CHAPTER 4: THAWING WALLS

The rain didn’t let up. It came down hard all night, beating against my window like it was trying to get in and drag me out of my own head. I didn’t sleep much—not with Richard’s text glowing on my phone screen every time I closed my eyes: "Coffee after school? Old spot by the river. Just us." I read it over and over until the words blurred together. Just us. It sounded good. It sounded scary. It sounded like something I’d dreamed about for so long I almost forgot how to want it.

When I got up in the morning, the house was cold. Mom had left for her desk job already, but there was no milk for my cereal—again. Just a note stuck to the box: "Working late. Save me some pasta." Dad’s lunch pail was gone, but his grease-stained jacket hung on the hook by the door, smelling like metal and sweat and all the things that kept him stuck here. I ate dry cereal out of the box and stared at my phone. Part of me wanted to text Richard back and say no. Say I was busy. Say I didn’t care anymore. But my fingers wouldn’t move. They just hovered over the screen, waiting.

School was the worst kind of torture. I walked through the halls with my head down, but I could still feel eyes on me. Not just Richard’s—Lianne’s too. Every time I passed their lockers, she’d stop talking to her friends and stare. Her eyes were sharp and dark, like she could see right through my shirt and into my chest where my heart was beating too fast. I wanted to look away. I wanted to hold her gaze and tell her she didn’t understand. I wanted to run to Richard and pull him away from her and never let go.

In math class, he sat two rows back like always. But today he wasn’t doodling. He was writing something in his notebook, and every few minutes he’d glance up at me. When our eyes met, he’d look away fast—like he was scared of what he’d see if he looked too long. I tried to focus on the board. I tried to listen to the teacher talk about equations and graphs. But all I could think about was him writing in that notebook. Was he writing about me? Was he writing about her? Did he even know what he wanted?

During lunch, Maicah found me hiding under the oak tree, staring at my hands. She plopped down next to me and pulled out two sandwiches—peanut butter and jelly, my favorite.

"I saw you looking at them," she said, nodding toward where Richard and Lianne were sitting at their usual table across the quad. "She was leaning into him, holding his arm. He didn’t push her away, but he didn’t look happy either."

I followed her gaze and felt something twist in my stomach. It was hot and tight and mean—jealousy, pure and simple. Even though I knew he’d texted me, even though he’d said just us, seeing her touch him made me want to throw something. Made me want to scream. Made me want to run up to them and say he’s mine even though I had no right to say it.

"He said he wants to talk," I mumbled, picking at the crust of my sandwich. "But look at him. He’s still with her."

"Maybe he’s scared," Maicah said, squeezing my shoulder. "Maybe he doesn’t know how to let go. You of all people should understand that."

She was right. I did understand. I’d been holding on to things I couldn’t have for so long I’d forgotten what it felt like to reach for something I could. But understanding didn’t make the ache go away. It just made it deeper.

After lunch, I went to the bathroom to splash water on my face. My eyes were red and puffy—from the rain, from lack of sleep, from crying when I thought no one was looking. I was staring at myself in the mirror when the door opened. It was Lianne.

We stood there for a second, just looking at each other. The bathroom was quiet except for the sound of the faucet dripping. She was wearing his jacket—the one he’d worn to the reading last week, the one that smelled like his shampoo and his favorite cologne.

"He talks about you," she said finally, leaning against the sink next to me. "All the time. Even when he’s with me. He says you get him. That you know what it’s like to feel stuck."

"I don’t know what you want me to say," I whispered, not looking at her.

"I want you to say you’ll leave him alone," she said, her voice sharp. "I want you to say you don’t feel the same way he does. I want you to say this whole thing with the story and the reading and all the looks you two give each other is just in my head."

"I can’t say that," I said, finally turning to face her. "I won’t lie to you."

She laughed, but it wasn’t a happy sound. "Of course you can’t. You’ve probably been waiting for this—waiting for him to get tired of me and run to you. Well, it’s not going to happen. He’s mine. We’re supposed to be together. His mom likes me. My dad works with his dad. We fit."

"Fitting isn’t the same as feeling," I said, and even though my voice was quiet, it was steady. "You know that."

She didn’t say anything back. She just stared at me for a long time, then grabbed her bag and walked out. The door slammed behind her, and I sank to the floor, my back against the wall. The ache in my chest was so bad I could barely breathe. I wanted to hate her. I wanted to be mad at her for trying to keep us apart. But all I felt was sad. Sad for her. Sad for him. Sad for me.

