PAIGE

          Keane stares at me like I've just threatened his firstborn.

          Part of me suspects why he's not playing anymore, but not even he would be stupid enough to drop something he has loved for so long just because of my brother. He doesn't owe anything to Andy, regardless of whether he was mentored by him or not, and I just know Andy would be dragging him back to the team kicking and screaming if he knew about this.

          If that's the reason behind this idiotic, sudden decision, he and I will need to have a serious conversation about which of us knew Andy the best and why he's clearly in the wrong.

          The boys have always had this strange relationship thanks to playing together for so long and spending copious amounts of time together. I know some of those guys absolutely hate each other, not speaking to one another outside of the rink, including when they're at the frat house or at a party, but they'd walk through fire for each other and defend their teammates whenever someone attacks them. It makes no sense to me, no matter how hard I try to wrap my head around it.

          I tried to understand. Spent years of my life doing it, in fact, and Andy would simply remark I wasn't supposed to understand. I'm not a team player in any shape of form and the only athletic things I enjoy are those I can do by myself—jogging, cardio, and the occasional horse riding. I tried comparing it to my friendship with Ripley, someone who has proven time and time again we're each other's ride or die, but he'd always say it wasn't the same.

          I don't think he could have found the words to explain it in a way I'd comprehend it if he tried, but it's yet another item in a long list of things I wish I could ask him or talk to him about. All those lessons I dismissed and thought were boring are ones I could really use right now with how lost I've been feeling. If regret could kill, he wouldn't be the dead one.

          Keane shrugs, fixing his messenger bag's strap over his shoulder. "Why does it matter to you? I thought you didn't care about what I do or don't do."

          I exhale through my mouth, glad it still isn't cold enough for me to blow out smoke. It's probably a good thing for Keane as well; if I were a dragon, I would have left him charred in the spot by now with how annoying and uncooperative he's being. God forbid a girl tries to be civil with her former best friend, right?

          "It doesn't matter," I retort, "but you have this pained look on your face—"

          "It's just my face, Paige. This is how I always look."

          "—and I know you used to love playing hockey. If you're not playing anymore, then it means something serious happened, and"—a smart idea crosses my mind, an argument I can use—"if it's serious enough to get you to quit, then I want to make sure you're in the right state of mind to keep this senior project going. I'd hate to know you don't feel up to it."

          There. It's very much in character for the current state of affairs of our relationship—or lack thereof—and I know it gets under his skin. Two of us can play this game, trying to see which of us can get away with saying the most vile things in a saccharine tone without being openly mean. Right now, I'd say we're tied, and I know he's shaking in his little Converse sneakers, the little guy.

          It was banter he wanted, right? Like Mulder and Scully? I'm giving him banter. I'm giving him quips to shoot him down whenever he raises a point. I'm giving him everything he has ever wanted from me, and that has to be enough for now.

          I know him well enough to know he'll fall for the bait and give me an answer, but I'm unsure whether it will be the one I want to hear or not. He doesn't owe me an explanation, not to mention he knows me. He'll know what I'm trying to get out of him.

          Could I just ask him nicely instead of risking offending him? Yes. It wouldn't be nearly as fun and, since I'm being forced to interact with Keane Mahoney, I might as well make it the least painful as it can be. He doesn't have to return the favor and fight fire with fire; he can very well be the bigger person. He always has been the bigger person, to his own detriment at times.

          He shoots me an impressive glare, one he usually reserves for the fresh meat he used to terrorize during tryouts. "I'm doing great. In fact, I've spent the past two and a half hours working on revamping the scripts. My quitting the team has nothing to do with Spirit Files, which you'd know if you bothered to help me out."

          I tilt my head to the side, pouting my bottom lip. For a second, I always feel like myself again, adopting the posture I always did when talking to a male specimen; I'd dumb myself down enough to get their short-term interest, then play hard to get, dumbing them down to make them want me. Men always want what they can't have and, back in the day, I enjoyed the thrill of the chase.

          It's why I don't do romantic long-term relationships. It's why it took me so long to properly shoot Jeff down, which, in retrospect, might have been unnecessarily cruel, but I don't think he ever wanted more from me than the cat and mouse dance, the constant back and forth just to satiate a momentary hunger.

          Nevertheless, I don't take lightly to him indirectly accusing me of not helping out. I always pull my weight in group projects, but I also know this is his baby and, no matter how pissed I am, I don't want to risk doing something to screw up all his hard work. Although I work well under pressure, I need some guidance.

          "I figured it would be more interesting for me to go in blind," I say. It's true this time. "It would allow for more genuine reactions once you start explaining the lore. If I already have a preformed opinion, it would just cloud my judgment. Even if I go in thinking ghosts and the paranormal are just a bunch of bullshit, these are places and stories I know nothing about, and any audience will surely appreciate getting honesty out of us. They'll be able to tell if it's scripted."

