Countdown to Finals, Countdown to Heartbreak

The classroom went dead silent. Only the dean, Tom Brown's voice crackled through the speakers as he chewed out Harry Lodge over the PA system.

A few seconds later, the cheering and hollering got even louder, almost blowing the roof off.

Rachel York suddenly slammed her pen down and stood up, her expression tight as she stormed over to Gemma Sinclair. "Gemma, you've been drooling over Harry for a long time. Can't you keep him in check? Confessing in public like this is seriously childish."

But Gemma could clearly see the smug little glint in her eyes.

Her classmates' mocking whispers were like sparks landing on her skin, burning her cheeks. She clenched her fists and was just about to speak when Tom, still stone-faced, called Rachel out of the classroom instead.

For the rest of the period, neither Rachel nor Harry came back.

Gemma's mind was blank. When the bell finally rang, she bolted out of the classroom before anyone else. She had to find Harry and get an explanation.

But when she got to the track, she saw him standing there with a book over his head as punishment, his lips curved in a lazy smile as he told a joke to Rachel, who was being punished too.

He lifted his eyes and met Gemma's gaze. Instead of looking guilty or panicked, he seemed inspired. He dropped his eyes again and turned back to Rachel.

"Do you know why Gemma's always playing the comedian? Because the only thing she can get is a laugh—not a decent boyfriend."

Rachel burst out laughing.

Gemma, on the other hand, felt like someone had dumped a bucket of ice water over her head.

Three years ago, Harry had fallen into a deep depression after watching his mother jump off a building to her death. The fifth time Gemma had stopped him from doing something stupid, she'd clung to his blank, empty shell of a body and sobbed.

"Harry, I'll stay with you. I'll be the one who makes you laugh, okay? Trust me. I'll help you get better," she'd promised.

And she'd done it.

For three whole years, she'd forced herself to transform from the aloof, untouchable campus belle everyone talked about into the girl who always had a joke ready. She'd racked her brain for thousands of jokes and even made herself the punchline if it took that. Little by little, Harry started smiling more.

She never imagined that, in the end, she'd become a joke to him. That line about her being unable to get a decent boyfriend was practically him agreeing with the filthy rumors Rachel had already spread about her.

Gemma walked over to them, her muscles stiff and her throat dry. "Aren't you gonna explain anything?"

Harry looked irritated. "Explain what?"

"I'm the one who helped you recover from depression. You even kissed me—"

"Don't flatter yourself!" He cut her off coldly, his tone mocking. "Don't tell me you think you're some savior just because you've been acting like a clown this whole time. As for that kiss, I was just fooling around with you. It's not like you're some untainted virgin, anyway. Why bother acting all pure and innocent?"

He turned to Rachel and placed a hand on his chest, saying firmly, "Rachel, you're the only one I like."

Gemma bit her lip hard, her eyes red-rimmed.

Harry didn't give her the chance to question him further, though. He reached out to take Rachel's hand as if it were the most natural thing in the world; he didn't even get mad when she shook him off.

Gemma stood there and watched them walk off. The blazing sun shone down on her, but she felt cold all over.

For the rest of the classes that morning, she didn't take in a single word. Her eyes kept drifting to Harry, but his gaze was fixed on Rachel, who was napping on her desk. Not once did he look at Gemma.

By lunch, Gemma's stomach was hurting so badly that she stayed hunched over her desk instead of going to the cafeteria.

Harry suddenly walked over, took the seat in front of her, and turned around to face her. As though nothing had happened, he opened the container of oats he'd bought, scooped up a spoonful, and gently blew on it.

"Is your stomach hurting again? Have some oats. It'll help. I'll feed you."

Gemma stared blankly at the spoon held to her lips.

This was only the second time Harry had ever fed her. The first had been after she ran out into a downpour to perform a ridiculous cheer-up dance for him. The next day, she'd burned up a 104-degree fever, leaving her barely coherent.

Harry had skipped school and gone straight to her house. He'd called her an idiot and said she'd brought it on herself, but his eyes had been rimmed red as he'd patiently fed her chicken soup, one spoonful at a time.

Out of nowhere, tears splashed into the oats. Gemma's voice trembled as she tried to speak. "Harry, you—"

"Finish the oats first." He cut her off, his tone unusually gentle.

Her eyes burned, but she swallowed her hurt and did as he said.

By the time the container was nearly empty and she honestly couldn't eat another bite, Harry finally set the spoon down. "Gemma, I added a little something to the oats."