The hardest part isn't the lying. It's the looking.
Or rather, the not looking.
I was leaning against the brick wall outside the gym, my right arm tucked into the pocket of my hoodie. The air was crisp, smelling of damp earth and the first hint of winter. A group of freshmen was huddled nearby, whispering about the 'Golden Boy's Fall from Grace'—which apparently meant dumping Chloe and doing a private workout. To them, I was a mystery. To the scouts, I was a prodigy.
To Wren, standing thirty feet away by the bike racks, I was just the boy who had tasted like cedar and desperation three hours ago.
She was wearing a thick, oversized wool coat, her hands shoved deep into her pockets. She was talking to Ezra, her head tilted as she listened to something he was saying. She didn't look at me. Not once.
But I could see the smudge of Prussian Blue paint on the cuff of her sleeve. I could see the way her boots were dusted with white plaster.
My skin felt like it was humming, a low-frequency vibration that only she could tune into. It was a physical ache, a magnetic pull that made every fiber of my being want to cross that courtyard, take her face in my hands, and remind this entire town exactly who she belonged to.
Instead, I looked at my watch. I checked a text from my dad about a recruiter dinner. I played the part.
"Hey, Hayes!"
I didn't flinch as a football teammate clapped me on the shoulder—the good one, thank God. "Epic move with Chloe, man. Cold as ice."
"It was time," I said, my voice flat, performing the role of the aloof, focused athlete.
I watched Wren walk away toward the parking lot. She didn't look back.
Ten minutes later, I was pulling my truck into the narrow, overgrown lane behind the old lumber yard. The shadows were thick here, the trees skeletal and reaching for the grey sky.
I barely had the engine off before the passenger door flew open.
Wren slid in, the scent of cold air and linseed oil flooding the cabin. The door hadn't even clicked shut before I was over the center console.
We didn't talk. There was no 'how was your day' or 'did you see me.' There was just the fierce, jagged collision of our mouths.
She tasted like peppermint and the secret we were keeping. Her hands were cold, sliding under my hoodie to find the heat of my skin, her fingers tracing the line of my ribs with a frantic, possessive energy that made my breath hitch. I pulled her closer, my left hand tangling in her hair, my thumb tracing the sharp, delicate line of her jaw.
It was explosive. It was the only way to vent the pressure of the last six hours. In the lobby, we were ghosts. In this truck, we were the only two people left on earth.
"I hate it," I breathed against her neck, my heart hammering like a trapped bird. "I hate every second of not being able to touch you."
Wren pulled back just an inch, her eyes dark, her lips swollen and pink. She looked beautiful and wrecked and entirely mine.
"It's the only way, Hayes," she whispered, her voice a ragged thread. "The shadows are safe. If we step out, they'll see us. And if they see us, they'll see me."
She leaned her forehead against mine, her breathing finally starting to level out. "I started the mural today. The one on the old brick wall downtown. The community project."
"Yeah?" I smiled, my thumb brushing over her cheek. "The one with the plaster on your boots?"
She laughed, a small, genuine sound that cut through the tension. "I'm trying to make my portfolio undeniable. I want to leave something here, Hayes. Something that says I was real, even if I have to ghost the town next year."
"You won't have to ghost me," I promised.
She reached into her bag and pulled out a crumpled piece of paper, her eyes shining with something that looked like hope—and something that looked like disbelief.
"I got an email today," she said, her voice trembling. "From Columbia. A recruiter for their Urban Arts program. They saw the sketches I posted on that art forum last month. They're offering me a fast-tracked portfolio review. They said if the mural is half as good as the sketches, I'm basically in."
I froze. I stared at the paper, then back at her. "Wren... that's it. That's everything. If you're at Columbia, and I'm at Columbia..."
"We can be in the light," she finished, a tear finally escaping and tracking through the blue paint on her skin. "We don't have to be ghosts in New York. We can just be us."
I pulled her back into me, burying my face in the crook of her neck. My chest felt like it was expanding, a wild, reckless joy taking hold. It was perfect. It was the exit strategy I hadn't dared to dream of.
But as I held her, the logical part of my brain—the part my father had trained to look for the catch in every contract—flickered to life.
Columbia didn't recruit from obscure art forums. They didn't offer 'fast-tracked reviews' to high schoolers with unfinished projects. They were a fortress, a place where you fought for every inch of recognition.
This wasn't luck. This was a miracle.
And in my experience, miracles usually came with a very expensive invoice.
"It's amazing, Wren," I said, holding her tighter as the first few drops of rain began to drum against the roof of the truck. "It's exactly what we needed."
I ignored the cold feeling settling in the pit of my stomach. I ignored the shadow that felt like it was watching us from the trees.
I just held her in the dark, and tried to believe that for once, the world was giving us something for free.