Kyle Gray, a lanky brunette who I normally consider a friend, stage whispers to his twin sister, Lyla, about what a total nightmare I’m being.
It’s not my fault that his pages on the football team championship were subpar. Honestly, I could have designed them better myself with my eyes closed.
Brandon, Dylan’s best friend, watches me angrily type on my ancient laptop, but he’s smart enough to keep his distance.
I thought it was odd that Brandon approached me a few weeks ago to ask if there were any vacancies on staff, but now, I’m seeing his presence in the vein of Dylan’s manipulation.
Dylan has now managed to infiltrate my Independent Study, lunch hour, favorite subject, and after school crowning achievement.
I try to focus on my duties as editor-in-chief, but I’m just wasting time and energy.
Eventually, I throw in the towel, knowing that harping on the staff when they’re already working hard isn’t going to be productive.
“I’m leaving early today,” I tell no one in particular.
“Thank god,” Kyle breathes.
I don’t acknowledge it.
As I stroll through the school hallways, I appreciate the quiet and am grateful for the time to decompress alone.
The school practically buzzes with excitement during the day, then the second the last bell of the day rings, it’s a ghost town, except for those of us with extracurriculars and nowhere else to go.
I used to dream of what it would be like to be a senior. I always imagined myself as some sort of badass, strolling through the halls in a pair of leather pants or high heels or something.
I’m the furthest thing from it, and the realization makes me frown.
My mind is too off-kilter for self-criticism right now, so I try to shake that thought off as I step outside.
The March air is cold, but I’m warm enough walking in the sunshine.
The unpredictability of the weather is infuriating for a planner like me. In our Pennsylvania town, we go from sixty-five degrees one day to a foot of snow the next.
I walk along the sidewalk, leaving my jacket unbuttoned to maximize the rays on my skin, until I reach the entrance of the stadium. A few students and parents take advantage of the vacant track, but it’s mostly empty.
I drag my fingers along the stone wall until I find a place to sit in a patch of grass on the opposite side of the locker room. I usually wait for James by his car or in the yearbook room, so he won’t be expecting me out here.
After shooting him a quick text about my location that he’ll get when he returns, I aimlessly scroll social media.
Before I can talk myself out of it, I seek out Dylan’s profile.
I’m not surprised to see it’s completely blank. He doesn’t have any posts, but he’s following a few people from the team. Brandon is the only person who regularly tags him in photos, and Dylan doesn’t appear to be a willing participant in them.
Still, he has nearly one thousand followers—that many people want to follow him even though he doesn’t have any pictures or videos.
I flip over to my feed and my two hundred followers.
Like his, my account is nearly empty, but the difference between our lack of posts is that he comes off as mysterious and I’m just boring.
Dylan Archer is the antihero.
I’ve read more than enough books to recognize the signs, to be allured by his darkness and hope for a redemption arc, but I know that won’t happen. He’ll use me to help him get out of this town, just like we’re all trying to do, and I’ll never hear from him again.
Still, part of me feels bad for him.
The anger dissipates as I think about the internal struggle Dylan had to go through to be able to ask for help. As prickly as he is, I can’t imagine it was easy for him to swallow his pride and approach me.
Guilt, I learn, is an antidote for rage.
The tips of my fingers start to freeze as he appears at the side entrance of the track.
He’s the first one to arrive back from whatever torture of a trail run their coaches put them through today.
“Dylan,” I call out to get his attention.
His chest heaves as he approaches me.
Hands on his hips, pale skin blotchy and dotted with perspiration—it’s fascinating to see him imperfect.
I blink and realize I’ve already decided that I’m going to do whatever it takes to get him an A in class even though he probably doesn’t deserve it.
This is going to cause some major adjustments to my planning.
“Reed,” he says as he expels a huge breath from his lungs.
“Stop calling me by my last name,” I sputter somewhat coherently. “We’re not on a hockey team or in some sort of boys’ club together. ‘Harper’ does have two syllables, but I think you’re capable of saying it.”
He sighs. “If you’ve called me over here just to berate me on semantics, I’m going to leave.”
“Is that the attitude you want to give to someone who’s willing to help you?” I ask him, shielding my eyes from the sun.
A flicker of something, surprise maybe, surfaces on his expression. Before I can take it in fully, he’s back to shrouding himself with indifference.
I gesture for him to sit beside me so I don’t have to extend my neck or stare into the light to continue this conversation.
He hesitates before he lowers himself beside me on the grass.
“Don’t let this go to your head. I’m not doing this because of your supposed overt charms. If anything, your exceptional personality has me second-guessing this every second.” I pause for emphasis. “Let’s get your grade back up and then we can both move on and go back to pretending like the other person doesn’t exist.”
I force myself not to watch the rise and fall of his chest as he considers my words, but it’s hard not to. I see every movement through his skin-tight running shirt, and the inhales and exhales are the only sound in my ears as I wait for him to respond.
“But just to clarify, I don’t need your help with my dating life,” I add.
He cocks an eyebrow. “Your non-existent one, you mean.”
I resist the urge to snap at him.
I’m trying to be the definition of civility in every single one of our conversations. It’s the only upper hand I can have.
“Just please keep our conversation this morning between us,” I say quietly, looking at my fingers as I speak. “It will ruin pretty much everything for me.”
He props himself up on his elbows. “So dramatic, Reed,” he teases. “Who do you think I am? Some sort of idiot, running around spreading nonsense?”
I shrug, watching some of the other runners, including James, return to the locker room. I’m glad we’re tucked away enough that they seem completely oblivious to the close proximity and false intimacy of the closeness between Dylan and me.
This is an academic arrangement, not a friendship or anything remotely close to it.
“Fine,” Dylan finally says. “It’s a deal. An A in English, and I’ll keep my mouth shut.”
Dylan got me to crack in under six hours after just one conversation with him. It seems pathetic, but it might actually be a record for his persuasive efforts.
“And maybe we could keep our distance at school?” I suggest.
“Why? Do you think people will think we’re together?” He chuckles. “Me and you. And that hair. That won’t be a problem.”