PAIGE

          I never thought I'd say this—and I'll die before admitting it to anyone—but part of me misses Spirit Files.

          Shocking, I know.

          According to Keane's meticulously elaborated schedule, we won't be filming any more episodes until after New Year's, so I'm left to my own devices during winter break—more relaxed, but unbelievably bored. It's the kind of boredom that makes my bones ache; even though I don't have any plans—or friends besides Ripley to make those plans with—it's still in my best interest to keep myself as busy as possible before I start spiraling.

          I've always been good at staying busy. The issue is that I used to have a lot more stuff to do even just a few months ago, right before my entire life fell apart; that, alongside my lack of social life and the harsh winter that has befallen Bennington, has doomed me into staying locked in my parents' house during the break.

          I'm so bored I almost feel enthralled by watching snow fall outside. The weather isn't bad enough for a snowstorm, but I can't take a step out of the house without my entire body locking into place. It's ironic, I think, how restless and desperate to get out of the house I am now after spending my entire summer locked in my bedroom. No, I'll never be satisfied with what I have.

          I help my mom decorate the house, as Izzy has other responsibilities to attend to, but part of me fears she just wants me out of the way so she can do as she pleases.

          I've never been particularly festive and, this year, it's clear the atmosphere is heavier than it has ever been. I don't think a single person in this family is in the mood to celebrate, but ignoring the holidays defeats the point of trying to feign some normalcy, so everyone is making an effort. With that in mind, I decide to work extra hard at not bringing down the mood.

          Even in a house this big, decorating doesn't take nearly as long as I hoped it would, so we're done in a little under an hour. My feet tap tap softly across the wooden floors, protected by a pair of fluffy socks Ripley got me last year, and I settle in by one of the large windows in the living room. In a completely atypical manner, I cozy up with a blanket, a book, and a large mug of coffee. Black.

          I'm not expecting this to be a successful distraction. When my mind is going awry and I feel myself spiraling, I find it hard to cool off and ground myself in reality; it usually takes far more than a warm beverage and a silly romance novel I borrowed from Brie on Thanksgiving.

          It beats not letting my mind wander towards memories of Christmas with my brother. Even when I'm not sitting anywhere near the framed photos and can't physically see his face, his memory is scattered all around this house.

          I make a mental note to ask Keane to investigate this stupid house as a bonus episode. God knows how haunted these walls are. Despite knowing he would never do that, there's an evil voice at the back of my head insisting on reminding me about the séance he wanted to hold, so it wouldn't be too out of character to do this.

          To make it worse, this time apart actually makes me realize I miss Keane.

          This isn't something I'm acquainted with, not to this extent. Ever since we first met, he has always been a constant in my life, so I never had to worry about missing him. When I chose to walk away from all my friends—minus Ripley—and convinced myself I was better off that way, I truly believed it. It made it easier to not be around him, to not think about him too much.

          It's like trying not to think about elephants—impossible and useless.

          Reading this stupid romance book isn't doing me any good. It's so cliché even Brie would roll her eyes at it and the overuse of all the tropes, but I genuinely thought it would keep me entertained—even if it was just momentarily. I thought that perhaps reading about someone else's romantic entanglements would distract me from mine.

          To her credit, Ripley tries to help, but she has never been good at giving out romantic advice. This time last year, she was so hesitant to make a move on Nancy, waiting for her to do something because she feared she was misreading the signs; had Brie not pushed Nancy to take the first step, there probably wouldn't be a relationship at all. So, when she told me I had to deal with my feelings for Keane and how they make me feel, I brushed it off.

          I am dealing with them. Badly, yes, but it's something. I can't ignore them any longer and I can't deny their nagging presence, either, so I'm mostly annoyed about it.

          Thinking about Keane is marginally better than thinking about anything else in my life. Everything has gone to shit and I'm not masochistic enough to dwell on that—Andy, Izzy's distance, my lack of motivation, my dim future—which means he's the least painful thought subject.

          It doesn't mean I want to think about him.

          Thinking about him implies having to dig back up stuff I wanted to keep buried. It forces me to confront all the stuff we've been doing to each other instead of being honest and having a proper conversation about it; it seems weird to even think about it now, but we used to be able to talk. We were best friends for years, and it's not the kind of connection that my temper tantrum can erase.

