Things Best Friends Don’t Do

Chapter 4: Everyone Talks, Nobody Knows

If Monday was a campaign of avoidance, Tuesday was a full-scale siege. The fragile truce I had brokered with my own sanity was shattered the moment I stepped onto school property. The gossip from Jace’s party hadn’t just spread; it had mutated, twisting into grotesque and unrecognizable versions of the truth. It was a virus, and I was patient zero.

I felt it before I heard it—the shift in the atmosphere, the subtle turning of heads as I walked down the main hall. It was a tangible thing, a prickle on the back of my neck, the collective weight of a hundred pairs of eyes. Whispers followed in my wake, barely-audible hisses that were somehow louder than the slam of lockers and the cacophony of morning chatter.

*“…can’t believe she had the nerve…”*

*“…heard Jace has always had a thing for her, the quiet type, you know…”*

*“…poor Stacy, her own best friend’s a snake…”*

Wait. *His* best friend. They had twisted it already, demoting me from my own role in our story to a footnote in his. I was no longer Layla Hart, a person. I was Jace Carter’s nerdy, scheming best friend. I pulled the hood of my grey sweatshirt further over my head, a pathetic attempt at invisibility, and focused on putting one foot in front of the other.

My own locker felt like a stage. As I fumbled with the combination, a group of sophomore girls I didn't know huddled a few feet away, their conversation a stage-whisper designed to be overheard.

“I heard she’s been obsessed with him for years,” one said, her voice dripping with faux pity. “She probably bribed Mark to dare her. It’s actually kind of sad.”

“Sad? It’s pathetic,” another chimed in, flicking her over-straightened hair. “Imagine trying to steal your best friend’s boyfriend at his own party. In front of everyone.”

The words were tiny, poisoned darts. They struck a part of me I didn’t know was so vulnerable. I ripped my locker open with more force than necessary, the metal door groaning in protest. They scattered like startled birds. I grabbed my history textbook, my knuckles white, and slammed the door shut. The bang echoed in the hallway, drawing more eyes. My face was on fire. I wanted the floor to swallow me whole.

The cruelty of it was the sheer invention. They were painting a narrative, creating a character for me that was equal parts pathetic and predatory. A lovesick loser who had schemed her way into a ten-second kiss. They had no idea. They couldn't possibly comprehend the truth, because the truth was something I barely understood myself. They didn’t know about the gentleness of his hand on my cheek, the way the world had silenced, the stunned, breathless question that had hung in the air between us when it was over.

That memory felt sacred now. A fragile, secret thing I had to protect from the rancid taste of public opinion. It was mine. *Ours.* And they were trampling all over it with their dirty assumptions.

History class was a fresh hell. I sat in my seat, staring blankly at the blackboard as Mr. Harrison lectured about the Salem Witch Trials. The parallels were not lost on me—a community whipped into a frenzy of accusation, a girl at the center of a storm of speculation. A girl in the row ahead of me, Jessica Thorne, one of Stacy’s chief lieutenants, turned around. She had a pen tucked behind her ear and a smile that was pure saccharine venom.

“Hey, Layla,” she said, her voice loud enough for the entire table cluster to hear. “I was just wondering. Was it worth it?”

The question hung in the air, slick and loaded. *Worth what?* The public humiliation? The destruction of my oldest friendship? The gut-wrenching turmoil that had taken up residence in my chest?

I just stared at her, my throat too tight to form a response.

“I mean,” she continued, leaning forward conspiratorially, “he’s, like, the best kisser in the whole school, right? At least, that’s what Stacy says.”

My blood ran ice-cold. She was baiting me, trying to get a reaction, a confirmation, another juicy tidbit to feed the rumor mill. Comparing my ten seconds of terrifying, universe-altering discovery to whatever Stacy experienced. The thought was nauseating.

Before I could say anything, a voice from behind me cut in, low and sharp. “Leave her alone, Jessica.”

It was Jace.

