your sex life, Dom, doesn't –"
"Speaking of," she spits out, "that brings me to point number two. Let's not pretend like I haven't had to suffer through endless conversations about you and Lila, who, by the way, I overheard you slurring to on the phone at two in the morning after the Christmas party. So I repeat: piss off."
Then she stands up, grabs Connor's hand, and storms out of the car, slamming the door so hard it rattles the seat. Silence fills the room like a vacuum between the three of us, broken only by the rhythmic beat of the train.
"Did you drunk dial Lila?" Jett asks in disbelief.
"None of your business, Nolton."
"I'd just like to know if I need to mentally prepare myself for the two of you going at it again," Jett says, a bit smugly, and I sink a bit lower in my seat. I wish I could crawl into myself, curl up into a ball, and disappear from this conversation entirely.
God. The thought of him with her – the way Jett said it – fuck. No. No. I won't think about it. I have no right to. I don't care. I shouldn't care. It doesn't matter to me, not at all.
"Jett, drop it," James says harshly, and he turns to the window again.
He continues to stare stubbornly out at the rolling landscape while Jett and I chat or nap or humor the various classmates who swing by for a quick hello. I do my best not to look at him, to ignore how his hand repeatedly flexes for hours, as if he's trying to squeeze whatever he's feeling out of him. And I succeed, mostly. I stay focused on Jett, mostly. But when Jett gets up to stretch his legs and look for Connor – or to save Connor from Dom, as he says – there's nothing left to distract me.
The silence stings and aches, a deafening quiet that says everything without either of us uttering a word. My heartbeat rings in my ears, my head, louder than the clack of the train or the rattle of the glass.
And James – James just stares. Out the window, pointedly, his face betraying nothing. His hand, though. It's not making a fist anymore, but clenching the edge of the seat, knuckles white and fingernails digging sharply into the faded blue fabric.
"Trying to rip a hole in the train?" I ask quietly. My voice sounds strange in the car, floating into the roaringly empty abyss between us.
"It could use some more character." His voice sounds strange, too, but not in the way mine did. He just doesn't sound like himself. Not bored or crackling with wit, not teasing or playful or anything, really. Just flat and distant, like he barely knows or cares who I am.
The ache in my chest blooms into a slice of pain as the seconds tick onward in silence. I want – I don't know. I want him to look at me, say something, do something, do anything other than ignore me.
But he doesn't. And maybe that's just how it's going to be from now on. Maybe that's how it has to be.
The realization sinks down into my heart, heavy as stone. Things are never going back to the way they were before. We won't – can't – have hours-long conversations anymore. We can't wander the halls together after Ancient Runes or whisper back and forth during class. We can't be friends anymore.
Jett slides the door open a few minutes later, Connor nowhere in sight, but neither of us acknowledges him. James simply continues staring out the window while I fake a yawn and close my eyes, lolling my head back against the seat. And I stay there until the train grinds to a stop an hour later, then grab Jett's hand and pull him into a carriage, desperate to escape the horrible silence of that God-forsaken compartment.
"That might be the quietest train ride I've ever had," Jett remarks when we tumble out onto the grounds a few minutes later. Moon and starlight brighten the path before us through breaks in the clouds, shimmering on the glassy lake reflecting the sky above.
It looks exactly as it did all those months ago when I'd walked up this same path with Jett on the first day of the semester. I knew nothing about him or the castle other than their names back then. Now, though, I can map every spire, look at him and rattle off every one of his favorite corny jokes. It's funny how a few short months can change everything so drastically, isn't it?
Or even just a few minutes, alone beneath a barren tree.
Jett lets out a breath as our feet crunch onward over gravel. Dom wanted nothing to do with returning to our group, apparently, which means neither did Connor, and James is somewhere far behind, so it's just the two of us. Hushed conversations float through the night air, spilling between our clasped hands, and Jett sighs again.
"I think –" He hesitates, his eyes cutting over towards me while we walk. "I think James feels awkward."
"What makes you say that?" I ask carefully, but my breathing quickens, the air suddenly thick in my throat.
"Well, you – I –" Another white puff of his breath hangs before us. "He told me about – about what happened at the party. The – uh, mistletoe."
Blood freezes in my veins, but my heart pounds wildly, each thump sending the words crashing through me. "You – know?" It's all I can do to whisper the words, rasping them out over the terror rooting me in place.
"Yeah." Jett sighs once more, and it feels heavy, as if he's finally dropped a weight from his chest. "I – um, I get it, though. And I'm not mad – I mean, I'm definitely not happy, but I understand – it wasn't like, you know – I just – I wish you would have told me."