          There's no doubt Spirit Files is to blame for us finding our way back to each other, but part of me feels like it was inevitable. I'm good at many things, but staying away from Keane Mahoney isn't one of them; if anything, I'm great at sabotaging my happiness.

          Even if it weren't simply thanks to the forced proximity the project requires, the very nature of it requires us to talk to each other and notice things about one another. This is what Keane does—he knows people, he pays attention. He knew the project would upset me, even though I don't believe in the supernatural, and I am too distraught over my brother's recent death to visit supposedly haunted places.

          He knows that. He understands.

          He also knows I don't have a choice; even if I didn't care about having to delay my graduation for an entire year, I would never leave him hanging. Despite not liking Spirit Files one bit, I like him more than I dislike his opinion on the supernatural.

          I'm not sure where that leaves me—leaves us.

          "Paige?" Izzy calls, standing by the entrance to the living room. I set down my book, which prompts her to approach me, like she has been standing there for a while and waiting for an opening.

          She's been sitting at her laptop all day, furiously typing away and incessantly clicking the buttons of her wireless mouse, so she hasn't felt the need to get dolled up. With her hair down, unstyled, face bare of any makeup, and loungewear, she looks her age. She looks like the kid she's supposed to be.

          "Yeah?"

          She reaches out her phone towards me. "Can you take a photo of me, please?"

          Izzy could do it herself; she has a tripod, and everything. She just has to set the timer, pretend to not have set it all up herself, and go on her merry way. I'm sure she knows I know this, but I suspect she's trying to reach out to me.

          When it comes to Izzy, I often fall for the bait. She usually tricks me into embarrassing myself by falling prey to a biting remark from her, but this is different. It's her poorly conceded attempt at extending an olive branch; even if it's just temporary, a truce for the holidays, I'm willing to take everything I can get.

          "Of course," I reply, swinging my legs around and springing back up to my feet. "Let's go."

          She beams at me. "Brilliant."

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          I take her photo. The world doesn't end.

          She hugs me.

          It's a proper hug—tight, meaningful, not the type of hug where you both awkwardly pat each other on the back or only use one arm. She snuggles close to me, arms tightly wrapped around my waist, and even sighs against my chest—like she's comfortable, like she's home.

          (Tears sting the corners of my eyes when she does it, but I don't tell her about it. I rush to wipe them away when she steps back; I'm not sure whether she saw anything, but she doesn't mention it, either.)

          She even gets me a special Christmas present—a pair of pearl earrings from Tiffany & Co. I had my eye on for the longest time. She hands me the box exactly at the right time, when I'm absentmindedly staring at the flames blazing in the fireplace and reminiscing about how different last Christmas was.

          Although there was some tension between my parents following the divorce, I much preferred having my brother alive and well. I can deal with awkward; I'm the queen of dealing with awkward relationships when they're not mine. At least everyone was alive and well, and life was tolerable.

          "There's someone at the door for you," she tells me, as I set the velvet box aside. "What a great sense of timing."

          "On Christmas Eve?"

          She shrugs. "I guess it's all about perspective."

          I don't want to leave my seat by the fire, where I'm cozy and warm and spiraling, but my mom urges me to go see who it is, nodding towards the hallway. I don't know who in their right mind would visit on Christmas instead of spending time with their own family—my own is all reunited here, as it's the bigger house and can comfortably house so many people—or why they're here for me specifically.

          I find out soon enough. 

          Keane Mahoney, in all his stupidly gorgeous existence, is standing right outside my front door. He's shivering from head to toe, throwing me a smug grin as I drag him inside by an arm, as I'm not letting this boy fall ill because of me. I'm already in too much debt to him.

          "What the hell are you doing here?" I ask him, curling my fingers around his wrist. His heartbeat hums against my skin. "It's Christmas for you, too; shouldn't you be spending time with your family? Annoying some non-existent ghosts?"

          That typical mischievous glint twinkles in his eyes as he turns to me, amused. "The ghosts can wait. I was around and thought I'd drop by to check on you." He boops my nose with his index finger. I grit my teeth, fighting the urge to bite him. "Family that I chose, and all."

