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BRIAR

If I was a worse person I would've left him there.

No one could blame me, right? He took my life—my entire freshman year—and mashed it into a terrible mess only Casey Brandt can manage to create. I can't get rid of him, either. He keeps showing up everywhere like a hanging threat. A wave threatening to crash into my life again, to leave me to swim to shore and piece it all back together. Then, he had the audacity to ruin my night.

But I let myself feel guilty for attacking him the way people have attacked me. Convinced myself it was the only way to push him away and make myself feel better in the process. I spewed some harsh insults at him after class and as much as I do hate him, in every single way I can, I'm not sure I can justify it.

So, I let Casey Brandt sleep on my roommate's second hand couch and ignored the urge to throw him onto the street.

I wake up this morning with more than a few regrets. One, I wish I had been the one to punch him. Two, I should've left him for the police to take care of.

The living room is empty when I finally muster up to courage to leave the sanctity of my room. The couch pillow I'd thrown at him is propped on top of the folded mustard throw Demi usually has draped across the chair. Casey is nowhere to be seen. The relief blooms in my chest. Hopefully that'll be the last time I see him. I'll move my seat in class and work enough shifts for my own textbook, and, forget he exists. Or convince myself that I have.

I decide to treat today as a new day. I'm going to go back to the original plan, the one that didn't include anything to do with him. I have more important things to worry about today. It's already nine by the time I begin making breakfast. Demi, who's chronically not online and has yet to comment on my resemblance to the girl in the video, is long gone. She's usually up at an ungodly hour drinking warm lemon water and strapping on her running sneakers.

I'm sitting down to eat when the lock turns. Demi smiles brightly.

"Good Morning, Briar!" She greets me cheerily, thrusting a book in my direction.

Due to Demi being an avid runner, I have to witness her runner high every morning, which tends to make me feel terrible about my non-exercising self for the rest of the day. I swallow my mouthful of sugary cereal.

I furrow my brows at the glossy cover. The same textbook Casey ruined, minus the coffee. Demi smiles again, then makes her way to the kitchen. Though I try to keep Demi and her insistent friendship at bay, I caved and told her everything when I got home that first day. I blame the advisement lady, Ms.Reeves, whose pointed glare had me shaken. I spilled about my run-in; purposefully leaving out the identity of who rammed into me at Bluefields.

I throw it to the other side of the couch. When it bounces on the throw pillows a brown bookmark falls out. I spot a clump of messy scrawl on it.

"You ran to campus?" I ask, reaching for the fallen paper.

"What?" She reemerges and takes her headphones off her head. There's a prominent dent at the top of her blonde ponytail. "Oh, I didn't buy it. I found it outside our door."

My eyes widen. I hiss, "He didn't."

Regret number three: I never should have shown him where I live.

I can practically feel my blood boiling as I lunge to rip the bookmark out from between the pages. In slanted handwriting—his handwriting—is another apology. For what, out of all the instances he has cause to apologize for, I'm not sure.

I've made so many mistakes since coming back, most of them involving Casey. I should've never let him know who I was. I could've just walked away that morning. I wish I had, because now? He knows more about me than I'd like. Who knows how dangerous that information is in the hands of Casey Brandt? It's ammo that only hurts me.

I let out a humorless laugh as my eyes scan the bookmark again. He can't possibly think this—buying me something and throwing out useless apologies like they change anything—could fix what happened. The stares and comments, maybe. But the issue with the Dean? Never.

My first textbook was still usable, even if the latte had caused the words to bleed into each other. I just had to skip over a few pages that molded together. No big deal. I would rather use the one I'd bought myself than this one purchased with guilty money.

"He?" Demi asks, sipping from a water bottle. "As in, the guy I found asleep on our couch this morning?"

"Casey Brandt," I inform.

She stares at me. I forgot she doesn't use her phone for anything other than a phone. She even has an alarm clock beside her bed. Of course she wouldn't know who he is.

I envy her for that.

"Forget it," I mutter. Unable to look at the gift any longer, I disregard my nutritious breakfast and squish my feet into my Converse. I grab my bag—and the textbook—to head out in search of the obnoxious blond boy.

"See you later!" Perky Demi calls through the door. I force myself to wave.

