Cold and Charisma (BoyxBoy)

Chapter Thirty-Seven

As I stared into the mirror, the boy staring back at me made my jaw clench.

I couldn't even hold my own gaze for more than a second without feeling this rush of irritation crawl up my spine.

I couldn't look at myself—fuck, even live with myself—after that weekend, and that was somehow worse.

No matter what I did now, it wouldn't fix anything. Not when the one thing that actually mattered was already gone.

I didn't get to rewind and suddenly become someone decent. All I got was this—me, and the mess I made.

There was an assembly in an hour, and instead of acting like a normal person, I was hiding in the school restroom, glaring at my own reflection with hatred.

The longer I looked, the more I wanted to slam my fist into the mirror just to crack it, just so I wouldn't have to see this stupid face staring back at me like it didn't know exactly what it did. I couldn't stand it.

All that frustration I'd been throwing at Archer these past few days twisted into something uglier.

It wasn't him. It was me. And that realization pissed me off more than anything.

I don't do self-reflection. I don't sit around listing my flaws like it's a hobby. I definitely don't apologize. That's not who I am.

So what, now I care? Now I suddenly have a conscience?

No. Shut up. I shook my head hard. It's your fault. It's done. You screwed it up.

I turned on the sink and splashed cold water onto my face, dragging my hands down hard like I could rinse out the memory of every stupid thing I said.

When I looked up again, nothing had changed. It didn't matter how much water I threw at myself—I still looked like the boy who let the best thing he ever had walk away.

I ripped some tissue paper from the dispenser and dragged it across my face, rougher than I needed to, before tossing it into the trash.

I had an assembly to get to—and I couldn't walk on stage looking like a mess, even if that's exactly what I was.

I straightened up, rolling my shoulders back. No one out there needed to know I'd just been hiding in a bathroom, on the verge of tears and slapping myself all at once.

No one needed to see that I was one wrong word away from losing it.

I ran a hand through my hair, forced my expression into something neutral—borderline bored—and gave myself one last look.

"Get it together," I muttered under my breath.

Because whether Archer wanted to look at me or not, I was going to have to stand on that stage beside him.

And the last thing I was going to do was let him see how much he'd gotten under my skin.

–

My soccer team and I were shoved into the front row since this whole assembly was basically a victory lap for anyone who won league and made it to sectionals.

I leaned back in my seat, slumping low as the girls' soccer team walked across the stage to applause. They deserved it, sure, but they were the least of my concerns right now.

I barely registered the clapping, the cheering, the way they thumped across the stage as they got into a line.

Because then he walked out.

Tall, polished, and annoyingly put together. His brunette hair sitting perfectly like it hadn't been through a breakup at all.

He took the microphone with that easy confidence that made people sit up straighter without even realizing it.