The rest of the day dragged by like I was walking through mud. In history class, we had to present our group projects. Richard and Lianne went first. They stood at the front of the room, her hand on his back, him staring at the board like he’d rather be anywhere else. Their project was good—neat posters, well-researched facts—but it was empty. There was no heart in it. No spark. When they sat down, he looked at me again. His eyes were full of something I couldn’t name—pain, maybe. Or guilt. Or hope. I looked away before I could figure it out.

Finally, the last bell rang. I packed my bag slow, watching everyone else file out of the room. Maicah stopped by my desk and squeezed my hand.

"You can still back out," she said. "No one would blame you."

"I can’t," I said. "I have to know."

She nodded, then left. I took a deep breath and walked out into the hall. Richard was standing by the doors, holding two paper cups of coffee. He was alone. No Lianne. His jacket was back on his shoulders, but it looked different now—like it didn’t fit right without her leaning into him.

"You came," he said, his voice soft.

"You asked," I said, and even though my hands were shaking, I managed a small smile.

We walked to the river in silence. The rain had slowed to a drizzle, but the ground was still wet and muddy under our feet. The old bridge looked the same as always—concrete worn smooth, graffiti on the pillars, the sound of water rushing underneath. We used to come here all the time when we were kids—skipping stones, telling secrets, pretending the world outside didn’t matter. It felt like a million years ago.

"I used to bring her here," he said suddenly, stopping at the railing. "Tried to show her what this place meant to me. But she just said it was dirty. Said we should go to the mall instead."

He handed me a coffee cup. Black with extra sugar—just how I liked it. He’d remembered.

"Why did you do it?" I asked, taking a sip. The coffee was hot and bitter and sweet all at once. "Why did you stay with her if you didn’t want to?"

He leaned against the railing and stared out at the water. "Because it was easy," he said. "Because my mom said she was good for me. Because my dad said she came from a good family. Because I was scared—scared of what people would say if I was with you instead. Scared of what it would do to our families. Scared of losing you if things went wrong."

"You already lost me," I said, and the words came out harsher than I meant them to. "When you started dating her, when you stopped talking to me, when you looked at me like I was just some kid you used to know—you already lost me."

I saw his jaw tighten. "I know," he said, his voice quiet. "I know I messed up. I know I hurt you. I’ve been trying to fix it, but I don’t know how."

"Fixing it isn’t just about saying sorry," I said, feeling tears burn in my eyes. "It’s about choosing. It’s about deciding what matters more—what everyone else wants, or what you want."

"I know what I want," he said, turning to face me. His eyes were full of tears now too, mixing with the rain on his cheeks. "But I can’t have it. My dad’s factory is falling apart. He needs me to help him keep it running. If I tell him how I feel about you—he’ll never forgive me. He’ll think I’m throwing my life away. He’ll think I’m letting him down. And Lianne... she’s not asking me to change who I am for her. She’s not asking me to choose between her and my family."

Just then, we heard a car door slam. We turned and saw Lianne standing at the edge of the parking lot, her face pale but determined. She was holding something in her hand—my notebook. The one I’d left in history class.

"I found this," she said, walking toward us. "I read it. All of it. The parts about us. The parts about him. The parts where you talk about how much you love him."

I felt my face burn. "That was private," I said, reaching for it. But she held it out of my reach.

"Was it?" she asked, looking from me to Richard. "Was it private when you read parts of it at the contest? Was it private when you looked at him like you wanted to take him away from me every single day? Was it private when you made him doubt everything we had?"

"Lianne, stop," Richard said, stepping between us. "It’s not her fault. It’s mine. I’m the one who couldn’t make up my mind. I’m the one who hurt both of you."

"Hurt me?" she said, her voice breaking. "You didn’t just hurt me, Richard. You lied to me. You told me you loved me, but you were thinking about him the whole time. You took me to places that meant something to him. You talked about him when you thought I wasn’t listening. I wasn’t stupid—I just wanted to believe you could love me back."

Tears were streaming down her face now. I wanted to say something—to apologize, to tell her I never meant to hurt her. But what could I say? I’d been in love with him for so long I’d forgotten how to think about anyone else’s feelings.

