Chapter 9

The thing Rowan Hale hated most was not knowing where she stood.

With Lila, everything felt suspended, like a breath she’d been holding too long, like a game paused mid-play with no whistle to reset it. Rowan moved through the week on muscle memory alone, instinct filling in where focus should have been.

She kept her distance.

She didn’t do it well.

At school, she took longer routes between classes. She sat in different places. She laughed when she was supposed to and stayed quiet when she wasn’t. From the outside, nothing looked wrong.

Inside, she was unraveling in small, private ways.

She caught herself looking for Lila anyway, near the lockers, at the edge of the quad, in the reflections of windows she passed. Sometimes she saw her. Sometimes she didn’t. Both felt equally unsettling.

By Thursday, Rowan’s restraint started to slip.

It happened during film review, when Coach paused the footage and replayed the same sequence three times. Rowan watched herself hesitate, just a fraction of a second too slow.

“You see it?” Coach asked.

Rowan nodded. “Yeah.”

“You don’t normally miss that,” he said.

Rowan clenched her jaw. “Won’t happen again.”

Coach studied her for a moment, then let it go.

But Rowan couldn’t.

The fundraiser setup was that evening.

Rowan arrived early on purpose, hoping to get in and out before Lila showed up. She rolled out cables, adjusted tables, and marked positions with tape, hands steady even as her thoughts weren’t.

She heard laughter before she saw her.

Lila walked in with two cheerleaders, ponytail swinging, expression light and easy in a way that felt practiced. She didn’t look at Rowan at first.

Rowan told herself that was a relief.

It wasn’t.

They worked in parallel, barely speaking. Rowan focused on logistics; Lila handled aesthetics. Every so often, Rowan felt Lila’s attention flick toward her, quick and sharp, then away again.

At one point, Rowan reached for a roll of tape at the same time Lila did.

Their fingers brushed.

It was nothing. Barely contact.

Rowan flinched like she’d been burned.

“Sorry,” Lila said automatically.

Rowan shook her head. “It’s fine.”

Their eyes met. The space between them felt too loud.

Rowan turned away first.

Later, when most people had left, the gym echoed with the sound of their footsteps. Rowan folded a table with unnecessary force.

“Rowan,” Lila said quietly.

Rowan didn’t look at her. “We said what we needed to say.”

“That was before,” Lila replied.

Rowan laughed softly. “You keep saying that like it changes anything.”

Lila stepped closer. “It changes me.”

Rowan froze.

Lila stopped a few feet away, respect or restraint holding her back. “You don’t get to decide what I feel,” she continued. “And you don’t get to shut me out just because you’re scared.”

Rowan spun around, anger flaring hot and defensive. “I’m not scared.”

Lila met her head-on. “Then look at me.”

Rowan did.

The honesty in Lila’s expression hit harder than any accusation. No performance. No armor.

“I don’t hate you,” Lila said.

Rowan’s throat tightened. “You should.”

Lila shook her head. “I tried.”

The admission landed heavy and irreversible.

Rowan took a step back, pulse racing. “This isn’t fair.”

“I know,” Lila said softly. “I didn’t plan it.”

Rowan ran a hand through her hair. “You don’t understand what this costs.”

“I understand more than you think.”

The silence stretched, charged and fragile.

Footsteps echoed from the hallway, someone returning for a forgotten bag. Instinct kicked in. Rowan moved away.

“We can’t,” Rowan said quickly. “Not like this.”

Lila nodded, the disappointment clear even as she masked it. “Okay.”

But her eyes lingered on Rowan a second longer.

That night, Rowan lay awake replaying every word, every look. She thought about how easily Lila had said she didn’t hate her, how hard that must have been.

Rowan had always believed enemies were simpler.

She had never planned for this, this slow erosion of certainty, this pull she couldn’t outrun no matter how carefully she moved.

The next day, things shifted.

It started small. A look held too long across the quad. A pause in conversation when they passed each other in the hall. Whispers followed them both now, curiosity sharpening into something more deliberate.

Rowan felt eyes on her constantly.

“You and Moreno okay?” her vice-captain asked casually.

Rowan shrugged. “We’re professional.”

The word tasted hollow.

Friday afternoon, Rowan found herself alone in the locker room long after practice had ended. The place smelled like sweat and disinfectant, familiar and grounding. She sat on the bench, elbows on her knees, staring at the floor.

She pulled out her phone.

Lila’s name sat there, unchanged.

Rowan typed before she could stop herself.

Rowan: This is getting harder.

She stared at the message, heart pounding.

Then she deleted it.

She stood abruptly, slung her bag over her shoulder, and left the locker room like she was fleeing something.

That night, there was another party.

Rowan knew before anyone asked that she would go.

Not because she wanted noise or distraction.

But because she was tired of standing still while everything else moved closer.

And somewhere deep down, she knew this wasn’t something she could keep avoiding.

Not forever.