Sarah was still holding her tongue about Kayla, carrying a quiet, misplaced guilt I'd long ago told her she didn't need to bear.
I remembered sitting with Sarah, listening to her torment herself, convinced it was her fault. I'd been so pathologically chill back then, so used to being the helpful genius who got used.
Connor Hayes's phone was already recording from his strategic vantage point like a war correspondent. I could practically hear his livestream chat losing its collective goddamn mind.
Across the room, Jack Morrison sat with the pathetic remains of his once-mighty friend group, looking like someone had reached into his chest, ripped out his soul, and stomped on it. He watched Sofia clinging to my arm, saw the easy laughter she shared with Madison, and saw her choosing me. Publicly. For the second time today.
