21. Date?

I should've been worried that Jackie didn't show up at school the next day. But when I heard she'd just called in sick, I decided I didn't care that much. At least she wasn't dead or lying broken in a hospital bed.

So maybe when Victor said he gave Lara a warning, he meant something verbal. Something scary, sure—but not violent.

Or not.

The more I thought about it, the more frustrated I got. Everything looked like it wasn't him. Every time I tried to dig, the evidence bent just far enough away from him to keep me doubting myself.

Why the hell was he so suspicious?

I was in the library, pretending to research for class, but my mind wouldn't leave Victor alone. What was he doing right now? Who was he thinking about? Was he—

Wait.

Why was I thinking about him like that?

He's a weirdo pervert.

So what if he's ridiculously good-looking, with perfect skin and that voice and those eyes and—

Shut up, Anne.

But shouldn't he be near me right now? Flirting with me? Making some bold comment that makes my skin crawl?

GOD. GET A GRIP, ANNE. THIS IS A TERRIFYING GUY YOU CAN'T EVEN READ RIGHT!!!

I'm not like those girls who drool over Victor just because he exists. I'm not one of them.

But...

SHUT UP, BRAIN!! Period.

I slammed my book shut and gave up on pretending to study. I made my way toward my locker—again—which, by now, felt cursed. Something unpleasant always happened there.

And right on cue, I heard voices.

Not just any voices.

Victor. And a girl.

Kill me.

I slowed down, stayed just around the corner, and listened.

"But Vic—"

Ugh. Jessica Murphy. The girl with the worst rep in school. If it moved and had a pulse, she'd fuck it—especially if it was already taken.

"Don't call me that, Tessa," Victor said. His voice sounded bored.

"It's Jessica."

"Whatever."

"But you should remember your soon to be new girlfriend's name," she cooed.

"Whoa," he replied, dry. "Since when did you become qualified ?"

"Since I suggested we do all those things just now—"

"—Which you've already done with half the male population in school. So by that logic, you're everyone's girlfriend, aren't you?"

"Are you calling me a slut?"

"Umm... wasn't that clear?"

"How could you, Blackwood! I'm not a whore!"

"And I look like an ugly pig. But we both know that's impossible, Tiffany. Just impossible."

"It's Jessica!"

"I don't care."

"But you remember Anne's name?" she snapped.

"Because she's Anne."

"Huh! And what do you even see in that slut—"

"DO NOT CALL ANNE A SLUT!"

His voice was thunder.

"And besides," he added, not calmly, "she's a thousand times better than you. Physically. Mentally. In heart. So don't even think about touching her or trying to mess with her peaceful days."

"Oh don't worry, Vic. I can do more than call her names. I can humiliate her and—"

"And then you'll be messing with me. And you and I both know what happens to people who mess with me. You remember, Monica? From elementary school, right?"

She went quiet. "It's Jessica," she mumbled.

"And I don't give a damn if it's Jessica, Rebecca, or Jesselina. Got it?"

"Vic, I'm better—"

"In your dreams."

"But—"

"No buts. I've got to go make sure Anne is okay. I hope not to see you again."

"You'll come to me for your release soon," she purred, shamelessly.

"In your fucking dreams," Victor chuckled darkly. "I don't want my junk to fall off due to disease."

And with that, she stomped away.

I peeked around the corner just in time to see Victor still standing there, running a hand through his hair like he was trying to settle himself down. His expression was unreadable—tight jaw, clenched teeth.

Then he muttered something I couldn't hear, smirked to himself, and walked away.

I stood there.

Unnoticed.

Dumbfounded.

What the actual fuck was that?

What happened in elementary school that they both knew and I didn't?

And more urgently, why did it hurt—actually, genuinely hurt—to think about Victor having some sort of history with a girl like Jessica?

Yuck.

But it stung. Which could only mean one thing:

I'm fucked.

I probably have feelings for a stalker.

Maybe my brain is just wired weird.

I pulled out my phone and texted Victor fast before I could change my mind:

Wanna go out after school? Like a date-date?

If I'm going to figure this out, I might as well do it face to face.

***

The pier was mostly empty, which was exactly how I liked it. A few couples lingered with ice cream cones, and someone's dog kept trying to chase the waves. But mostly, it was just the wind, the water, and Victor walking beside me like this wasn't strange at all.

He'd been humming. Low and tuneless, the kind of sound you don't notice until it won't stop, even in his head. I didn't ask why. I didn't want to give him an opening.

"You're thinking too hard," he said suddenly, like it was something lighthearted.

I turned my head just enough to glance at him. "And you'd know?"

He grinned like he always did when he thought he'd said something clever. "You're staring at the ocean like it owes you money."