My entire body went rigid. I hadn’t even realized he was there. I still didn’t look back, but the sound of his voice, defensive and protective of me, was a spark of warmth in the icy landscape of my morning. Jessica’s sickly-sweet smile faltered. She shot a look over my shoulder, a flicker of fear in her eyes, before turning back around with a huff.

I spent the rest of the period acutely, painfully aware of him behind me. His presence was a magnetic pull I was fighting with every ounce of my being. He had defended me. He was on my side. But that simple fact only made things more complicated. It meant he knew this was happening. It meant he was caught in it, too.

At lunch, I couldn't face the thought of the library again. It felt too much like surrender, like letting them chase me into hiding. With a deep, fortifying breath, I walked into the cafeteria with Ryan, a silent, sarcastic bodyguard at my side.

“You’re braver than me,” he muttered, grabbing a tray. “This place is a shark tank today, and you’re wearing a meat bathing suit.”

“Just trying to maintain a shred of normalcy,” I lied.

We found a small, two-person table near the vending machines, as far away from the popular crowd’s central command as possible. But even from here, I could see them. Stacy was holding court, laughing and gesturing dramatically as she recounted some story. She looked vibrant, powerful, completely in her element. She was feeding on this drama, thriving on it.

And then I saw Jace. He was sitting at the end of the table, pushing food around his plate with a fork, his shoulders tense. He wasn’t laughing. He wasn't even talking. His gaze was sweeping the cafeteria, a restless, searching look on his face. He was looking for me.

My heart gave a painful thud. I quickly dropped my gaze to my own tray, my sandwich suddenly looking like a lump of cardboard.

Ryan followed my gaze. “He looks like a death row inmate waiting for a call from the governor,” he observed dryly. “Stacy, on the other hand, looks like she just won the lottery. Funny, that.”

He was right. This was all her doing. A perfectly executed social assassination. And I had walked right into the line of fire. I felt a surge of anger, hot and clean, cut through the fear. Anger at Stacy for her cruelty, at the gossips for their stupidity, and at myself for being so affected by it all.

A loud burst of laughter from a nearby table of football players made me flinch.

“Dude, can you imagine?” one of them boomed. “Carter had to kiss *Layla Hart*. I’d need a tetanus shot after that!”

The laughter that followed was brutal. It was the kind of careless, dehumanizing cruelty that only teenage boys could perfect. It struck me harder than any of the whispers. It wasn’t just about the drama anymore; it was about me. My worth. My desirability. Or lack thereof.

That was it. I couldn't take another second. The sandwich in my stomach turned to lead. “I have to go,” I choked out, grabbing my backpack.

“Layla…” Ryan started, his face etched with genuine concern.

“I’m fine,” I lied again, pushing away from the table and weaving through the crowded room, my head down, my vision blurring with hot, unshed tears. I didn’t care about normalcy anymore. I just needed to escape.

I made it through the rest of the day on autopilot, a ghost haunting the hallways of my own life. When the final bell rang, I didn't hesitate. I bolted, making a beeline for the same side exit by the gym. It was my escape route, my secret passage out of this nightmare.

My hand was on the cool metal push-bar of the door. Freedom was one step away.

A hand closed around my arm.

It wasn’t rough, but it was firm, undeniable, stopping me in my tracks. I froze, my heart leaping into my throat. I knew that touch. I knew the warmth of those fingers, the strength in that grip.

I turned my head slowly, my hooded sweatshirt falling back.

Jace stood there, blocking my exit, his body a solid wall between me and escape. His dark hair was a mess, his honey-colored eyes weren't angry or amused. They were filled with a desperate, raw frustration that mirrored my own. The noise of the hallway faded away. The world narrowed once again to the space between us. He had been waiting for me. He had figured out my pattern. There was nowhere left to run.

He took a deep breath, his grip on my arm softening slightly but not releasing. He wasn't asking. He was demanding. His voice was low, strained, and stripped of all its usual easygoing charm.

"Layla," he said, and my name was a broken thing between us. "We are talking. Right now."