          Keane blinks, astounded, and there's something about his genuine surprise that both warms my heart and stabs me right through the chest—that he's proud of something I've said and that he's shocked by it. "That's . . . you know, that actually makes some sense."

          I dip into an ironic curtsy. It helps me ignore the ache left behind by my assumptions. "Thank you. I do have my moments of brilliance. It would do you some good to believe in my potential every once in a while. I'm gorgeous, I'm smart, and I have great ideas."

          "I've always believed in you. You should believe in yourself some more."

          I didn't think it was possible and it's certainly not the way I wanted this conversation to turn out, as nothing about it was meant to be about me, a clear change from the self-centered accusations that have plagued me my whole life. Keane is oddly talented at twisting the subject of any conversation, diverting the attention away from him whenever he doesn't want to be in the spotlight. He's great at parties, great with teams, and knows how to part crowds like the red sea.

          He also knows me. That's the worst part of it all.

          It's what I used to love the most about him, and it's now at the top of the things I hate.

          When Keane really knows someone, when he cares about them, he keeps those details close to his heart. Doesn't forget a thing—birthdays, anniversaries, favorite things, nervous habits—and, in turn, it turns him into an objectively likable person. 

          That's partially why it was so hard to let him go; I wouldn't just be saying goodbye to my best friend, I'd be bidding farewell to someone who knows me at such a deep level, sometimes better than I know myself. I couldn't find a way of turning him into a villain, which is usually my M.O. to cut people out of my life. He's a good guy, and he's an even better friend.

          Was. Was a better friend.

          I clear my throat before I can do or say something stupid. "Like I was saying, why did you quit the team? Performance issues?"

          He scoffs. "My performance is perfect."

          "I'm sure."

          "Why did you come all the way here? I'm sure you have better things to do with your time than cross the quad just to ask me why I quit the team. You could have waited, could have asked me anywhere else . . . hell, you could have texted me. I know you haven't blocked my number or my social media accounts, so you had options, yet you made sure to come meet me here. You knew I'd be here." His blue eyes narrow. It's almost the same way Izzy does it, except he can't quite convey as much hatred as my baby sister does. "If you're not careful, people might get the wrong idea."

          I quirk an eyebrow. He's baiting me now and I'm falling right into his trap. "The wrong idea about what?"

          "That, God forbid, you care about me."

          We stare at each other in stunned silence, both of us too stubborn to be the first to break eye contact, and it's one of those things I don't know which of us picked it up from the other. Losing isn't something I do, especially not to him, but I've had a pretty shitty day so far, shed a tear or two (or a billion) during therapy, and I'm not at my strongest.

          His mere presence is dizzying, so much so that I have to sit on a nearby bench to regain my balance. He remains upright on his feet, fully aware this is all because of him and the effect he has on me, and he knows he has no right to say those things to me. Whether this is another step in our dance or a throwaway comment he makes just to keep me off his back doesn't matter.

          He's still trying to hurt me. It comes with being someone's best friend—you know exactly what to say to tug at their heartstrings, to shoot them right through the heart. It took me an entire summer to convince myself I'm better off without him and all the emotional baggage attached to our relationship; he doesn't get to do this to me.

          He doesn't get to give me the space I wanted, then throw a séance after my brother died. He doesn't get to fool me into thinking he has my best interests at heart by taking me as a partner for the senior project and then refuse to be honest with me when I share some concern about his best interests. He doesn't get to make me love him and hate him at the same time.

          It's not fair.

          I don't know why I'm here. In theory, I'm here because Ripley felt the need to tell me about it, an off-hand 'hey, did you hear about it' comment, and no one forced me to run after him the minute I found out. I came here trying to convince myself it was out of concern for his ability to pull his weight with Spirit Files, as someone in their right mind wouldn't randomly stop playing their favorite sport out of the blue, but I'm an open book around him.

          "If this is about Andy, you're going about it the completely wrong way," I tell him. My voice comes out so croaky and weak, the way it does when I'm about to cry, and it makes me feel pathetically defeated. This isn't who I am. Not who I want to be, anyway. "He would have wanted you to stay on the team and you know it. You were going to be the captain this year, and you threw it all away for nothing."

          "You'd know a thing or two about throwing it all away for nothing, wouldn't you?"

          I scowl. "This isn't about me being a hypocrite; it's about you using my brother as an excuse to avoid doing something that makes you happy, that you love. It's about you realizing you're miserable and refusing to do anything about it."

          Keane lets out a humorless laugh. It cuts deep in my bones, the way I know we're both acting out not out of rage, but out of hurt. I've always been great at hurting people, including myself. Did I or did I not break my own heart by breaking his before he could do the same to me?

