KEANE

          "I still can't believe what you've done," Jeff tells me, carefully balancing our food and drinks before setting them on the table. My stomach growls loudly at the sight of the bowl of pesto pasta in front of me, but, before I can dig in, I know I have to indulge Jeff and let him vent.

          The laws of friendship say I should, at least, take his frustration and disbelief into consideration. 

          However, the laws of friendship apply to him as well, so it's not fair for me to be the only one to compromise and let him get away with every mean comment he makes. He's blowing it all out of proportion, acting as though teaming up with Paige for my senior project is the worst crime someone could commit.

          I know part of his indignation is somewhat justified, but not all of it. He's biased, wanting to protect his own feelings and mine, so he's amping it up because he thinks that's what I want. I appreciate the consideration, but I also know he's projecting his complicated thoughts and feelings about Paige onto me.

          Can I blame him? Not completely.

          After all this time I've known him for—three years, to be precise—I find it's easy to interpret his actions and the reasoning behind them. Once you identify the pattern, you manage to understand how his brain works; the more time you spend with him, the more you get used to it. It's not rocket science, and I assume he feels the same about me, even though that's not something we usually talk about.

          He's not that complex of a guy. Underneath the bravado, I know he's still hurt about the way things turned out with Paige, and he's not at fault for that. I'm hurt, too, but we've found different ways of coping with it.

          "I get it," I say, sipping my lemonade. It's fresh, not too sweet—exactly how I like it. "You don't have to keep saying the same thing over and over, I promise. Focus on your project. I can handle mine."

          He scoffs, slicing his chicken breast, and shakes his head. "You're braver than me. You know she would've left you hanging if the roles were reversed." The lettuce on his plate is crunchy when he stabs it with a fork. "You have the opportunity to do the funniest thing of all time by dropping her the same way she dropped you."

          "Dude, you're seriously overreacting." I finally swallow a forkful of pasta, so warm and gooey it instantly raises my spirits. The difference between our meals is abysmal; while he's already in the full protein overload, bulking up diet, I get to enjoy carbs. Perhaps not everything about giving up ice hockey this year has been terrible. "You're being petty. There are futures involved."

          Jeff throws me a deadpan look. "Don't tell me you're doing this simply out of the goodness of your heart. Not even you are that good of a person." He munches on his chicken, then swallows it with a big gulp of water.

          Being a good person involves not tooting your own horn for doing the bare minimum. It also includes knowing when to keep your mouth shut to prevent an unwinnable argument from escalating and that is something I know how to do.

          During the first stages of my parents' divorce, before any paperwork was signed and they argued about the smallest things, I was often put in the tough situation of having to choose a side. As a child, I didn't know any better, so I just went with the person I feared the least, even though I was unknowingly being used as a weapon by the both of them against the other. Once I was old enough to understand what had happened, I vowed I wouldn't ever be placed in such an unfair situation ever again.

          I promised myself I wouldn't force other people to be in that situation, either. Jeff involved himself because he wanted to; even though Paige also stopped talking to him, leading to a massive fallout during the summer, he's been taking it harder and more personally than I expected. Be it for his own sake or mine as well, he has made it his personal mission to shit talk her whenever he finds the slightest reason to do so, having turned her into public enemy number one.

          I've told him he didn't make things any easier for himself by calling her a frigid bitch immediately after her brother died, but he didn't listen. To this day, he still thinks he's in the right by being offended over the end of a friendship and that she shouldn't have pushed us away.

          I, more than anyone on this planet, am also inclined to believe there were alternate ways she could have navigated her grief, but it wouldn't be fair to her. It's her life, it's her brother, and, no matter how badly my heart aches to reach out and force her to hear me out, I can't make her change her mind. Jeff can be offended all he wants, but he's not the only person to have lost a friend. Two friends if we count Andy.

          He didn't lose his best friend, though. I did.

          Jeff resumes his complaints, but it just turns into white noise. I nod and hum whenever he pauses, using his facial expression for context even though I'm not listening. Jeff is the type of person that loves the sound of their own voice and I'm happy to provide my yes-man services as long as it keeps him off my back when I don't want to engage.

          Then, the pit in my stomach grows larger and it has nothing to do with hunger.

          Jeff could very well be transparent by the way I now almost see right through him, like he's no longer in the cafeteria, sitting in front of me. 

