I walked over. He killed the smile the second he saw me. "What is it?"
I thought he was playing it cool in front of everyone.
He changed my contact name from "Lettie" to "Letitia Winfield." Deleted every photo of us from his social feed.
I thought he was worried a teacher might see.
Now I know—he was worried Freya might see.
Worried Freya might be unhappy.
So he destroyed my guaranteed admission with his own hands.
And he did it the way I'd trust most: food he cooked himself, his gentle voice saying, "Eat a little more."
The boy I grew up with, the one who said he'd marry me—he shoved me into the ER with his own hands, all for another girl.
My eyes burned, dry and raw. I forced myself not to cry.
I looked at Alvin and pushed every last bit of strength into my voice.
"Is it true?"
He sat next to Freya. His expression didn't change at all.
"Does it matter? The outcome's the same either way."
His voice was flat, not a ripple in it. My words sank into deep water without so much as a splash.
Because he didn't care.
Didn't care about eighteen years of growing up together. Didn't care about the future we could have had.
My throat clamped shut, acid surging upward in waves.
I bit the inside of my lower lip, using that small, sharp pain to hold back everything threatening to break.
I stood up and bolted out of the room. Behind me, laughter and jeering bled together.
"Letitia! Don't leave! Your childhood sweetheart's got a girlfriend now, aren't you going to congratulate him?"
"Is she actually crying?"
"So what if she is? Alvin doesn't even like her. Who's she putting on a show for?"
I stood on the curb for a long time.
The night wind dried the tears on my face.
My phone buzzed.
A message from Alvin.
Where'd you go? Come back. Don't give them something to laugh about.
I stared at those words, and all I could think of was being seven years old, bawling at our kindergarten graduation ceremony. The other kids laughed at me. He marched right up. "She can cry if she wants to! Mind your own business!"
Back then, he was all the courage I had.
Now he was telling me not to give them something to laugh about.
That was just a dare I lost. Come back, I'll explain everything.
A dare.
I gripped my phone. My palm was slick with sweat.
A taxi rolled past. The driver honked twice.
"Getting in or not?"
I didn't move.
All those years came flooding back at once—ten years old, burning up with fever, and he scaled the wall to bring me medicine, got chased three blocks by our dog. Twelve, and I'd bombed a test, and he tore up his own award certificate: "This thing's useless. Next time I'll help you get first place." Fifteen, and someone was shoving me around, and he threw himself into the fight, took three stitches by his eye, and still grinned at me. "Doesn't hurt."
Had he changed?
Or had he always been this way, and I just never said what I felt?
Had I been lying to myself the whole time?
"Getting in or not?" The driver honked again.
I clenched my jaw, turned, and ran back.
Full of hope, I pushed open the door to the room.
A bucket of cold water hit me from above.
Ice water ran down through my hair, blinding my eyes, soaking through every layer of clothing.
I stood there shaking, unable to move.
Shrill laughter tore through the room.
"She actually came back! She really came back!"
"Freya, you're insane—how'd you know that tomboy would come running?"
"A bet's a bet! Al, hand over your lucky jade charm!"
Freya was leaning against Alvin, shaking with laughter.
"Told you she'd come back!"
She reached over and crooked a finger at Alvin.