          "Are you sure we're still talking about me here?" he asks. I rise to my feet so we're standing face to face again. "I don't want to talk about ice hockey. I don't want to talk about any of this shit." For someone usually so well articulated and well-read, he sure has the mouth of a sailor. I do, too, sometimes. "Yes, it's because of Andy. Yes, I miss him. Yes, being there reminds me that he's gone and that I'll never measure up to the player he used to be, let alone the captain. Being there reminds me I'll never amount to anything. So, no, I'm not refusing to do anything about my misery. I'm walking away from something that would make me feel even worse."

          "Keane—"

          "You know what also makes me feel miserable? You."

          I clench my jaw, suddenly aware of how close to each other we're standing, and the furious beating of my heart nearly makes my chest explode. I'm scared to breathe and brush against him. "If you're so miserable around me, then why are you still here? Why did you agree to let me work on Spirit Files with you? Why don't you leave me alone?"

          I should ask him about the séance. I really, really should.

          Part of me doesn't want to believe he'd stoop so low, but I don't know what to think about people anymore. They can always surprise you, be it for the best or for the worse, and betrayal never comes from strangers or from someone you hate. It's always those closest to you who stick the knife into you, twisting the handle to draw as much blood as they can.

          Maybe he'd hurt me, but he wouldn't hurt Andy. Maybe he wouldn't hurt either of us and I've been blowing things out of proportion for days for nothing.

          He briefly closes his eyes, his beautiful face twisted into a pained expression. "Because seeing you so sad makes me miserable. Because knowing there's nothing I can do to help you makes it even worse. I can't just . . . forget about you. You know you're unforgettable. You're Paige fucking de Haan." I crack the smallest of smiles, probably the first one in months. The fact that he triggered it doesn't bode well for me and my whole 'Keane Mahoney is my enemy' shtick. "No matter what, I'll be unable to let you go. I gave you the space you wanted, but you can't make me stop caring."

          "I did. I stopped caring about you."

          "No, you didn't." His voice is soft now. Melancholic. "It's just easier this way. Pushing people away."

          Gulping, with a wave of nausea rolling around in my stomach, I step back and let him take the victory just this once. "You don't get to tell me about being sad. You don't." He shakes his head, a dark curl springing down in front of his eyes, and it takes every fiber of self-control in my body to not brush it away myself. "We'll do Spirit Files, and that's it. We can both be miserable by ourselves once we're done."

          "If that's what you want."

          "It is."

          It's not.

          Keane nods. "Fine."

          "And you're invited to my birthday party. Just so you can see what real misery is." I plant an accusatory finger on his chest. "I'm going to leave you in the dust."

          An amused smirk dances on his lips. My idiotic little heart skips a beat. "You can try. See you in two weeks, Paige."

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          "Someone's in a bad mood," Ripley comments, sprawled out on my bed, after I slam the door closed. Her blonde hair fans around her head like a halo.

          I had to call an emergency best friend meeting at the last second, dragging her out of her own room, but I need her to understand that I've made one of the biggest mistakes in my life and I need her to help me make it right. I can't take it back, as I've never gone back on my word because that's something only a quitter does, but the pressure is on.

          Deadlines stress me out. Deadlines stress everyone out, but it's different for me. It's different when you don't feel capable of doing anything while time passes you by and you just sit there and waste away.

          "I need you to help me," I blurt out, pacing around my room. I haven't unpacked yet, so there are suitcases and boxes scattered all around, collecting dust. Why should I bother?

          "I figured as much."

          "No, I'm serious. I need you to help me plan a birthday party."

          Alarmed, she sits up so quickly I'm amazed as to how she doesn't get whiplash. Her hair, lighter than mine, and her baby-blue dress stand out against the burgundy walls of my bedroom, but she's sporting an enviable tan. My skin is so pale it feels like I haven't been in the sun in years, a clear consequence of the sulking in my bedroom I took part in during the summer, but the crumbs of vitamin D I got from being outside today lifted my spirits a bit.

          An unfortunate, uncomfortable truth about life is that you will feel better if you get some fresh air, feel the sun on your skin, and get things done. I worked out today, went to therapy, cried it out, and warmed up outside . . . but Keane Mahoney also happened and the universe just had to try and find some balance. I can't ever have a small victory, no.

          "I thought you didn't want a birthday party," Ripley states, brows furrowed in confusion. "It's not that I'm against it—you know I'm an advocate for doing things that make you happy and make you feel better—but this feels sudden. What changed?"

          I rub a hand on the side of my face. "I think I care about Keane."

          She dramatically rolls her eyes. "Breaking news: water is wet." I throw a small pillow at her, which she dodges. "Sit down. Tell me what happened."

          And I do.

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i'm once again apologizing to everyone who thought this would be a cute, fluffy love story like brie and rhett's. at least those two TALKED to each other lmao