The words tumble out while we stand still, letting the flow of students curl around us like a boulder caught in a current. His eyes search mine endlessly, waiting in silence for a response, and I –
I don't understand.
Why isn't he upset? Why isn't he screaming at me? It's like he doesn't –
Oh.
He doesn't know.
He probably got half of the story, not technically a lie but definitely not the full truth. He probably heard about how we got stuck under that God damn mistletoe and couldn't move, couldn't get back to the house –
"I'm sorry," I whisper. And I know he thinks I mean I'm sorry for not telling him, but I'm sorry for so much more than that. I'm sorry for more than he'll ever know.
"I know." A muscle ticks in Jett's jaw, and he glances away, staring down at the gravel beneath our feet. "Really. James already rambled on about how awful he felt and I – look, it wasn't your fault. You didn't do anything wrong. I just wish I had heard it from you first."
You didn't do anything wrong.
Oh, God.
Breathe.
Breathe.
"I'm sorry." It's all I can say, all I can manage, and I swallow roughly. Breathe. In and out. In and out. "I just – I didn't want to make a big deal about it."
It's a lie. There's no getting around it. Every word of my last sentence is a dirty, filthy lie. Jett doesn't deserve this. He doesn't deserve me and all my bullshit. He deserves better, he's always deserved better –
"I know. It's okay, Aria," he says simply. My breath hitches as he reaches for my hand, guilt singing my skin where our fingers meet.
Liar.
Traitor.
Cheater.
"Hey, I –" I start, and clear my throat. I need to get away from him. I need to stop touching him, stop lying to him, stop avoiding his eyes – fuck, I need to breathe, but I can't, I can't – "I think I should –" My mind grasps desperately for an excuse, for something, anything to get away from him – "I should go talk to James for a second. Clear the air."
I hate the sound of his name on my lips. I hate how Jett doesn't even react, doesn't flinch with anger, just stares at me calmly, nodding, and releases my hand. I hate that he's not screaming at me or shredding me apart for what I've done. I wish that's what he was doing. Because somehow, this is even worse. Looking at the trust in his eyes and knowing I've broken it beyond repair – it's worse. It's a hundred times worse than his anger could ever be.
"I'll meet you in the Great Hall in a few minutes?"
"Yeah, I'll see you there," I say quietly, and he smiles gently before splitting up the path.
I squeeze my sapphire necklace as Jett walks away, watching his broad shoulders blend into an unfamiliar crowd. Every gift he brought to our family dinners flashes through my mind, every charming smile, every sweet gesture, every time he politely refused to call my parents by their first names.
He's so good. Too good.
And I screwed him over without a second thought.
Did I honestly think everything was going to be okay? That if I pretended hard enough that nothing ever happened, I would just forget about it? That the guilt would just – go away?
I tilt my head back once Jett disappears from sight and stare straight upwards, letting out a breath. Stars and constellations weave together like thread through a tapestry, sending a faint glow across the grounds, across my skin, across the far too familiar figure fast approaching, hands stuffed in his pockets.
"James," I call out, and his head whips up instinctively. It's the first time he's looked at me all day, and his gait falters slightly, foot slipping on the path. "Can we have a word?"
I know he heard me, but there's nothing but the crunch of stone as he approaches, not until right as he brushes past. "I don't want to talk to you."
"Well, too bad," I say, but I'm talking to his back, already decidedly well past me. "James – James, stop. Please."
It must be the begging in my voice that finally gets him because it's not until that last word slips out – please, chock-full of every ounce of guilt and regret – that he finally pauses and turns back to me.
"You told him?" I whisper, my voice cracking. I shut my eyes, pull in a deep breath, and swallow roughly, willing myself to get a hold of everything threatening to spill out. Willing myself to keep those dark, ugly feelings locked away. "How could you?"
Silvery light spills through the space between us, our shadows flickering and stretching towards each other across the path. Then he's moving closer, each step sharp and percussive, and it's not until he stands before me that I see that annoyingly unbothered expression finally cracking.
"How could I?" His voice is raw and angry, filled with disbelief, and his eyes flicker to mine for the first time all evening. "You know what? Maybe we should talk."
Fingers dig painfully into my forearm as he pulls me away from the long, upward slope to the castle and towards an abandoned rampart just off the gravel path, one of many sprinkled around the grounds. We step beneath the open-air archway silently and into a long stone hallway lined with empty crates and dead, shriveled leaves.
