Chapter 4: Forced Together.
1456 Words
The first study session happened on Thursday after school.
In the library.
My choice, obviously.
The library had rules. Structure. Predictability.
And, most importantly, it had Mrs. Okafor.
Mrs. Okafor treated silence the way some people treated religion. If you whispered too loudly, she'd appear beside your table out of nowhere and stare at you until you reconsidered every decision that had led you to that moment.
It was perfect.
Neutral territory.
Safe territory.
I got there five minutes early.
Not because I was nervous.
Because I was prepared.
There was a difference.
I claimed a table near the back windows and laid everything out neatly. Notebook. Pens. Project rubric. Printed reading list. Sticky notes.
Everything had a place.
Everything made sense.
I was uncapping my pen when a chair scraped softly across the floor.
Zane.
Three minutes late.
Not that I was counting.
He dropped into the chair across from me and set a battered copy of Giovanni's Room on the table.
That was it.
No notebook.
No binder.
No laptop.
Nothing.
I blinked.
"You don't have anything to write with."
He looked down at the empty table in front of him.
Then back at me.
"I'll remember it."
I stared.
He stared back.
Apparently he was serious.
With a sigh, I slid one of my spare pens across the table.
The pen stopped near his hand.
For a second, he just looked at it.
Like nobody had ever handed him a pen before.
Then he picked it up.
"Thanks."
The word sounded genuine.
Which somehow threw me off more than if he'd been sarcastic.
I cleared my throat and clicked my own pen.
Business mode.
"Okay. So. The project is a comparative analysis of two texts connected by a common theme. We have to choose our books by next Friday."
"I know."
His mouth twitched slightly.
"I was in class."
Heat crawled up my neck.
"I'm aware of that."
"Mm."
"I'm just reviewing."
"Recapping."
"Fine. Recapping."
A flicker of amusement crossed his face.
Very brief.
Still annoying.
I looked down at my notes before I could get distracted.
"We need something with enough material for analysis but not something everybody else is going to pick."
"Agreed."
I glanced up.
For once, he actually looked focused.
Not bored.
Not restless.
Focused.
One arm rested on the table while the other loosely held the pen I'd given him.
That's when I noticed the bruise.
It sat along the edge of his jaw.
Faded yellow and green.
Old enough to be healing.
New enough to still be visible.
My eyes lingered for half a second.
Then I looked away.
Not my business.
Definitely not my business.
"I was thinking The Great Gatsby," I said. "Maybe paired with something contemporary. Illusion versus reality."
Zane immediately shook his head.
"Gatsby's overused."
I frowned.
"It's a classic."
"So are a lot of things."
"It's part of the AP curriculum."
"That doesn't make it interesting."
His tone wasn't rude.
Matter-of-fact, if anything.
Which somehow made it harder to argue with.
He leaned forward and pulled the reading list toward himself.
His fingers brushed the edge of the paper.
I watched him scan it.
Actually scan it.
Not pretend to.
Most people looked at assigned reading lists the way they looked at medical bills.
Zane looked interested.
A minute passed.
Then he tapped one title.
"What about Giovanni's Room and The Remains of the Day?"
I blinked.
"What?"
"Same central idea."
He tapped the paper again.
"People denying themselves what they actually want. Living according to expectations instead of truth."
His voice softened slightly.
"The cost of that."
For a moment, I forgot to respond.
Because that was...
Actually really good.
Like, genuinely good.
Not fake-smart.
Not trying-to-impress-the-teacher good.
Just thoughtful.
He looked up.
Caught my expression.
One eyebrow lifted.
"You look surprised."
"I'm not surprised."
"You are."
"I'm just..."
I searched for a response.
"...thinking."
His smile appeared for half a second.
Not a full smile.
More like he knew exactly what I meant and wasn't going to call me out on it.
Which, somehow, was worse.
"I just had something different in mind," I finished.
"We can do Gatsby."
The offer came immediately.
No argument.
No stubbornness.
No trying to prove his idea was better.
Just simple willingness.