I keep angrily stomping down the hallway even though I really don't know where to find Casey. I've never punched a guy in his defense around the corner from his apartment, so, I'm a little stumped.

It was only yesterday that I would've been unbothered by that fact. Oh, how I miss that.

I take a chance and head to Bluefields where we had our last encounter. Fortunately, when I walk through the double doors, I find him seated with a coffee in hand. I sigh, relieved. Good. I could return this and never have to see him again.

He glances up only when I drop the textbook onto the table with a loud thud. He looks different today. There's less of something on his face. Stress, maybe? Could just be the hangover. His hair is messy, unbrushed, and hanging in his blue eyes. I watch as he pushes it back to reveal furrowed brows. I'm taken aback at the sight of the black and blue bruise around his eye. Ouch. It hadn't looked that rough last night.

I turn to leave, my mission accomplished, when he grabs my wrist. I flinch, pulling it away quickly. I hiss, "Don't."

"Keep it." He urges, pushing it back across the table.

I step back. "God, no."

"It's the least I can do--"

"No, the least you could do is build a time machine, go back to the day you fucked my life up, and ruin your own instead," I snap. "But I'd settle for you just leaving me alone."

"Okay." He blows out a puff of air. His eyes scan the room nervously. He gestures with an open palm, "Can we talk? Outside?"

"Why?" I'm unsurprised to find there are eyes on us again. I can't find it in myself to care. I like seeing him uncomfortable. "The only one with a reputation left to ruin is you, right?"

"I don't want to be the reason you go viral," he whispers. "Again."

He picks up his coffee, and the book, and heads back through the doors I just barged my way through. I find myself following, only because I still have insults I'd like to spit at him. He walks far enough away to keep curious and judgmental eyes off of us.

"I'm sorry."

"Stop saying that." I scoff.

His eyes are soft as they stare at me. I can't tell if he's being genuine, or if that's supposed to matter. It makes me so uncomfortable that I have to look away. I dig the toe of my Converse into the ground. "What exactly are you sorry for? The coffee? The ambush? The brawl?"

"Everything." He exhales a breath so deep it seems like he's been holding it since that day. "Mostly? I'm sorry I didn't recognize you. I've been thinking about the day I'd get to see you again for a year. I have so much to say, to apologize for. I didn't mean—"

"No, you never do mean anything, do you?" I mutter. I don't let his words touch me. I cross my arms over my chest. "Just stop apologizing. Stop acting like I need you to. And stop—" I jab a finger into his chest. "—acting like you even give a shit about anyone but yourself."

I whip around and stomp in the direction from which I came, making sure to leave Casey and the textbook behind.

Demi is waiting for me when I get back. Her hair is damp and she's swapped her shorts and tank for sweats. She's perched in the center of the couch watching me as I slam the door closed.

"Here." She shoves a mug in my direction and pauses the TV. On the screen is some reality show she's currently obsessed with. "Coffee. Black, two sugars, and all the platonic love you can stomach."

"I can't stomach any platonic love." I sit beside her with a grumbled thank you and sip the dark liquid. I'm still so angry it must be radiating off of me in waves. I let the coffee burn the roof of my mouth.

She ignores my jab. "So, what happened?"

I eye her over the lip of the yellow mug. It's not mine. I didn't bring much other than what's in my room. Just a bowl and a Cartwright U mug that my Dad ordered off some sketchy website. The logo is crooked and in a weird font, but, it's a gift. And a reminder of home. So it came with me. This mug is something Demi brought with her when we moved in. Printed with a cartoon of a cat and a dog hugging, the message written beneath it is too faded to read. I wonder if she chose this on purpose. If the unlikely friends are supposed to resemble us.

"Is this what we're doing now?" I ask with a sigh. "Talking about our feelings?"

"I think it's something you could really benefit from," she remarks.

"I don't."

"It's what friends do."

"We're not friends," I remind. "We're roommates."

She doesn't seem fazed by my rudeness. She turns her show on. Two girls are arguing on screen. Yelling and crying. Swearing every other word. She motions toward the scene with the remote.

"They're roommates, too," she tells me. "You and I? We're both. Friends and roommates. Froomates."

I don't grace that with a response or an argument. What do you even say to that? She's making up new words. Who does that?