          "Right." I finally drop his arm. "Well, here I am. Alive and breathing."

          "Indeed." He looks me up and down, gaze lingering on my face. He tries to keep it classy, but he's still a straight guy. I still look like me. I catch him staring. "If I didn't know any better, I'd think you're trying to get rid of me."

          "Imagine."

          "I'll leave, but let it be known that I'm doing it out of my volition." He hands me a velvet box, bigger than Izzy's, and my heartbeat instantly speeds up to an unhealthy rhythm. "Merry Christmas, Paige. Before I forget, Daphne and I are hosting a New Year's Eve party at the sorority house; I wouldn't do it, but Jeff has this ridiculous crush on her and literally begged me on his knees to volunteer to help her. Just figured I'd invite you, if she hasn't already. I don't think her party planning skills could ever measure up to yours, of course, but I figured we could give you a run for your money if I'm involved. I'm good at it."

          I know Daphne Langley. Know of her, mostly; we both pledged together during freshman year and are cordial with each other, but we don't really talk or hang out. The most I can say about her is that she's sweet and nice, the polar opposite of Jeff, and I have no idea what he could have possibly seen in her.

          She's gorgeous, yes, but they have nothing in common. For all I know, he's just interested in her physically; there's nothing wrong with that and it's none of my business, but I know the type of guy he is. I don't want him to lead her on while only wanting one thing from her and then unceremoniously break her heart.

          But I'm jumping to conclusions here. She might not be interested at all. She might only be interested in him for a casual hook up. I don't know, and I don't care.

          "I haven't planned a decent party in what feels like forever," I admit, in spite of myself.

          It would have been much easier to not concede defeat and put on a brave face, remind him that this is what I do and what I'm good at, but we both know it would be a weak attempt at making myself look good. My birthday party was a fluke; it was only successful thanks to Ripley's help and the bare minimum effort I put into it, relying on crowd favorites and staples. It felt generic, not at all a Paige de Haan certified banger.

          Looking back on it now, it wasn't a bad party, objectively speaking. It just wasn't good according to my high standards, something I only impose on myself and anything I'm directly involved in to a great extent or supervising. I can't speak on Daphne's skills, as it's rare for her to take the lead on anything, but I know Keane.

          "I would never try to dethrone you," he tells me, quietly. "I know you're good."

          "I was."

          "No, babe. Still are."

          My heart skips so many beats with the casual use of that nickname, and I nearly pass out. He's smiling at me now, warm and reassuring, and I don't know how I want to wipe it off his face. I'd kiss it away if I could.

          "You're giving me too much credit. Are you trying to get on my good side?"

          Keane chuckles, wraps an arm around my shoulders to pull me into a hug. "Bold of you to assume you even have a bad side." He presses a kiss to the side of my temple. "Merry Christmas, Paige."

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          I don't know why I keep my word, but I attend the party—and even make an effort to try and enjoy my time there instead of sulking in a corner.

          Most of it is thanks to curiosity, to see how an unlikely pair of people will handle what is, undoubtedly, one of the biggest, most important parties of the year. Even if Keane is only doing it to help Jeff with Daphne, he's still Keane Mahoney, and he pulls all the stops whenever he dedicates himself to something. Case in point: the entirety of Spirit Files.

          I don't tell him this straight to his face. I've done so indirectly, a passing comment when he was in earshot or something he'd hear during post, but I'm not an ego stroker and he doesn't need that kind of flattery.

          I do it for Daphne, too, since it's her first big party and all our sorority sisters will be present to show her some support. She has always been kind to me, including when no one except for Ripley was, and this is what she would have done if the roles were reversed. It could be the worst party in history, but she would have been there with an encouraging smile.

          "Thank you so much for being here," she tells me, pouring herself a glass of Diet Coke and Sprite (Brie Sheridan, you absolute menace). Her dark hair is pinned back with a pink claw clip, but her curtain bangs are down, framing her face, and if she did her own makeup, I need some tips. Her cheekbones look phenomenal, contoured to perfection, and the highlighter dusting them shimmers whenever the light hits her. "I was really nervous about tonight. Still am."

