Chapter 2 — The Perfect Facade

Jorge

The cafeteria at Carlisle High was its own kind of jungle. Tables were territories—staked out, fiercely defended, and as much a part of the school hierarchy as letterman jackets and Instagram followers. The jocks, the theater kids, the band geeks—everyone had their domain, and unspoken rules dictated who could sit where. My table, naturally, was front and center, right under the massive windows that poured golden midday light onto us like some kind of spotlight. It was prime real estate. The social equivalent of a throne room.

Braden was already there when I arrived, sitting at the head of the table like he owned it. His dark hair gleamed under the sunlight, every strand perfectly in place, courtesy of whatever overpriced product he used. The green of his eyes stood out, bright and sharp, accentuated by the soft gray of his designer sweater. Everything about him was curated, precise, and commanding. He wasn’t just sitting—he was holding court. Talking, gesturing, smiling in that way that turned heads. Full Braden mode.

Nick and Alex sat across from him, Nick mid-gesture as he launched into some wild story. His voice, sharp and a little too loud, carried over the general hum of the cafeteria. Alex sat with her chin propped on her hand, her dark eyes steady as she watched him with the kind of quiet amusement only she could manage. There was something so light about the two of them. Warm, uncomplicated, like the sunlight catching on Alex’s bracelet as her hand tilted with the rhythm of Nick’s story.

A pang shot through me, sharp and unexpected. It wasn’t envy, exactly, but… longing. They were real, in a way I couldn’t seem to be anymore.

Braden looked up as I approached, his smile sharpening just slightly, the edges of it all teeth. “Hey, babe,” he called, loud enough to draw a few glances from the nearby tables. As if I needed the extra attention.

I forced a grin and slid into the seat beside him, my bag thudding to the ground by my feet. “Hey,” I said, keeping my tone light. Casual. Like I wasn’t already hyper-aware of every move he made.

He leaned closer, his hand brushing mine on the table. The touch wasn’t gentle or warm—it was deliberate. Possessive. “You’re late,” he said, his voice teasing, but there was a familiar edge under it, sharp enough to cut.

I shrugged, the grin still plastered to my face like armor. “Got caught up with something.”

“Something?” Braden’s hand slid to my thigh under the table, his grip firm enough to demand attention. His voice dropped slightly, the kind of low that aimed for intimacy but missed. “And what exactly could’ve been more important than lunch with me?”

Before I could answer, Nick snorted loudly, leaning back in his chair. “Let me guess—something dramatic? Probably had to wrestle someone for a parking spot.”

I froze. Just for a second. Barely. But Braden didn’t miss it. His hand on my thigh tightened slightly, the faintest pressure that felt like a warning. The memory of this morning—the gravel crunching under my sneakers, Clay leaning so casually against my car—flashed, uninvited, in my mind.

“Something like that,” I said, waving it off with a laugh that sounded hollow even to me.

“Parking spot politics,” Alex said dryly, finally joining the conversation. Her voice was calm, but there was a spark of curiosity in her tone. “Welcome to senior year.”

Braden’s laugh was soft, calculated. “Let me guess,” he said, his voice picking up that familiar conspiratorial tone, yet loud enough for everyone at the table to hear. “Anderson?”

My jaw tightened before I could stop it. Of course, he’d know. Everyone knew everything at Carlisle High. Gossip was the school’s blood, its heartbeat. And Clay Anderson—calm, untouchable, infuriating—was always good gossip.

“He’s such a try-hard,” Braden continued, his green eyes gleaming with amusement, his smile easy and sharp as a knife. “Always has been. Guy’s got a chip on his shoulder the size of the state.”

Nick snickered, quick and unthinking. But Alex? Her lips pressed together just slightly, her smile softening into something more careful. Her bracelet caught the light again as her fingers tapped lightly on the table. There was something deliberate about the way her gaze lingered on me for a moment—quiet, questioning. Concerned, maybe.

I should’ve said something. Anything. A clever retort, a deflection, even just a laugh. But the words felt caught somewhere in my throat, tangled up in the leftover frustration from this morning and the creeping weight of Braden’s grip. So I settled for shrugging, reaching for my soda like it wasn’t a big deal. “He’s whatever,” I said, my voice flat.

Braden’s hand loosened just slightly as his attention shifted, and I felt my body exhale in a way I hadn’t realized I’d been holding back.

Alex’s hand slid across the table, pushing a container of fries toward me. “You barely ate breakfast,” she said softly, her tone so matter-of-fact it left no room for argument.

I blinked at her, caught off guard. “Uh, thanks.”

“Such a mom,” Nick teased, nudging her shoulder with his. “But yeah, eat up. You’re no good to us if you faint during gym class.”

I snorted despite myself, plucking a fry from the container. The salt and grease hit my tongue—not exactly comforting, but grounding, in its own way. A reminder that I was still here, still present, even as the edges of the moment blurred under Braden’s carefully measured silence.

“You’re all heart, Alex,” Braden said, leaning back in his chair with a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Always looking out for everyone.”

There was something in his tone—a sharpness, so faint it almost wasn’t there. But Alex didn’t flinch. Her smile stayed steady, quiet, unreadable.

The conversation shifted after that, with Nick launching into another story about his neighbor’s dog, and Alex chiming in with her dry commentary. Braden stayed quiet, methodical as he ate, but his presence lingered, heavy and unspoken, like a line of tension running through the table.

My gaze wandered instinctively, scanning the cafeteria without any real purpose. The buzz of voices, the clatter of trays, the faint smell of greasy pizza—it all blurred into a familiar hum, a backdrop to the chaos of Carlisle High.

And then I saw him.

Clay was sitting near the windows, surrounded by a few other athletes I vaguely recognized but didn’t know. He wasn’t talking, just eating and flipping through a notebook like he had nothing better to do. His sandy blond hair caught in the sunlight, the edges of it glowing gold. Even from across the room, he looked so… deliberate. Like every movement had a purpose. Nothing wasted. Nothing out of place.

As if sensing my gaze, he looked up.

Our eyes met. Just for a second—maybe less. But in that awful, perfect second, everything else seemed to drop away. There was no clatter of trays, no hum of voices, no Braden drumming his fingers on the table. Just Clay, his blue-gray eyes steady, clear, and entirely unreadable.

My heart did something strange in my chest. An unfamiliar, uneven rhythm. Then I looked away, fast enough to make myself dizzy.

“What are you looking at?” Braden’s voice was sharp, cutting through the strange haze like a slap.

“Nothing,” I said quickly. Too quickly.

His frown was small but precise, his gaze flicking toward the windows and back again. But by then, Clay had already returned to his notebook, his posture calm, collected, unbothered.

“Right,” Braden said after a moment, his tone clipped, his hand sliding back over mine on the table. The grip was firmer this time, leaving no space to pull away.

I laughed at something Nick said. I smiled like I was supposed to. I played Jorge Davidson, the confident, charming center of Carlisle High’s universe. But my mind kept slipping—back to that unbearable second by the windows, the crack it left in my polished facade.

And the way Clay Anderson had looked at me. Not like I was onstage. Not like I had something to prove.

But like he saw me.

And I couldn’t decide if that thought terrified me—or made me want to look back.