I've never really had much luck in the friend department. Ever. When I was little I was too shy and when I was in middle school my mom passed and the isolation got worse. Deeper. Colder. Then came highschool and my dad's health issues increased in severity. At some point I guess I decided it was easier to try to keep people away than make them stay.

It never works on Demi, though.

"He bought me a textbook."

She turns away from the TV completely, a smile taking up her entire face. She crosses her legs and looks at me square on. "Couch guy?" I nod. "Well, that's a terrible gift. He couldn't splurge for flowers? Chocolate? An antique locket?"

I don't tell her that I doubt Casey has to splurge for anything. He probably has an overflowing trust fund. I bet he's never thought twice about money. Or his future. Or anything but himself. No matter how well he puts on this act, I know it's not real. I know him too well.

"He ruined the one I bought," I explain.

She puts the pieces together, her face morphing into a sour expression. "So he's the one who ruined the cute outfit I picked for you? I wish you'd told me! I could've given him a piece of my mind."

"Yes, and I would have loved to see that," I try not to sound too sarcastic. "But he's never coming back. Last night was a one-time thing."

"I can't believe you slept with him after he ruined your book. And then made him crash on the couch."

"Slept with him?" I ask in disbelief. "Never. Ever."

She doesn't seem to believe me. "So what was he doing here?"

I groan out loud. This is a whole other thing I have to explain. The walk home last night, the bar, the fight, everything after. Casey's apologies and that stupid bruise on his cheek. I hate this—this whole friend thing—this roommate thing. If I wasn't so broke, I'd have shopped around for a one-bedroom. But I needed to split the rent, so, I'm stuck with Demi for an entire year that she'll no doubt spend trying to form some weird friendship.

"Come on, Briar, use your words," she urges. She's still smiling like this is the most amusing thing ever—maybe my agony is hilarious to her. I'd prefer that. Something dark on top of that frilly exterior. She shrugs. "It's not the end of the world to tell me things."

Maybe not. But anything to do with Casey Brandt is the end of the world for me. It's ruining my life all over again. Besides, Demi latches onto things with her perfectly manicured claws, never letting go.

She still complains to me about the dent in the wall her four brothers had made while moving her in. She still complains to them on the phone every other week. Telling her about Casey not only makes it real and relevant; it allows her to bring it up whenever she pleases.

I like that she doesn't know me. I love that she doesn't know the history we have. The more I spill, the more apparent it becomes that at some point, I'll have to come clean and stop tip-toeing around the past. And I'm just not ready for that.

She's still looking at me. Waiting patiently, sipping her own coffee. I get the feeling that no matter what I do next, she'll have been expecting it and made peace already. She wants me to do what I want to. Maybe she doesn't care about all of this because it's a story or about Casey. Maybe she really just cares because I do.

"He got in a fight around the corner."

Her lips curve again like she won a prize. "At the White Oak?"

"Yes."

"About what?"

"About who," I supply, grimacing as if she's pulling the words out of my mouth. "Me."

She smiles to herself. "Well, that's better than the other present."

No, it isn't. Casey is a tornado. He comes crashing in and through, ripping and tearing things to shreds I'm left to pick up. He's impulsive to a fault. Punching an idiotic drunk guy on the street didn't benefit anyone. I was right last night when I said he was fighting a battle that wasn't his. It stopped being Casey's fight the moment he posted that video for the world to see. From that day on, I've been facing this head-on by myself. And I've been doing just fine.

"I don't need him to fight anyone for me," I say. "And I don't need him to buy anything for me."

She furrows her brows. "But, didn't you say your book was unreadable?"

"No, I said it was barely readable," I argue.

"Same thing." She waves a hand dismissively. "Take the book. He's trying to make things right. I think that's pretty honorable."

"It's not. He's not." I grumble.

"Not everyone is out to get you, B." She reaches to tap my hand twice. It's not all that comforting. "Forgiveness is a strength, not a weakness."

She's already turned back to the TV, ignoring me as I gape at her. My words fade into background noise. It wasn't much of an argument, anyway. I'm out of things to share.

I sip my platonic love filled coffee and sit back to watch Demi's show.

。゚•┈୨♡୧┈• 。゚

A/N

hi everyone! here's a longer chapter for u bc i'm so nice (and i've been slacking on the tiktok content LOL).

Briar & Demi's (forced) friendship >>>

💌
xoxo, Jill


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