"Charlie? Are you okay?"

River rests her hand on my arm, and I realize I haven't taken a proper breath in nearly a minute. Forcing myself not to gasp, I fill my lungs and school my features into what I hope is something close to a normal expression.

"Yeah. I'm fine. I just... remembered something. I need to go."

Not wanting to run into Hazel on the way out, I dart towards the emergency exit, which has been disarmed and propped open to admit air.

Professor MacDowell catches up to me just as I reach it.

"Charlie, wait a minute."

Reluctantly, I pause, but don't trust myself to speak.

Maybe sensing this, MacDowell does the talking, while resting a hand on my arm as if to keep me from bolting away.

"I love my son," he says, "and if I had to guess, I'd say you love him, too. You've been good for him, and I'm grateful for that. I hope the pair of you can work this out between you, but if you can't... Well, sometimes you've got to put yourself first, and if this is one of those times, you have my full support. Some people have to learn things the hard way—have to get burned to learn that fire is hot—and Hazel is one of them."

"Thanks, Professor," I say, blinking against the sting of tears.

"Please, it's just Robert, outside of class," he returns, offering me a somewhat pained smile. "You're no longer my student, Charlie; soon you'll be my colleague, and—regardless of how things work out with Hazel—I consider you a friend. You can always come to me if you need support."

"Thanks... Professor," I rasp, his first name having stuck in my throat, and dart through the open door.

🐚

I barely remember getting back to my apartment, my mind having taken a brief, anxiety-induced vacation from the moment I left the auditorium until the moment I unlock my door.

Once safely inside, I collapse on the couch and shut my eyes, aware of my pulse pounding in my ears and the nervous sweat dampening my shirt. My mind had automatically gone to the worst possible scenario: that my dad already knows everything and will accuse me of 'moral indecency' or some shit the second he sets eyes on me.

But that's not necessarily the case. As Hazel would undoubtedly say, it's just a video, and you can barely see my face. Obviously, Michaela recognized me, and her sleazy realtor dad might be trying to use it as proof Hazel and I knew each other before the interns were selected, but that's literally all it could prove. The rest—that we're in a relationship, and that this influenced Professor MacDowell's choice—is pure conjecture. I hope.

By the time Hazel gets home, letting himself in with his key, my fear has cooled into anger, which I'm determined not to let thaw beneath the warmth of Hazel's charm.

His look of confusion and then sheer relief when he spots me on the couch tells me I'm in for an uphill battle.

"Charlie! What the fuck? I was looking all over for you, and everyone gave me the cold shoulder. George finally told me you'd gone home."

"You never deleted it," I say, deciding to take the bull by the horns.

From the way his face drains of color in an almost cartoon-like fashion, I know he knows what I'm talking about.

"I did," he says, taking a step towards me and then stopping. "I swear to God, I did."

"Then why is it still up, and why is there now a 'part 2?'" I keep my tone as hard as I can, mostly to prevent my voice from trembling.

"Fuck. You've seen that?"

Suddenly, I don't have to try anymore; my tone stays hard and angry all on its own. "Yes, I've seen it. What the fuck, Hazel? What part of 'please don't record me and post it to social media because it could destroy my life' do you not understand?"

"Nothing!" Hazel shouts, raising his voice for the first time. "It's not that I don't understand, it's just..."

"Just what?" I yell back, realizing, somewhere in the back of my mind, that this is our first—and possibly our last—real fight.

"It's Dave," he says, running his hands through his hair and huffing with exasperation, though how much is directed at me is hard to tell. "He's the videographer, so he has the originals. And that account is shared. I did delete it, but Dave put it back up without telling me. Then he took that second video at the surfing competition and spliced them both into the one that took off."

"So, this is all Dave's fault, is what you're telling me."

"I mean... yeah." He spreads his hands and shrugs, as if to say, 'What do you want me to do about it? Break his phone?'

"You just said it's a joint account. You must have noticed when it started getting views."

The way he suddenly looks extremely uncomfortable and won't meet my eyes tells me I've hit the nail on the head.

"I did," he admits. "And I confronted Dave, but he's the strategist. He said if we just left it up for one week, we'd be ahead of our goal for the whole year."

"And you figured, what? That what I didn't know wouldn't hurt me?"

He cringes. I shake my head. A heavy disappointment settles over my heart with an almost physical weight, pressing on my lungs. The worst part isn't that he lied by omission, or that he tried to hide it from me. The worst part is that I'd had no clue.

"This is what I mean about breaking my trust," I say. "How can I know you're not hiding something else, and how can I believe you when you tell me you aren't?"

He lifts his hands in another gesture of apparent helplessness. "You just have to forgive me, if you can. Look—I'm really, really sorry, Charlie. I never meant to lie or hurt you. I'll make Dave delete the videos—all of them—and I swear I'll delete the whole account if he doesn't. I made sure he didn't tag you, at least. There's no harm done, and no one knows it's you."

"No harm?" I raise my brows at him. "You want me to forgive you, like it's the easiest thing in the world, when you can't even forgive your own father. If you got your head out of your ass for long enough to speak with him, you'd know that harm has been done, and that someone does know it's me."

"What?" Hazel's brows pinch. "Who?"

"Michaela."

"Michaela... You mean from the Internship?"

"Do you know another one?"

He frowns at me. "Okay, so what? What's she gonna do about it?"

"She's done it already," I snap. "She's going after your dad because she can't get to you and me directly."

"What do you mean?"

"Apparently, being asked to respect other people's pronouns and forced to exist in the vicinity of people who don't share her Biblical interpretation of marriage was too much for her. She tried to lodge a complaint, claiming religious discrimination, but it was dismissed, so now she's going after your dad for favoritism. She's claiming he chose me because of you: because we knew each other before the interns were chosen, and because, according to that video, we're in a relationship of some kind. Which, if you hadn't noticed, is true."

I'm out of breath by the time I'm finished, and Hazel's stricken look tells me my words hit their mark.

"Charlie, I didn't—"

"You didn't know. I get that. But maybe if you could get over yourself for five minutes and talk to your father like an adult, you would have. Your dad's not the bad guy here, Hazel," I say, driving the point home with point-blank force. "You are."

Hazel blinks at me with wide eyes, looking as shocked as if I'd physically slapped him across the face.

"Charlie, I..."

"Don't." I cut him off, shaking my head. "Just, don't. My dad will be here tomorrow, and I'm planning to tell him that I don't know you in anything except the most platonic sense. I'd appreciate it if you could play along."

For the first time during our exchange, something other than confusion or regret visits Hazel's face, and anger darkens his expression.

"Fine. I can do that. But telling me to talk to my dad is pretty rich, coming from you. I made a mistake, and I'm sorry, but I didn't lie. You're the expert in that department."

Metaphorically sucker-punched, I take a step back. My voice goes quiet and soft, the way it does when I'm trying very hard not to cry. "I think we should stop talking now, before one of us says something else he regrets."

Looking equal parts devastated and contrite, Hazel nods.

A not insignificant part of me wants to forgive him then and there—open my arms to the comfort of a warm embrace, and forget about who's right and who's wrong. A larger part tells me to keep my distance—at least for now.

For now, I need to focus on keeping my dad in the dark.

Retreating to my bedroom, I shut the door. After a brief hesitation, and remembering what his father said about Hazel needing to learn things the hard way, I lock it, too. Then I collapse on the bed and stare at the ceiling as my thoughts run laps around my brain.

I have one thing in my favor. I used to think I was no good at lying, but Hazel is right: I've been doing it for years. One more day should be a piece of cake.