"We can do whatever works."
I stared at him.
That wasn't what I expected.
At all.
"No."
I looked back at the paper.
"Yours is better."
A strange silence settled between us.
Not awkward.
Just... quiet.
I wrote the titles down.
Then glanced up.
"Have you read Ishiguro?"
"Not yet."
His fingers rolled the pen slowly across the table.
"You?"
"Last year."
I smiled despite myself.
"It's one of those books that sneaks up on you."
"How?"
I thought for a second.
"Nothing huge happens. Not really. It's very restrained."
I searched for the right words.
"Then suddenly you realize the main character spent his entire life being loyal to something that never loved him back."
The words hung there.
For a moment, neither of us spoke.
The library hummed softly around us. Pages turning. Keyboard clicks. The distant squeak of a cart wheel.
Then Zane looked down.
"Sounds familiar."
The words came out quiet.
Almost absentminded.
Something shifted in his expression.
A shadow.
Gone so fast I almost thought I'd imagined it.
But it was there.
For a second.
Something sad.
Something tired.
Then he blinked, and it disappeared.
---
After that, we actually worked.
Like... really worked.
Not the fake kind where one person does everything while the other scrolls through their phone.
Actual discussion.
Actual ideas.
And that was the problem.
Because the more we talked, the more complicated everything became.
Zane was smart.
Not classroom smart.
Not the kind who memorized facts and repeated them back.
He noticed things.
Tiny details in stories that everyone else skipped over.
Connections that shouldn't have made sense but somehow did.
He spoke slowly, carefully, like he was turning thoughts over before he let them out.
And every time he said something insightful, I became a little more irritated.
Because it was messing up the version of him I'd already built in my head.
The motorcycle-riding, rule-breaking neighbor.
The guy who rolled into driveways at two in the morning.
The obvious troublemaker.
That version was easier.
This version kept ruining things.
---
By the time we packed up, the sunlight outside had turned golden.
The library looked softer somehow.
Warmer.
I slipped my copy of The Remains of the Day out of my bag.
"Here."
Zane looked up.
I held out the book.
"You can borrow mine."
For a second, he didn't take it.
Then he reached for it carefully.
Not casually.
Carefully.
Like books mattered.
Like someone had taught him that once.
His thumb brushed the cover.
"Thanks."
There was that genuine tone again.
The one I wasn't used to.
He slid the novel into his jacket.
Not shoved.
Not crammed.
Tucked away.
Protected.
A ridiculous thing to notice.
And yet I noticed it anyway.
"Same time next week?" I asked.
"Yeah."
He stood and slung his backpack over one shoulder.
The leather of his jacket creaked softly.
Then he paused.
"Avery."
I looked up.
His expression had gone suspiciously neutral.
"You don't need to print the rubric next time."
I frowned.
"What?"
A tiny smile tugged at one corner of his mouth.
"I read the assignment."
My jaw dropped.
He turned and walked away before I could think of a comeback.
Infuriating.
Absolutely infuriating.
---
I watched him cross the library.
Watched him push through the front doors.
And that should've been it.
Conversation over.
Study session done.
Except just before the doors swung closed behind him, he stopped.
Turned.
Looked back.
Just once.
The moment lasted maybe a second.
Two at most.
But something in his face caught me off guard.
Not amusement.
Not confidence.
Not that calm, unreadable look he always seemed to wear.
This was different.
There was relief there.
Raw enough that he hadn't hidden it in time.
Like he'd been bracing himself for disappointment all afternoon and it hadn't come.
Like he'd expected me to judge him.
Or dismiss him.
Or give up on him.
And for some reason, I hadn't.
Then the expression vanished.
The doors shut.
And he was gone.
I sat there staring at the empty entrance for several seconds longer than necessary.
Then I looked down at my notes.
At the project outline.
At the neatly written book titles.
And for the first time since Zane Holloway had arrived in town, I found myself wondering something I hadn't considered before.
Not whether he was trouble.
But what had happened to make him expect the worst from people in the first place.
- Writer