          My eyes are trained to find her in every crowd, drawn to her like a moth to a flame, and, a few months ago, I'd feel thankful for that. Now, the realization that this means nothing, that she doesn't want to talk to me or even be in the same room as me, is enough for a hand to squeeze my heart so hard it threatens to explode.

          I don't know how we'll make this project work. If we're working together, we'll inevitably have to talk. Even if it's just the bare minimum of small talk, even if we don't see each other outside of it, words will have to be exchanged. I'm fine with that, but I know she's not; I know how stubborn she is and how far she'll go to prove a point.

          I'm no stranger to the complicated person that is Paige de Haan, which is both beneficial and detrimental to our current predicament.

          She's joined by Ripley, to no one's surprise. Ripley is someone I can't blame for anything that happened between Paige and me, but there's a side of me that bitterly wishes she was feeling as left out and powerless as I am. That way, there would be someone able to relate to me, able to explain my inner conflict in a way someone as biased as Jeff can't.

          Ripley has no friendship obligations towards me. I never asked her to choose between me and Paige, as our falling out wasn't that simple and it's never been a matter of picking a side, and she has been great at remaining neutral. She'll always be biased, much like Jeff, but at least she hasn't declared me the villain like Jeff has done to Paige. She's still cordial and polite towards me, as we've been friends since freshman year, but there's still some tension we can't quite shake off—to no fault of our own.

          It's not Paige's fault, either. Not purposefully. It's just . . . complicated. Everything about us is.

          Ripley nudges her, nearly making her drop her tray. There's only a large bowl on it—soup, I'm guessing; today's soup of the day is broccoli and leek, one of her favorites—and a can of Diet Coke. My first instinct is to check up on her, make sure she's eating properly, but then I remember she made it perfectly clear she couldn't care less about my concern. She has Ripley to do it in my place, but it doesn't make me worry any less.

          I promised her I'd give her space. I promised her I'd give her time. She didn't care about any of that, either, but I just needed her to know I'd wait. Jeff, as usual, thinks I'm being a smitten fool, too down bad for her to accept I deserve better than the silent treatment, but he doesn't get it. He doesn't get her like I do.

          Do I deserve better? Yes, probably. Do I also know she's going through hell right now and is protecting herself the best way she knows? Also yes. Do I wish our friendship hadn't imploded in the process, especially when I was in the middle of figuring out exactly how I feel about her?

          Well, yes.

          Paige's eyes lock in on mine and she stops walking. She looks so out of place, all prim and proper with her designer clothes and shoes and perfectly styled hair, standing in the middle of a crowded cafeteria with a comically bright plastic tray. From where I'm sitting, I don't miss the way she pales, looking at Ripley for support.

          "What are you looking at?" Jeff questions, brows furrowed. I mentally curse myself for not hiding it better, as I know what's going to happen: he'll immediately launch into a rant about how Paige de Haan is the worst person on the face of the planet and how big of an idiot I am for not giving up on her. "Do I have something on my face?"

          "Yeah, dude. It's your face." He flips me off, then turns around on his seat to follow my stare. As expected, he lets out a dramatically loud huff, which Paige hears. Her face hardens, shoulders stiff, and she's locked in place, unable to decide which of us she hates the most. She throws her hair over her shoulder, then struts away, Ripley following her close behind. "Scott, don't."

          He groans, drawing enough attention to us to make several people turn to look our way. This isn't the attention I enjoy, especially when it's at my and Paige's expense. "Be fucking for real, Keane. You need to get over her."

          "Says the guy who was so whipped last year."

          "Did it ever stop you from breaking guy code?"

          "I didn't break guy code. I didn't do shit."

          I didn't, and he knows it's true. I don't think he has ever had real, honest feelings for her besides thinking she's hot (which she is) and wanting to know what happens when you lock two hot people in a room together, but, to my knowledge, she's never reciprocated that curiosity. She once told me she was tired of him following him around like a panting dog, begging for a scrap of her attention or a belly rub.

          We thought it was cute. We thought it was funny. He eventually backed off, but it left me and Paige in the awkward position of realizing there were some strange feelings altering our friendship, but we never got an opportunity to fully understand what they are.

          Or were.

          I don't know anymore.

          So, yeah, maybe I broke the guy code for being a dick to Jeff and for laughing at him behind his back, but he can admit how ridiculous he was. He and I can share a laugh about it now, too, but she should be sitting with us and joining in on the joke. If things were different, she would be, but they're the way that they are, and I don't even get to hear her laugh anymore.

