chapter four

My chilly lunch hour here at Bridgewood has consisted of repeatedly calling Greyson Scott's voicemail under the same sparse maple branches I've sat beneath five years running.

"Hey, you've reached Greyson! If this is Fluffy, then you obviously need to stop what you're doing and come watch Pirates of the Caribbean with me. If it's not Fluffy, and you're very confused, leave a message and I'll get back to you after I'm done watching Pirates of the Caribbean. Okay? Okay."

Beep!

I take the phone from my ear, hang up, and call again. 

The case has been reopened, and hope has broken through the weak dam in my chest, cracking and exploding cement everywhere. As if it could never have been contained forever.

March has not yet been kind. The air is still bitterly cold and bites the lungs at every inhale. I hug my thick grey sweater closer to my body, leaning back against the tree. It's still better than the cafeteria and the cacophony of noise bouncing off the low ceiling. 

A harsh crash straightens my spine as Cade Blackwood bulldozes through the back doors of the school. He stalks along the red brick wearing his token leather jacket and a black bag slung over one shoulder. Once he hits the corner, he turns around and walks back, feet landing harshly on the dark tarmac.

Cade has many reasons to be angry. His father, taken by cancer. His best friend, oblivious to his affections. His mother, drinking herself into an early grave. I wonder if he regrets telling me about his life.

Trust is so tricky, so delicate, and I placed mine in him that night. I haven't regret it. Yet.

Cade drops to the ground, his back against the wall, and buries his large, pale hands in his hair.

Cade looks cold—in more ways than one. The brown leather on his frame can't be warm enough to—

His eyes snap up. Almost immediately, they find me. I swallow my nerves and raise a stiff hand, smiling slightly. In response, I receive the furrowing of his dark brow and a glare.

And just under his left eye is the remnant of a bruise taking shape, purple and black on his cheekbone.

Not that I've been tracking these bruises, but this is not the first time I've noticed them. And he never told me where they're from, and he probably never will.

I drop my head.

The entirety of the lunch period, Cade stays on the ground, staring at his lap. Doesn't eat, study. He stays out in the cold, and I do too.

Just before the bell commences fourth period, he stands, his body exhausted like all the anger and energy bled out over the hour.

Packing up my few belongings—textbooks and fancy mechanical pencils—I make way for the double doors set inside the red brick with a plan for tomorrow. 

A plan for Cade and a plan for myself.

✿

At the beginning of lunch the next day, I flit down the crowded stairs to head to the cafeteria.

In theory, Bridgewood's cafeteria should make me feel lively and surrounded. But it doesn't. It's just noisy and unnecessarily loud. Somehow, it's these places—ones full of people and smiling faces—that always make me feel the most alone.

I head into the humid microwaving room off the bustling cafeteria and set my bag down on the narrow counter in the centre of the space. Inside my backpack is a large thermos and two simple white ceramic mugs.

As I'm preparing the drinks, a group of three boys barrel in from the cafeteria wearing wrestling jackets. Without meaning to, I shrink closer to the wall of microwaves. One of the boys says they'll be right back and walks over to the wall.

It turns out to be none other than Jordan Kennedy, the cute, bulky captain of Bridgewood's wrestling team. His skin is a tawny umber colour, and his features are soft and rounded, reminding me of a teddy bear. I immediately picture him in a red spandex wrestling suit and catch my cheeks heating and a laugh building in my throat.

The wrestling captain heads this way, and of a wall full of microwaves, he chooses the one right next to mine. His waist-length black hair falls straight over his shoulders today, silkier than I could ever hope to mimic with my own hair.

"Hey, Emily," he greets with a grin.

"It's Ember," I remind him, but his smile only widens.

"I know that now, I was just kidding."

"Right," I say with a grin. I return my eyes to the two mugs spinning in the microwave in front of us. I grip the straps of the bag on my back, watching the time left on the digital countdown.

Jordan places a bowl of what looks like rice and cooked ground beef into the microwave. His machine makes a few beeping sounds, then whirs to life next to mine. "So..." He rocks back and forth on his heels. "I really like your freckles. And your cool eyes."

A laugh bubbles from my throat. "Thanks."

"I kind of wanted to ask you something. Do you, uh, do you have a date to prom?" A nervous smile graces his lips, threaded with hope.

His friends by the door quiet down suddenly and I risk a glance over Jordan's shoulder to find their eyes on us. Reluctant hope burns in their gazes, too.

