Chapter 19: Ricky

The Monday morning air at East Shore High felt like a physical weight against my chest. Every time the heavy hallway doors swung open, I braced myself for the sight of blonde hair and black leather. I had barely slept, my brain replaying the terrace scene like a scratched CD—the heat of the kiss, the coldness of her exit, and the confusing, jagged space in between.

I saw her near the lockers, surrounded by the usual wall of pink and perfection. Fran and Ember were laughing about something, but Roxie looked like she was miles away, her eyes fixed on her phone with a intensity that suggested she was trying to set it on fire.

I didn't wait for her friends to leave. I marched straight into their inner circle, ignoring the way Fran’s jaw dropped or the way Ember looked at me like I was a glitch in the system.

"Roxie. We need to talk," I said, my voice steadier than I felt.

She didn't look up at first. She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, her expression settling into that familiar, icy mask. "I'm busy, Ricky. I have a senior committee meeting and—"

"Now," I interrupted.

The hallway went a little quieter. Her friends looked at each other, sensing the shift in the atmosphere. Roxie finally met my gaze, her blue eyes scanning mine, searching for a reason to say no. Whatever she saw—the exhaustion, the stubbornness, or maybe just the truth—it worked.

"Give me five minutes," she told Fran, her voice clipped. She turned to me, her chin tilted up. "Follow me."

She led me to the empty auditorium, the heavy velvet curtains and the smell of old floor wax making the space feel isolated from the rest of the school. Once the door clicked shut, she turned on me, her arms crossed tight.

"If this is about the party—"

"It is exactly about the party," I said, stepping into the aisle between the seats. "You don't get to do that, Roxie. You don't get to pull me in, kiss me like that, and then walk away calling it an apology. I’m not some project you can pick up and drop when you're bored."

"It was a really stupid mistake!" she hissed, though her voice lacked the venom it had on the terrace. "Everything was loud, the music was... it was adrenaline, Ricky. That's all."

"You're lying," I said, stepping closer. "You're terrified because for ten seconds, you weren't the 'Ice Queen' of East Shore. You were just a girl who actually felt something. You’re so busy playing this part that you’ve convinced yourself you’re made of stone."

"I have to be!" she shouted, the mask finally cracking. Her eyes shimmered with a sudden, sharp frustration. "You don't get it. My life is a mess. My parents are one shouting match away from a divorce, my sister is terrified of losing our family, and everyone in this school expects me to be perfect. I can't be 'messy.' I can't be with the guy who wears eyeliner and drives a van that people joke about."

"Why not?" I asked, my voice dropping to a whisper. I was right in front of her now. "Because of what Fran thinks? Because of what Trevor the jock thinks? They don't know you, Roxie. I do."

"You mean Chad?"

"Whatever."

"What's your point?"

"You don't know me," she breathed, but she didn't pull away.

"I know you liked the kiss. And I know you're tired of being alone in that big, quiet house."

She looked at me for a long beat, the silence in the auditorium stretching between us. The tension from the party, the months of banter, and the sheer weight of being the "outsider" and the "perfect girl" all collided in that moment.

"I hate how right you are," she whispered. "It’s infuriating."

Before I could respond, she reached out, her fingers tangling in the collar of my shirt, and pulled me down.

This time, it wasn't a collision. It wasn't angry or desperate. It was slow, a deliberate surrender. When I kissed her back, the world outside that auditorium—the bells, the gossip, the divorce drama—completely vanished. My hands found her waist, pulling her flush against me, while her hands moved into my hair, her touch frantic yet soft.

It was a clean, deep make-out session that felt like a conversation we had been trying to have since the day I moved here. There were no insults, no armor, just the rhythmic thrum of my heart against hers. She tasted like the peppermint she’d had earlier and the vanilla perfume that had been haunting my dreams. We stayed like that for what felt like hours, hidden in the shadows of the empty stage, two people who weren't supposed to make sense finally finding a rhythm.

When she finally pulled back, she didn't run. She leaned her forehead against mine, her breathing ragged, her eyes still clouded with a mix of shock and something that looked suspiciously like relief.

"This changes nothing in public," she whispered, though she was smiling just a little. "You're still a loser."

I chuckled, my hands still resting on her hips. "And you're still a total brat. But you're a brat who just spent ten minutes making out with the loser."

"Shut up, Ricky," she said, leaning in to press one last, lingering kiss to my lips. "I really do hate you."

"I hate you more, Roxie," I replied, and for the first time, I knew we both knew it was a lie.