A Jealous Target

The lunch bell finally rings, and a massive wave of relief crashes over me. I grab my bag and immediately seek out Tasha, practically sprinting out of the suffocating school building. I find her exactly where she said she would be. She lounges effortlessly on a plaid picnic blanket spread across the vibrant green grass of the courtyard, looking like she belongs in a teen magazine spread. The warm afternoon sun catches her hair, and she shoots me a bright, welcoming smile as I approach.

I drop down onto the soft blanket beside her, letting out a long, exhausted breath. I feel so relieved to have finally escaped Ryker’s relentless harassment for the morning. Just sitting here on the grass feels like a massive upgrade to my day.

"Hey," Tasha greets me, taking a delicate bite of her sandwich. "I was starting to wonder if you got lost in the halls. You look like you've been running a marathon."

"More like running for my life," I mutter, pulling my knees up to my chest. "I spent the entirety of yesterday desperately trying to get rid of Ryker. The guy just doesn't know how to take a hint, and I was dodging him all morning."

As the words leave my mouth, a brief flash of yesterday plays in my mind. The heavy, traumatic details sit right on the tip of my tongue, burning to be spoken, but I make a conscious decision to keep them to myself. I intentionally omit the disturbing reveal of his massive, jagged burn scars. I push aside the haunting survivor's guilt I recognized lurking deep in his dark, stormy eyes. It feels too intimate, too raw to share casually over lunch. Instead, I offer Tasha a sanitized, much lighter version of the events, framing him as nothing more than a persistent annoyance.

Tasha shudders at the mere mention of his name, rubbing her arms as if a cold chill just swept through the sunny courtyard. "Ryker genuinely scares me," she admits, dropping her half-eaten sandwich back onto its wrapper.

"Scares you?" I raise an eyebrow, plucking a blade of grass from the edge of the blanket. "He's definitely a frustrating prick, but scary seems like a stretch."

"You don't get it," Tasha insists, leaning in closer. Her voice drops to a hushed, conspiratorial whisper. "He spent time in juvenile detention last year. There are so many dark rumors surrounding him that I often wonder which ones are actually true. People whisper about the things he did, the fights he got into. It’s wild."

I tilt my head, a spike of genuine curiosity piercing through my exhaustion. "Are you talking about the explosive rumor where he supposedly slept with Mr. Burke's wife?"

Tasha chokes on her bottled water.

She turns away, coughing into her elbow, her eyes watering in utter shock. It takes her a solid minute to catch her breath, thumping her chest with her fist.

"Sorry," I say, wincing slightly.

"Where did you hear that?" Tasha gasps, wiping a stray drop of water from her chin. "The entire school was buzzing about that months ago, but nobody actually knows the details. Who told you?"

"Ryker," I answer simply.

Her eyes go wide. "He told you himself?"

"Yeah. He just blurted it out."

Tasha frowns deeply, her expression shifting from shock to pure confusion. She crosses her legs tighter. "That is so weird. He never talks about his personal life. His usual MO is to sulk in a dark corner and keep every single person at arm's length. He doesn't just go around confessing things to the new girl."

"Well, he did," I shrug, trying to play off the strange knot tightening in my chest.

Her voice softens, losing the gossipy edge from moments before. She picks at a loose thread on her jeans, adding a crucial detail. "He’s always been intense, but things got worse and more violent for him after his mom died."

The weight of those words strikes a profound, echoing chord deep within my chest. The breath catches in my throat, and the vibrant green of the courtyard suddenly feels a little duller. The image of the scars on his chest flashes in my mind again, but this time, the context twists the knife in my gut.

I swallow hard, my voice dropping to a near whisper. "Maybe you judge him too harshly."

Tasha blinks, surprised by my sudden defense of the guy I was just complaining about. "What do you mean?"

Fighting the sharp sting of unshed tears burning in my nose, I look down at my hands. My fingers tremble slightly. "I lost my dad," I confess, the admission tasting like ash on my tongue. "And I understand how losing a parent would make you want to push the entire world away. It changes you. It breaks something inside of you that no one else can see."

Tasha’s eyes go wide with horror. Her hand flies to cover her mouth, and she immediately stammers out a frantic, heartfelt apology. "Oh my god. Jessa, I am so sorry. I didn’t mean—I had no idea. I’m so sorry for being so insensitive about your loss."