          "Everything looks great," I reply. "I'm sure Jeff is glad there's a keg. You can never go wrong with his infamous keg stand shenanigans."

          "I suppose," she mutters, cheeks flushed pink just by the mention of my idiot of a former friend.

          The realization that I can no longer call him a friend or even help him out with Daphne stings like a third-degree burn, but I brought it upon myself. Even though we managed to have a proper conversation that night at Stellarville and he apologized—again—I know nothing will ever go back to how it used to be. I'm not sure we'll ever not be awkward around each other and it eats me alive.

          Daphne leaves me to go check up on other guests, now that it's settled that Miss Hard to Please is actually having fun, and I spin around on my heel to continue minding my business. Ripley isn't here tonight, as she has plans with Nancy, so I'm extra bored and even lonelier than usual. Without her by my side, I'm a target for gossip.

          It might be self-centered, but it's true.

          Without Ripley or a distraction, it's nearly impossible to ignore everything that surrounds me. Even if I ignore the frat boys and hockey players, it's still obvious that I don't belong here, and my brain automatically focuses on anything that might concern me. Every whisper, every sideway glance—once, they were signs of respect; now, they make me wonder what I've done wrong this time.

          ". . . get with him, of course," a stranger says. A girl—gorgeous, of course—tells her friend in one of the bathrooms, as they fix their makeup. They don't look twice at me when I walk in. "Good thing he finally ditched that appendix of his."

          "Paige, right?" the other girl asks. I freeze right in my tracks, praying to every saint they mean Jeff and they're talking about our cat and mouse games, but, realistically, I know that's not true. "They're never together anymore, anyway."

          "Good. What a bore." She closes her tube of lipstick with a soft click and, when she looks up at her reflection in the mirror, our eyes meet. I'm not easily intimidated and I don't partake in girl hate over a guy, even if that guy is Keane Mahoney, but I'd be lying if I said my stomach isn't coiling. "Look at what the cat dragged in."

          "Would be better if it dragged you out," I grunt. "You're in the way."

          "Am I? Oh, dear." She gives me the once-over. "You definitely need this mirror more than I do."

          "Insulting my appearance? Classy. Excuse me." I try to brush past them, as I can find another bathroom, but they block my path. We're all wearing heels, yet they're somehow taller than me. "Look, I'm not trying to start shit with you. Leave me alone. Leave Keane alone."

          The words stumble out of my mouth before I can stop myself and that's what does me in.

          She steps forward, so close to me I'm about to remind her of the importance of personal space. "You know what? I think you should be leaving people alone; the grieving girl act is boring. You're boring. Your time has passed. If anything, people feel sorry for you because they liked your brother, but you haven't been nice one day in your life and you're not even good at throwing parties anymore. People are finally catching on to how truly mediocre you are."

          "Okay," I mutter. I refuse to cry in front of someone like these strangers, but she's hitting me right where it hurts. It's no longer about Keane; it's about Andy, about me not measuring up to the person everyone thought I was. "Are you done?"

          "Almost done." She flips her hair back over her shoulder—exactly how I do it. "I don't care if you think you have some sort of claim over Keane Mahoney. He's been looking at me the whole night; you can watch, if you'd like. Or, you know, don't. You can leave." She scoffs. "I think we've all evolved past the need for your presence. Find a new thing; the sad girl act is not cutting it anymore."

          She slams the door right in my face.

          I exhale through my mouth, trying my hardest to keep the tears at bay, but there's already mascara streaming down my cheeks in black smudges, and I just lose it.

          I stumble out of the bathroom, desperate for some air, but the crowded house just reminds me of how little room there is for me—here, anywhere, in anyone's life. It's not about Keane anymore—never has been—and he can do whatever he wants, if the whole 'looking at that girl the whole night' thing is true, but it stings.

          It's a bitter reminder I'll never be chosen, not for real, not for something that matters.

          I'm the backup choice. I was good for a good time, but never for anything deeper than that, and people are tired.

          I know, I know, I know.

          Downstairs, I collapse—right into someone's arms.

          And it's not Keane.

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ily paige

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