He Deserved It

CHAPTER 5 – War Room

The Arroyo Mesa Public Library study rooms were never truly silent. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead like a warning. The air conditioner clicked in irregular bursts, struggling like it was pushing against something unseen. But the space was neutral. Public. Off everyone’s radar.

And that mattered—because everything else had gone viral.

It wasn’t Savannah who figured it out. Or Mila. Or Imani. It was the mutuals. The sideliners. Observers with long memories and short loyalties. Someone tagged Savannah in a photo from the Homecoming pep rally: Didn’t he go with you too? Someone else DMed Mila a blurry screenshot of the viral kiss, along with, Check her page. Her name’s Savannah. Imani’s friend sent her a t****k: When your AP Chem partner kisses you at 3pm but stars in someone else’s story at 4.

It didn’t explode. It unspooled—one receipt at a time. A few DMs. Some careful stalking. One group chat built from rage.

And now—this room.

Savannah was first. She set her iced coffee on the table and smoothed the hem of her blazer with deliberate precision. Her hands folded like she was waiting for a deposition, not a conversation. She picked the seat closest to the wall. No surprises from behind.

Mila walked in next. No apology. No nod. Hoodie half-zipped, hoops swinging, sunglasses still perched on her head like armor. She dropped into the chair across from Savannah and unwrapped a stick of gum like she’d rather be anywhere else.

“Didn’t think you’d actually show,” she said, chewing slowly.

Savannah didn’t look up. “I always show.”

Mila blew a bubble and let it pop.

Imani arrived last. Backpack over one shoulder. A tight nod. No wasted words. She pulled out her planner and took the third chair like she was clocking in.

No one spoke. The silence hummed with held breath and dust.

Savannah broke it first. “We should start with dates.”

“Like homecoming dates or timeline dates?” Mila asked, tone flat, but her eyebrow lifted.

“Timeline. We need to see where the overlaps started.”

Imani opened her planner and scanned the pages. “He first texted me August 12th. We were paired for the Youth Leadership Council mock city project.”

Savannah nodded, scrolling through her phone. “He asked for my number July 29th. Met me at my cousin’s pool party. Said his name was Jordan Black. Said he went to St. Augie’s.” She looked up. “Which doesn’t even exist.”

Mila’s jaw tightened. Her gum stopped moving. “Damn. So he was already stacking lies. I met him August 19th. First scrimmage of the season. Said he liked the mural I painted behind the bleachers. We started hooking up the next week.”

Imani’s pen stilled. “So by August, he was already juggling three lives.”

“Three lies,” Mila muttered, cracking her gum.

They started laying it out. Slowly. Guardedly. Not every detail. Just enough to sketch the edges of the trap they’d all fallen into.

Imani had Fridays. Long texts. Study sessions. Mock debates. He called her his calm.

Savannah had Sunday brunches. Courtyard walks. Notes left in her locker. He called her his center.

Mila had late nights. Parties. Hoodies exchanged in dim backseats. He called her his home.

They flinched—one by one—as the echoes overlapped.

Mila’s gum went still. “Wait. He said that to you too? About being his home?”

Savannah blinked like she was seeing her memories under blacklight. “He told me I made everything feel still. Like I was the only real thing.”

Imani’s voice dropped. “He told me I was the first person he could trust. That with me, everything else went quiet.”

No one spoke. The silence this time was heavier. Personal.

It wasn’t just that they’d been lied to. It was that the lies had worked.

“What about her?” Mila asked finally.

They didn’t need to ask who she meant.

Savannah crossed her legs. “Lia.”

Imani shut her planner. “The girl in the video.”

Mila’s jaw clenched. “She looked like she meant it. That wasn’t a surprise kiss. She was all in.”

Savannah didn’t answer. Her knuckles whitened around the edge of the table.

Imani tapped her pen twice. “Whether she wanted it or not, it doesn’t change what he did. But are we bringing her in?”

Mila laughed—but it was bitter, sharp at the edges. “Bring her in? She looped herself out the second she climbed him at that rally.”

Savannah spoke quietly. “We don’t know everything.”

“I don’t care,” Mila snapped.

The air tightened again. Like the room was listening.

Savannah swallowed. “Let’s stick to what we do know. We all have proof. Messages. Photos. Dates.”

She turned her phone to face them. “October 4th. He sent me this: ‘I’ve never felt more seen than when I’m with you.’”

Imani looked down, then slowly turned her screen. “October 6th. Same message.”

Mila raised hers. “October 5th. With a kissy face.”

They stared.

Imani exhaled, voice flat. “Copy. Paste. Send.”

Mila leaned back in her chair. “He was efficient. I’ll give him that.”

Something cracked.

The disbelief started bleeding out—and fury took its place.

Savannah’s voice went small. “I really thought it was just me.”

Imani’s fingers curled over the planner’s edge. “He made it feel like science. Reward systems. Cause and effect. Like if you did all the right things…you’d matter.”

Mila whispered, “He made me feel safe.” Her gum had gone cold in her mouth. “That’s the worst part.”

For a moment, they weren’t competitors. They were girls holding shattered versions of the same story.

Savannah asked, “So what do we do now?”

Imani closed her planner with a soft snap. “We agree on the timeline. Compare the data. Confirm that it wasn’t a mistake. It was a system.”

Mila raised a brow. “Okay, CIA. You want a spreadsheet?”

“I already made one,” Imani said, sliding her phone across the table.

Color-coded. Initials. Notes. Timestamps.

Savannah stared. “Respect.”

They went over it all. The calls. The playlists. The recycled compliments. And with every confirmation, another illusion died.

He wasn’t a guy who made a mistake. He was a guy who designed this.

Savannah stared into her coffee. Imani leaned back in her chair and rubbed her temples. Mila pinched the bridge of her nose, eyes hot.

They knew now. Not just that he lied. But that he studied them. Used them like mirrors. Puppets.

“I don’t want to be friends,” Mila said suddenly. “Just so we’re clear.”

Savannah nodded. “Same.”

Imani didn’t flinch. “We don’t have to like each other. We just have to agree on what happened.”

And they did.

Three girls. Three versions of truth. One boy who made them doubt everything—especially themselves.

Savannah said it first, “He played us.”

Mila, “Hard.”

Imani, “And precisely.”

No one smiled. But no one argued.

They stood. No hugs. No goodbyes. Just three girls walking out of a library study room with something jagged in their chests.

It wasn’t friendship. But it was the beginning of something dangerous enough to matter.