Chapter 4: Avery

Avery’s POV

I'd forgotten just how loud Westfield High hallways could be.

The cacophony of slamming locker doors, overlapping conversations, and sneakers squeaking against linoleum hit me like a wave as I walked through the front doors. For a moment, I almost turned around and walked right back out.

But I didn't come back here to run away again.

I lifted my chin and kept walking, focusing on the steady rhythm of my breathing like Dr. Martinez had taught me. In for four counts, hold for four, out for four.

It was a technique that had gotten me through panic attacks and sleepless nights and the first day at my new school second semester sophomore year when everything felt impossible.

I could handle this.

"...is that really her?"

"...thought she moved away..."

"...looks so different..."

The whispers followed me down the hallway like ghosts.

I kept my expression neutral, my pace steady, my eyes forward. I'd learned how to do this. I’d learned how to walk through a crowd like their stares couldn't touch me, like their words bounced off some invisible shield I'd built around myself.

But underneath that shield, my heart was racing.

"Holy shit, Avery Whitmore?"

I turned to see a tall girl with curly red hair approaching me, her face lit up with genuine excitement.

It took me a second to place her. Tara Veracruze.

We'd been friendly in middle school, paired up for group projects sometimes, but never really close. I'd been too wrapped up in... other things.

"Tara," I said, managing a real smile for the first time all morning. "Hi."

"I can't believe you're back! I heard you moved to..." She paused, clearly not actually knowing where I'd gone. "Well, somewhere. When did you get back?"

"Yesterday," I said. "Still getting settled."

"This is so crazy. You look..." She gestured vaguely at me, clearly struggling for the right word. "Amazing. Really different. Good different!"

"Thanks." I tucked a strand of hair behind my ear, a nervous habit I'd never quite shaken. "You look great too."

And she did. Tara had always been pretty in an understated way, but now she carried herself with more confidence. Her clothes were carefully chosen, not trying too hard, but definitely intentional.

"So are you back for good? For senior year?"

"That's the plan."

"That's awesome! God, so much has happened since you left. Did you hear about Jenny Woods and Kyle what's-his-name? And the whole drama with the student council elections last spring? Oh, and—"

She launched into a rapid-fire update of the last two years of Westfield High social dynamics, and I found myself genuinely listening.

There was something comforting about Tara's chatter, the way she treated my return like it was exciting news instead of something to whisper about.

"...but enough about all that," she said, finally pausing for breath. "What about you? Where have you been? What was your other school like?"

"Connecticut," I said simply. "Smaller than here. Pretty boring, honestly."

It wasn't entirely a lie.

The town had been smaller, and the school had been boring compared to the social minefield that was Westfield. But it had also been safe. Quiet. A place where nobody knew anything about the girl who'd disappeared in the middle of sophomore year.

"Well, I'm glad you're back," Tara said warmly. "We should hang out sometime. Catch up properly."

"I'd like that," I said, and was surprised to find that I meant it.

The warning bell rang, signaling five minutes until first period.

"Shit, I have to get to calculus," Tara said, hitching her bag higher on her shoulder. "But seriously, let's get lunch or something soon, okay?"

"Okay," I agreed.

She hurried off down the hallway, and I watched her go with something that felt almost like relief. At least one person was treating me like a normal human being instead of a source of gossip.

The feeling didn't last long.

"...can't believe she actually come back..."

"...after what happened with..."

"...wonder if she thinks people forgot..."

I forced myself to keep walking, to keep breathing, to keep my face impassive. They wanted a reaction. They wanted to see me crumble, to confirm whatever stories they'd built about me in my absence.

I wouldn't give them the satisfaction.

But when I turned the corner and saw him standing by his locker with his friends, everything inside me clenched tight.

Bryson Alexander Gray.

He looked the same but different, the way people do when you've been away from them for a long time.

Taller, broader across the shoulders.

His hair was shorter than it used to be, styled instead of just tousled from sleep. He was wearing a letterman jacket that fit him perfectly, and when he laughed at something one of his friends said, I could see the easy confidence that had always come so naturally to him.

He looked like exactly what he was: the golden boy quarterback with the perfect life and the perfect girlfriend and the perfect future stretching out ahead of him.

And when our eyes met across the hallway, for just a moment, I saw something flicker in his expression.

Surprise, maybe. Or guilt.

Good.

I looked away first, not because I couldn't handle his stare, but because I chose to. Because I had places to be and things to do that were more important than whatever game he thought we were playing.

I heard him say my name, I paused and instantly regretted it. I was not going to give him the satisfaction.

Ever.

I kept walking.

I had work to do. Classes to ace, teachers to impress, a future to build that had nothing to do with Bryson Alexander Gray or the mess he'd helped create two years ago.

But as I walked away, I couldn't shake the memory of his face in that split second before I'd looked away. The way he'd looked at me like I was something precious he'd lost and never expected to find again.

Too bad for him. Some things, once broken, could never be fixed.