I didn't laugh. "Just tired."

Victor reached into his blazer pocket and pulled out a crinkled paper bag like it was some kind of gift. He offered it to me with both hands, too deliberately. That always set me on edge—when people got too ceremonial.

"Here," he said. "This should help."

I opened it slowly. Inside was a rosquilla, still warm, sticky with glaze and lemon. I hadn't had one in years. It smelled like childhood mornings and bakeries that didn't speak much English.

"You bought me a donut?" I asked.

"It's not a donut," he said. "It's better. From that old bakery with the grumpy old guy. I remembered you liked the lemon ones."

I stared at him. "I never told you that."

'But I remembered.'

He didn't answer out loud. Just smiled like that explained everything.

I took a bite anyway. It was soft, sugary, perfect. I hated that I liked it.

"So what's the occasion?" I asked, brushing crumbs off my fingers.

"No occasion," he said, leaning casually against the railing. "Just a perfect day with a perfect view of the perfect girl."

He wasn't looking at the water. He was looking at me.

I rolled my eyes. "You're corny."

"And you're hard to impress." He shrugged. "But not impossible."

A gull screeched overhead, and I turned my face away from him toward the sea. It was easier that way—when I didn't have to meet his eyes. Because his thoughts were never just thoughts.

"You really didn't have to go this far," I said. "The walk, the pastry, the... whatever this is."

He tilted his head, and his voice dropped into something softer, more practiced. "You're not used to people doing things just to make you happy, huh?"

That stopped me. I blinked at him.

He'd meant it as sympathy. He thought it was sympathy. But I heard something else—something possessive. Like I was a cracked thing he could make whole again if he just tried hard enough.

"I'm not used to people doing things without a reason," I said. "Even the nice ones."

He didn't flinch. He just smiled again. Patient. He always thought patience made him safe.

'So beautiful.'

Victor straightened suddenly and said, "Come on. I want to show you something."

I hesitated. "Is this the part where you push me into the water?"

"If I was going to, I'd wait until after you finished the rosquilla."

I followed him. I always did, and I hated that about myself.

He led me down the pier to a lookout deck I didn't even know existed—half-sheltered, almost hidden. There was a bench facing the water, with just enough space for two.

He gestured for me to sit.

I sat.

He didn't press close. Not yet. Just sat forward on his elbows, looking out.

"I used to come here a lot," he said. "When I didn't know what to do with myself."

I glanced at him. "You seem like someone who always knows what to do."

He gave a soft, dismissive shrug. "You'd be surprised. Sometimes I'd just sit here for hours and pretend I was somewhere else."

"Like where?"

"Wherever you were."

My fingers tightened around the paper bag.

He said it like it was something flirty and innocent. He wasn't pretending. He meant it. In his head I could see that he had followed me even before we ever spoke.

"I mean," he added, "before we really knew each other. You were just... interesting."

My stomach twisted.

"I used to think you were the only real person in that school," he went on, "like you saw through all the games and fake crap."

"I do see through it," I said.

"I know," he said, and smiled. "That's why I want to know you."

"You ever think," I said quietly, "that maybe you don't want to know someone so much as you want to have them?"

Victor turned his head slowly toward me, blinking once. "Is that what you think I'm doing?"

I looked straight at him. "I think you confuse the two."

He was quiet for a second. Just a second. Then he smiled again, smaller this time. Like he was pulling it in.

"Maybe," he said. "But I do care."

I stood up, brushing crumbs from my coat. I turned toward the water, let the wind hit my face, tried to find silence inside myself. Not his thoughts. Not mine.

Just something still.

Behind me, he didn't move. He just waited.

"It was a nice walk," I said finally, without looking at him.

"Yeah?" he asked, hopeful.

"Yeah," I said. But it left a sour taste in my mouth, like lemon gone bad.

And still, I didn't walk away.

We stood there like that, quiet. The wind tangled my hair. Victor didn't say another word. He didn't have to.

The thing that scared me most wasn't what he was thinking.

It was the fact that—for a little while—I genuinely didn't mind being there with him.

I wasn't looking for an exit. I wasn't annoyed. I wasn't trying to tune him out. I wasn't clawing to get away.

And I knew, in the deepest, most humiliating part of me, that this was exactly what he wanted. That smile he gave me when I bit into the rosquilla—he'd known. He'd planned for this. And I walked right into it.

Worse?

I liked the view. I liked the warmth. I liked the date.

And that was the part that made me sick.

Because if I could enjoy just one moment with him—if I could stand next to Victor, hear his thoughts and feel calm—then I was more fucked than I thought.

Because it meant I was starting to let him in.

And I didn't know how to stop it.