"I know it's a little early," Jordan babbles, "but everyone's already finding dates. My friends all have dates, and I don't. Talk about pressure." He blows out a breath. "Sometimes I wonder if we rush into things before figuring out what we want, you know? But, uh...I got off track." He shakes his head as if to clear it. "Would you, maybe, want to go? With...me?"

My microwave beeps, sending me jumping into the air. I exhale a shaky breath and grab the mugs, wincing at how hot the white ceramic is. "I'm not a prom kind of person," I tell him honestly, glancing at the back door, hoping to avoid his friends.

When I try to leave out the back door, Jordan calls out, "Hold on," quickly blocking the exit. He peers back to his friends and then to me, a slightly shyer smile on his lips. "Sorry," he whispers. "My friends have been trying to get me to find a prom date for a few weeks. They said you were way too pretty for me. I thought I'd give it a shot, but they were right."

I shift from foot to foot, the mugs searing my palms. "I'm really not going to prom, though. I'm probably going to stay in and watch all the Pirates of the Caribbean movies or something."

When I open my eyes, Jordan's looking at me with a tinge of sadness. "Okay. Well, it was really nice talking to you anyway."

"Yeah, you too. I have to go." I nod to the door behind him.

He holds it open for me. "Here. Also, I still like your freckles."

"Thanks," I say with a nervous smile, walking through and away. 

Why are my cheeks so hot?

I'm careful when I use my back to open the last set of doors. Suddenly, I'm right at the spot Cade was pacing yesterday, the air just as cold, the space just as empty. 

Movement catches my eye just ahead, and I'm surprised to find Cade Blackwood in my spot, at my tree.

Every one of his slow breaths can be seen in the frigid air, puffs falling from his lips like little white clouds. He's hunched over a textbook, long legs crossed at the ankle.

As I close in, I say, "This is my spot."

His head pops up from the book, green eyes sharp under the maple branches. "I didn't know trees had been claimed."

"Me and this tree go way back," I say. Cade eyes the two white mugs releasing steam in my hands. I hold one down towards him. "Here."

He takes it, assessing its contents. "You brought me hot chocolate," he says, not quite understanding.

"Do you not like hot chocolate?" I ask. I take a sip of my own, relishing in the warmth it sends into my cold bones. "Everyone likes it. Don't be weird."

"Okay first of all, you're weird." He scoffs, wrapping his fingers around the mug. "And yes, I like it..." he trails off staring into the mug like he can't believe it's in his hands. His voice is deep and quiet as he adds, almost to himself, "It's been a while."

I drop my bag and sit down beside him, careful not to spill my own drink.

After gingerly taking a sip, Cade leans his head back against the bark. His Adam's apple bobs as he swallows the hot liquid. He sighs contently.

"Is it okay?" I ask, biting my cheek.

He nods with a faint smile, then opens his eyes. His head lolls to the side, eyes on me.

I feel the heat radiating from his body just like I sense a thank you in his eyes.

"What are you reading?" I ask quietly.

After staring holding my eyes for a beat too long, he drops his eyes to his lap. "Biology. I have a test next week." He sets the light blue textbook between our outstretched legs and pulls out a red large binder with the word biology written across the front in black. He opens it and starts reading a written note on a piece of loose-leaf paper.

For a minute, I only grip the mug in my lap. I bring it to my lips and burn my tongue as the liquid travels down my throat, warming a path in my chest.

Eventually, our drinks are gone, and the empty mugs are placed on the ground between our legs.

"I saw you yesterday. You were angry and cold—" I begin, but he cuts me off.

"I wasn't cold," he says.

"I just thought I'd come have lunch with you. So you weren't alone."

"I like being alone," he says, voice hard.

My hand drops to the stiff grass and I imagine there's permafrost somewhere underneath. "Tell me to leave and I will."

I wait, hear nothing, so I stay.

"Chapman," Cade says.

"Yeah?"

"Thanks for the hot chocolate."

I bite my lip through a smile. "You're welcome."

There's no more talking for a while after that, but that's okay.

At the warning bell, signalling five minutes before period four begins, we both stand and gather our things.

After Cade throws his bag on his back, he walks a few steps away, leaving me standing alone, arms around my cold frame by the tree. Before he's too far, I call out his name. He turns around, a dark brow raised.

I swallow my nerves. "I'll see you tomorrow?"

He pauses, inhaling a breath to expel is slowly. "Yes. Probably."

I smile. "Good."

He turns and walks away, swinging open the back doors of the school and vanishing inside.

I drop my arms from my ribs. I was trying to keep the heat in, but the air doesn't feel as cold anymore.

Initial Cade impression?

Thanks for being here :)

Love Laurel