I force a trembling, fragile smile, looking up to meet her panicked gaze. "It's genuinely fine," I assure her, though my chest aches with the familiar throb of grief. "Just... please don't talk about death like it couldn't rip a person's entire life apart in an instant."

"I swear I won't," she says softly, tracing a quick cross over her heart with a child-like sincerity. "I promise."

The heavy mood lingers in the air between us, thick and uncomfortable. Desperate to shift the atmosphere, Tasha sits up straighter, a sudden burst of enthusiasm lighting up her features. "Hey, do you have plans this weekend? There is a massive house party this coming Saturday, and you should definitely come with me."

I immediately shake my head, resisting the idea. "I don't think so. A crowded high school party really isn't my scene. I’d rather just stay home."

"Oh, come on!" Tasha begs, clasping her hands together in a sweet pleading motion. "If it sucks, I promise we can leave early. We’ll go straight to my place, eat massive amounts of ice cream, and watch movies all night. Please?"

The promise of a quiet movie night with junk food sounds infinitely better than spending a Saturday night dodging my bitterly alcoholic mother in a tense, suffocating house. I let out a defeated sigh. "Fine. I'll go."

"Yes!" Tasha squeals, clapping her hands together just as the loud, jarring ring of the school bell interrupts us.

We gather our things quickly, shaking out the plaid blanket. We part ways with a quick wave, heading off to our next block of classes.

When I walk into my next room and take my seat, I scan the rows of desks. I immediately notice that Ryker is nowhere to be seen. His chair sits empty, devoid of his looming, dark presence.

Even though I know he is a certified, arrogant asshole who brings nothing but chaos into my life, a frustrating prick of disappointment suddenly settles deep in the pit of my stomach. My internal monologue screams in protest.

Why? Why? Why?

I grip my pen tighter, staring at the empty desk. There is not a single logical reason why I should want to see him or feel his absence. I should be celebrating the fact that I don't have to deal with his intense stare or his mocking smirk. Yet, as the teacher begins the lecture, my eyes keep darting to the door, foolishly hoping he might stroll in late. He never does.

When the class finally ends, the suffocating, familiar edge of a panic attack begins to claw at my throat. The walls of the classroom feel like they are closing in. The chatter of the other students morphs into a deafening roar. I need to get out. I need to breathe.

Seeking my usual refuge, I dodge through the crowded hallway and sprint straight to the isolated, rarely used library bathroom. It’s a forgotten space, hidden away from the main rush of the school. I push open the door and lock myself inside, immensely grateful to find it completely empty.

I stumble over to the sink and heavily grip the cold porcelain counter. My knuckles turn white as I stare at my pale, exhausted reflection in the cracked mirror above the basin. My chest heaves. I close my eyes, counting my breaths, forcing the panic down. I will my heart rate to slow down, focusing on the cool surface beneath my hands.

Just as I finally manage to catch my breath and regulate my burning lungs, the heavy wooden door loudly clicks open.

I freeze. The sound of the latch echoes sharply against the tile.

I instinctively plaster a fake, pleasant smile onto my face, preparing to excuse myself and rush out. But as I turn around, I come face to face with Brielle.

She stands directly in the entryway, effectively blocking the only exit. With her long, pristine white-blonde hair falling perfectly down her back and a tight designer shirt clinging flawlessly to her curves, she looks like a predator cornering her prey. Her hip is cocked in pure aggression, her arms crossed tight over her chest.

Even though she appears to be alone in the small room, I don't doubt for a single second that her loyal friends are waiting right outside the door, standing guard to block my escape if I try to make a run for it.

The air in the bathroom instantly turns freezing.

Brielle takes a deliberate step closer, her pristine sneakers squeaking faintly against the linoleum. Her lip curls into a vicious, ugly sneer as she raises an arrogant eyebrow, looking me up and down like I am dirt stuck to the bottom of her shoe.

She spits out my name like a curse. "So, you’re Jessa."

I tightly clench my jaw, pressing my lips together in silence. I refuse to give her the satisfaction of a response. She doesn't need one. We both know exactly why she is here.

She leans in, closing the distance between us until I can smell the sickeningly sweet scent of her perfume. Her eyes are dark with malice, her voice dripping with pure venom as she delivers a chilling, unequivocal threat.

"Declan’s mine, you bitch. Stay away from him."