James lets go of my arm and immediately walks down the rampart's corridor, one hand tangling through his mess of inky hair. He looks like he wants to say about a half dozen different things – I can see words forming on his lips then falling away, emotions burning brightly in his eyes before dimming to something else, something pained – and I wait a few heartbeats, holding my tongue, but then –
"Do you know how horrible I feel?" The words spill out before I can stop them, and James snaps to stillness, expression unreadable. "I guess not, because you apparently had no problem lying through your teeth and giving Jett some bullshit half-truth."
"I'm not the cheater," he hisses, and something cracks in my chest, like there's an icepick lodged in it. "So don't act like you have the moral high ground here. And do not – do fucking not – pretend like you even feel a fraction of what I feel. Do not. I've known Jett since I was three. You've known him – what, three months?"
Silence wraps around us, painful and aching. It feels like every unspoken word presses down through the darkness, crushing me – crushing us. I can see it in him, too. It's in the way his breathing sounds staggered and deep, the way his hands curl into a fist at his side.
"I hate what I did. I hate myself. I have hated myself for every fucking second since –" James cuts off and glances away, another rapid succession of emotions twisting through the shadows before it's replaced by a wince, but he just shakes his head and huffs a breath. "But that's not even the worst part."
My heart shatters at the catch in his voice, at how the words barely make it out. He doesn't sound angry anymore, but – sad. Heart-breakingly, heart-wrenchingly, heart-shatteringly sad.
"And the worst part isn't watching you with Jett, either, or having to see that God damn necklace every time I look at you." My head reaches for the silver chain at his words, and James pauses suddenly, squeezing his eyes shut.
Light cascades through a lone window next to us, spilling onto the stone floor, and dark figures tramp past obliviously outside with fleeting silhouettes. I take a step back, away from the light, away from him, the window, all of it, bracing myself for whatever he's about to say.
"What's the worst part?" I ask quietly. The sapphire feels cold and smooth beneath my fingers, against the flush burning across my chest.
"The worst part is knowing exactly how terrible of a person I am." James clears his throat and backs away from the window as well, separating us by that beam of light bouncing into the rampart. "I love Jett. More than anything. He is my best friend, my brother, and I – I never once thought about him. I threw away fourteen years of friendship like it was nothing."
Silence cuts between us. Tension hovers in the air, thick as a storm threatening to break at any moment, to unleash the torrential flood of everything I've tried so hard to bury.
"So, yes," James says softly. "Yes, I told him, and it was the hardest fucking thing I've ever done. But I had to, I had to get something off my chest, and –" He pauses again, one hand lost in that endless mess of hair, tugging at it as his voice rises. "It's fucked up. It is so fucked up, and you have no idea how awful that feels, to realize that my best friend never crossed my mind, to be so fucking in love that I can't thi–"
Everything around us stops. The shadows stop dancing, the moonlight stops flickering, and even my heart stops dead, frozen beneath the pounding ache that's never really gone away. His face pales the moment my breath hitches in my throat, the realization hitting us both at the same time.
"I didn't mean to say that."
"James –"
"Don't."
"I didn't kn–"
"It doesn't matter."
"James –"
I didn't even realize I'd stepped towards him until I blink beneath the moonlight from the window, my shadow shattering across the ground. His eyes are closed, hidden in the darkness just beyond me, and I watch as each breath rises and falls in his chest.
"Just leave me alone, Aria. Please." I take another small step forward at the quiet desperation in his voice, at the way his please rings out like mine did on the path. "If you care about me at all, then leave. I cannot be around you anymore. I can barely stand to be around my best friend."
I should do as he asks. I should respect his boundaries, step away, and never look back. But I – I don't want to, because –
Why? Why can't I just do it? He's begging – I can hear it in every word, every exhale – and here I am, twining our fingers together as if I have any right to it, gently pulling him closer as if he said stay, not leave.
The moonlight's barely a sliver of silver between us. Swirls of green and gold dance in his eyes, a sunburst of cascading colors I've been longing to see again since we stood beneath the tree. Every damn night, lying in bed, at war with myself for hours and always losing.
"Don't look at me like that," he breathes. "Please don't."
"Like what?" I whisper back.
"Like you want me." It's barely more than a vibration of sound between us, like it jumps the gap between our skin, magnetic and mesmerizing.
I'm not sure how it starts. I can't be sure of anything above the burning ache that never gets better, only worse. Maybe it's him, maybe it's me, maybe it's neither of us or both of us. But a heartbeat later, his lips are on mine and it doesn't really matter how it started because I never want it to end.
