Three
1218 Words
Mia pov
Monday comes.
He's early this time. Two minutes early. Shows up in actual jeans and a t-shirt that actually fits him. I notice. I try not to notice, but I notice.
He's also got his book. Actually open. Actually has sticky notes marking pages.
"Look," he says, dropping into the chair across from me. "I read it. The whole thing. Every word."
I raise an eyebrow. "And?"
"And I still think Heathcliff's a d**k. But I get why he's like that now. The whole being abandoned thing. The obsession with Catherine. It's like he never learned how to be a person outside of her."
I blink. "That's... actually a really good analysis."
"I have my moments." He grins. "What? You thought I was just a pretty face?"
"I thought you were just a face. The pretty part is debatable."
He laughs. Actually laughs. Loud and unselfconscious. It's the first time I've heard him really laugh, and it does something weird to my chest.
"I brought you this," he says, pushing a coffee cup across the table. "Caramel latte. Your one splurge for the week."
I stare at the cup. Then at him. "How did you know that?"
"You said it. Last week. When you were complaining about your coffee getting cold."
I did say that. I remember saying that. But I didn't think he was paying attention.
"You remembered that?"
"I pay attention." He shrugs. "To some things."
The coffee is still warm. I take a sip. It's perfect.
"Okay," I say, trying to regain control of the situation. "Let's start with the assignment. You're supposed to write a character analysis of Heathcliff. What's your thesis?"
He shifts in his seat. "I don't know. That he's a product of his environment? That he never had a chance to be anything else?"
"That's a good start. But we need to go deeper. Why does that matter? What's the point of his story?"
"I don't know." He runs a hand through his hair. "That's why I'm here."
I look at him. Really look. He's not being difficult. He's genuinely struggling.
"Okay," I say. "Let's break it down. What does Heathcliff want?"
"Revenge."
"Why?"
"Because Catherine chose someone else."
"Right. And why does that matter? Why does her choice destroy him?"
He's quiet for a moment. Then, slowly, "Because he built his whole identity around her. Without her, he's nothing. He doesn't know who he is."
I nod. "Exactly. And that's the tragedy. Heathcliff never learned how to be his own person. He tied everything to Catherine, and when she was gone, he had nothing left. Just anger. Just obsession."
"Like me with lacrosse."
The words slip out. I can tell he didn't mean to say them. His jaw tightens. His eyes go somewhere far away.
"What do you mean?" I ask, careful.
"Nothing." He shakes his head. "Forget it."
"Alex."
"I said forget it."
The silence stretches between us. I should let it go. I should focus on the assignment. But I can't. There's something there. Something he's not saying.
"Your dad," I say quietly. "He's the reason you're so scared of failing, isn't he?"
His head snaps up. "I'm not scared."
"You're terrified. I can see it. The way you bounce your knee. The way you check your phone. The way you can't sit still. You're not just failing a class. You're failing him."
"Stop."
"Alex—"
"I said stop."
He stands up abruptly. His chair scrapes against the floor. "You don't know anything about me. You don't know anything about my life."
"Then tell me."
He stares at me. His chest is heaving. His hands are shaking. For a second, I think he's going to leave.
Then he sits back down.
"My dad," he says slowly, "doesn't believe in second chances. He doesn't believe in failure. He believes in winning. That's it. That's all that matters. And if I can't win, if I can't be the best, then I'm worthless."
"Alex—"
"He told me once. When I was thirteen. He said, 'Sullivans don't lose. If you lose, you're not a Sullivan.'"
My chest tightens. "That's horrible."
"It's his truth." He shrugs, but I can see the hurt underneath. "So yeah. I'm scared. I'm scared of losing. I'm scared of being nothing."
I reach across the table. Take his hand.
"You're not nothing," I say. "You're not."
He looks at our joined hands. Then at me. His eyes are different now. Softer. More open.
"Mia," he says, my name like a question.
"Alex."
He leans forward. Slowly. Like he's giving me time to pull away. I don't. I can't.
His face is inches from mine. I can feel his breath on my lips. Can see the flecks of gold in his blue eyes.
He's going to kiss me.
I want him to kiss me.
I want it more than I've ever wanted anything.
"Alex!"
The voice cuts through the air like a knife.
We pull apart. Fast. Guilty.
A girl is standing at the end of the aisle. Blonde. Perfect. Polished. Nicole Sinclair. Alex's ex.
"What are you doing?" Her eyes flick between us. Dismissive. Cruel. "With her?"
Alex stands up. "Nicole. Not now."
"I'm just asking." She smiles, but it doesn't reach her eyes. "I didn't know you were slumming it now. With the fat girl from your English class."
The words hit me like a physical blow. I shrink back in my chair. My hand goes to my stomach. Covering. Hiding.
"Don't," Alex says. His voice is cold. Hard. "Don't talk about her like that."
"Why? It's true." Nicole shrugs. "Everyone knows you're just using her for the grades. Don't pretend it's anything more."
"Get out." His voice is ice. "Now."
Nicole laughs. "Fine. But you should know. People are talking. The golden boy, falling so far. It's pathetic, Alex. Even for you."
She walks away. Her heels click against the floor. Click. Click. Click. Like nails in a coffin.
The silence she leaves behind is unbearable.
I start packing my things. My hands are shaking. I can't look at him.
"Mia. Mia, wait."
"I have to go."
"Please." He catches my wrist. "Please. She's wrong. She's wrong about everything."
"She's not wrong." I pull my hand free. "She's not wrong about me. She's not wrong about what people think. She's not wrong about what you're doing."
"What I'm doing?"
"Using me." I finally look at him. "That's what this is, isn't it? The coffee. The notes. All of it. You just need me to pass."
"That's not true."
"Then what is it, Alex? What do you want from me?"
He opens his mouth. Closes it. Opens it again.
"I don't know," he finally says. "I don't know what I want. But I know it's not that. It's not just the grades. It's not just the class. It's you. Something about you. I can't explain it."
"That's not an answer."
"I know." He runs a hand through his hair. "But it's the truth."
I stare at him. At this boy who's confused and scared and trying. At this boy who almost kissed me. At this boy who defended me.
"I have to go," I say again.
"Mia—"
"Monday. 3 PM. Same time."
I walk away before he can stop me.
- Writer