Richard looked from her to me, his face twisted with pain. For a second, I let myself hope—hope that he’d reach for me, hope that he’d choose us, hope that all the things I’d written in my notebook could be real. But then he took a step toward her, reaching out to wipe the tears from her cheeks.

"I’m sorry," he said, his voice thick with emotion. "I never meant to hurt you. I love you, Lianne. I really do. I was just scared—scared of growing up, scared of leaving this town, scared of everything changing. But you’re right. We fit. We make sense. And I don’t want to lose you."

I felt something inside me shatter—like a glass bottle hitting concrete, sharp and final. The coffee cup slipped from my hand and hit the ground, hot liquid spreading into the mud. I didn’t move. I just stood there, staring at them as he pulled her close, as she buried her face in his chest, as they held each other like I wasn’t even there.

"Brent," Richard said, looking at me over her shoulder. His eyes were full of sadness, but there was no hope in them anymore. "I’m sorry. I wish things could be different."

I didn’t say anything. I just turned and walked away.

The rain started coming down hard again the second I left the bridge—cold, heavy drops that soaked through my shirt and hair in seconds. I didn’t run. I just walked, one slow step after another, my feet sinking into the muddy sidewalk. The whole town looked gray and blurry through the rain, like I was looking at it through a wet window.

Why? I thought, my voice echoing in my head as I walked past the ice cream shop where I’d seen them together so many times. Why did I think it could be different? Why did I let myself believe that he’d choose me over everything else?

I passed our old school playground—the swings we’d pushed each other on until we were dizzy, the slide where we’d carved our initials into the metal. R.B. and B.B. Side by side. Like we belonged together. Like we always had. But now the letters were faded and rusted, just like everything else between us.

I wrote about us, I whispered to the rain, my words lost in the sound of water hitting the pavement. I wrote about how our name was a bond, not a curse. I wrote about how we were meant to be more than friends. I wrote about all the things I wanted to say to you, all the things I thought you felt too. But it was just words. Just ink on paper. Just a story I made up because the truth was too hard to take.

My feet took me home without me even thinking about it. The walk felt like hours, but when I looked at my phone, it had only been twenty minutes. I could see my parents’ car in the driveway—they were home early. I should have been happy. I should have run inside, let them hold me, let them tell me it would be okay. But I couldn’t. I just stood in the rain in front of our house, staring at the door.

You chose her, I thought, tears mixing with rain on my face. You chose easy over real. You chose what everyone wanted over what you felt. And I don’t blame you for it. I really don’t. Because I know what it’s like to be scared. I know what it’s like to want to fit in. I know what it’s like to look at the life you’re supposed to have and think that’s better than the life you want.

The rain was pouring so hard now I could barely see. My clothes were completely soaked, and I was shivering, but I didn’t move. I just stood there, letting the water wash over me, hoping it would wash away the ache in my chest too.

But it won’t, I told myself, my voice cracking. It won’t go away. Not ever. Because I loved you. I love you. And even though you chose her, even though you’ll probably marry her and have kids and live the life everyone wants for you, a part of me will always be waiting. Always be hoping. Always be writing stories about what could have been.

I finally walked up the steps and opened the door. The warmth of the house hit me like a wall, but I still felt cold—deep down in my bones, like the rain had gotten inside me and would never leave. My mom was standing in the kitchen, drying her hands on a towel. When she saw me, her face went white.

"Brent, honey—what happened? You’re soaking wet!"

I didn’t answer. I just walked past her, up the stairs to my room, and closed the door behind me. I dropped my bag on the floor, pulled out my notebook, and sat at my desk. The pages were wrinkled and smudged from the rain, but the words were still there—raw and real and mine.

I turned to a new page and started writing, my hand moving fast even though the ink was smudging on the wet paper:

The wall didn’t thaw. It just got taller. It got thicker. It got so high I can’t even see over it anymore. You chose her. You chose them. You chose everything I thought you hated. And I have to live with that. I have to go to school and see you two together. I have to watch you hold her hand and kiss her and build a life that doesn’t have me in it. I have to pretend that it doesn’t hurt. That I don’t love you. That I never did.

But I did. I do. And that’s the part that will break me every single day for the rest of my life.

I traced R.B. on the page, then drew a line through it. I wrote my own initials next to it—separate, alone, just like I was.

The rain beat against my window all night long. I didn’t sleep. I just sat at my desk, writing and writing until the notebook was full. Writing about what was real. Writing about what was lost. Writing about the boy I loved who chose someone else.

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