My fingers grab his shirt desperately, tearing at it, pulling him as close as I can, clinging to whatever I can touch – his chest, his face, his hair – I need more, I need him – and his hands skim the small of my back, my waist, digging into skin.
My head's so fuzzy, so blurry, that I can't think, can't do anything other than kiss him, a hot rush of need and ragged breathing, desperate for as much as I can get, so desperate that I have no idea what time it is, no idea when my back hit the wall or when he'd picked me up, when my legs wrapped around his waist –
"Fuck!"
My feet hit the ground, the world swirling, but the pressure's gone from my hips, there's no more hand ripping through my hair, no more lips on mine. I blink and the rampart shifts into focus, the long, empty stone corridor sliding back into place.
"I don't know what game you're playing," James says, chest heaving as he backs away, "but leave me the hell out of it."
Ice coats every word, as cold as the winter air hanging over the grounds. I pull in a shuddering breath and lean my head against the stone wall, my eyes locked on that bright patch of silver light that's now between us. I don't want to look at him. I don't want to see whatever's written on his face, whether it's anger or pain or guilt or – anything. I don't want to see anything. I don't think I'll be able to bear it.
Liar.
Traitor.
Cheater.
"Why don't you just go ahead and say it," I whisper. "Just say it."
"Say what?"
I dare to glance up at him, frozen just far enough away to be out of reach, jaw clenched and arms crossed over his chest. "Tell me the truth. Say I'm a lying traitor."
"You know damn well I'm not going to say that," he spits out, and my heart aches at the raw hurt in his voice. "And you also know damn well that I want you a hell of a lot more than you want me. It has always been that way. So just leave me alone, Aria. Leave me alone."
Liar.
Traitor.
Cheater.
"Alone?" I repeat, and his gaze snaps to mine. I can't see the colors in his eyes now, though, just that swirling mix of emotion that's flickered on and off all night. "Do you want to be alone, or do you just want to run to Lila?"
I don't know what makes me say it. Maybe – maybe because I knew it would hurt. Maybe because I'm hurt. But it's the wrong thing to say, and I know it the second the words leave my mouth, when his face twists with a cold sort of humor.
"Oh, fuck off," James says simply, and then he's striding towards the rampart's archway, aiming towards the gravel path. "Or better yet, go fuck your boyfriend," he calls back over his shoulder. "Go fuck Alex Harrison or Lucas fucking DuPont for all I care. Just leave me out of it."
"James," I hiss, but he's already on his way up towards the castle. I step out from the archway after him and gasp as the air hits my skin, so much more frigid in the open air than the partial shelter of the rampart. "James!"
I finally catch him just before the steps that lead up the entrance hall, my hand grabbing his elbow before he can climb the first step. I don't know why but I just – I can't leave things like this. It's not right.
"I have nothing more to say to you, Fields," he mutters, shaking his arm from my grasp. "And not that I owe you any explanations at all – because I don't, I really fucking don't – but nothing happened with Lila. I'm the only person who knows her parents are getting divorced, so forgive me for taking her phone call when she needed to talk to someone. I'll try to be more considerate of your non-existent feelings next time."
I blink at the biting sting in his voice, taking a step back as it slaps me. And when I blink again, he's already gone, shoving into the castle without a second glance. "James!" I yell, darting up the stairs, but it's half-hearted. He's not going to stop this time. Not again.
The world explodes back into warmth and light and sound the second my foot crosses the threshold of the castle. Conversations and mouth-watering aromas leak out of the Great Hall and drape over the marbled entryway like a blanket, cozy and inviting, but it's the last place I want to be right now. I don't know where I want to be. Anywhere but here, I guess. Anywhere but fucking here.
A lone silhouette leans against the handrail of the staircase before me, arms crossed casually, and it takes a few seconds to realize it's Jett. He's waiting for me, for us, and I – we –
Fuck.
Again.
But this time I don't even feel guilty. I don't feel anything, really, other than the anger propelling me forward, the need to get away that drips through all the scraps of me that are left.
"Mate –" Jett says suddenly as James approaches, fury evident in every harsh stride across the stone floor.
"I'm not hungry," James mutters, brushing past Jett.
"Aria –"
"Me either," I hiss as I shove past him.
"What the hell?" Jett says, bewildered, but I'm already pounding up the stairs, taking out every ounce of frustration and that damn roaring ache on each step.