          I'm terrified I'll forget the sound of her laugh. It's been so long since the last time I've heard it or even seen her smile.

          Every day I wake up fearing I'll forget about Andy, too; he was my captain for three whole years, and he mentored me since my first day on the team. He was kind and patient, teaching me to learn from my mistakes and to be proud of my victories, no matter how small. I wanted to follow his footsteps, carry on his legacy, but I couldn't find it in me to keep playing without him—something I'm certain Paige doesn't know. Why would she, when she made it clear she wanted nothing to do with me or ice hockey? She even stopped talking to Rhett Price, Andy's best friend.

          I've already lost one de Haan. I can't completely lose two.

          "Just leave her alone," I ask Jeff. He opens his mouth to say something mildly offensive (that's just the way he is), as reading the room has never been his strong suit, but I look him deep in the eye. "I'm serious. I don't care if you're mad at her. That's your problem and your choice. You don't have to be a dick to her whenever she walks into the room."

          "But she gets to be a dick to me?"

          "Do I have to remind you that her brother died?"

          "No, but—"

          "She hasn't said a word to you in months."

          He throws his hands in the air. "Exactly."

          "You also called her a bitch and throw temper tantrums the second you see her. Don't call women bitches. That's uncalled for."

          "Yeah, whatever. For the record, I don't think she's a bitch. I was just pissed at her, drunk off my ass, and it just . . . slipped. I tried apologizing dozens of times." I know he did. It's the thought that counts, but drunken words always have some inkling of truth behind them, and she has every right to feel hurt. "I just hope you're not biting off more than you can chew. She'll bite your head off if you get too close." I hum, not wanting to entertain this any further. "I know you care about her, but she made her choice."

          "I know. I've also made mine."

૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა

          Later, I get a text.

          PAIGE
          Can we meet up somewhere quiet to talk?

          About the project, I mean.

          No Jeff.

KEANE
Want to meet up at the café? My treat.

No Jeff.

          PAIGE
          I guess.

          I rush out of my dorm room, hair still wet from my shower, and tuck my precious laptop under my arm. It's not the safest of practices, especially when all my plans for the senior project are in there and I have yet to properly back them up, but I don't want to keep her waiting. I also know how crowded the campus café can get around this time of day, so I cross the quad as fast as possible to ensure I'll find a vacant booth for us.

          My heart is hammering against my chest by the time I get there. Paige hasn't arrived yet, so I have time to order two drinks—a vanilla cappuccino for me, a black americano for her—and settle into a booth by the window. I don't want to look like a stalking weirdo, but it gives me a good view of the gravel paths, which, in turn, gives me time to mentally prepare myself for one of the first proper conversations we'll have.

          The campus isn't a quiet place. As expected, most of the booths are occupied and the air is filled with chatter, but it's cozy. It's like a hug with four walls, complete with the sweet, rich scent of baked goods and freshly brewed coffee. Paige used to like this place back in the day, but I come here every morning before my 8:30 lecture to get my coffee and I never see her anymore. I see Ripley, though, picking up a double order.

          When she arrives, people stare. She pays no attention to any of it, having always been fantastic at commanding a crowd, but she pays attention to me as she marches my way, heels clicking across the wooden floors.

          She's blonde now, a stark change from the dark hair she has always sported, and wears it down, framing her face. It's the first time in months we've been this close under decent lighting and I can see the discreet freckles speckled on her nose like constellations. Her lips, plump and coated in a layer of maroon lipstick, are tense, and her dark eyes wander around the café. They're red and puffy, even though she tried to conceal it with makeup, but I know better than to stare for too long.

          "Sorry I'm late," she says, still refusing to make eye contact with me. "I got caught up with . . . something."

          "It's okay. I just got here, too." I push the americano towards her. "Got you some coffee."

          She clears her throat. "Can you tell me about the project?"

          "You're not going to like it," I warn her, opening my laptop. With a double click on the trackpad, I open a folder saved to my desktop, then turn the device around so she can see. "Meet Spirit Files."

✦⋆𓆩✧𓆪⋆✦

keane ilu <3 they (paige) could never make me hate you

as you can see, he's very different from rhett. the introspection is still here, but he's not threatening to explode with anxiety every 0.1 seconds