Chapter 61 Broken Rules

Chapter 61 Broken Rules
The clock above the whiteboard in AP Literature ticks toward eleven, the sound cutting through the low murmur of Mr. Harrison’s lecture on Victorian subtext. I haven't written a single note in forty minutes. My pen hovers over the blank margin of my notebook, tracing identical dark squares until the ink bleeds through the paper.

Behind me, the low whispers from the third row have been circulating since the morning bell.

"Did you see him?" a girl whispers, her voice carrying just enough to hit the back of my neck. "The senior blazer. He doesn't look like a transfer."

"Sophia said he lives next door to her," another responds. "The scholarship girl got upgraded."

I keep my gaze locked on the chalkboard, my jaw clenched so tightly my teeth ache. My left hip still throbs where Raph’s fingers dug into my skin during the hallway standoff. The pressure of his grip felt like a brand through the fabric of my uniform, a reminder that every step I take on this campus is monitored. I can still see the smug wink he gave me over his water glass last night, a silent confirmation that he owns the space I thought was my escape.

When the bell for the lunch transition finally rings, the sudden scrape of wooden chair legs against the linoleum floor sounds like a relief. The classroom empties within seconds, students rushing toward the central courtyard where the food trucks park on Mondays.

I pack my bag slowly, waiting until the footsteps in the corridor thin out. The main cafeteria is a fishbowl; if I go there, Raph will find me before I can even buy a carton of milk, and Jackson’s friends will be watching from the varsity tables.

I slide my backpack onto my shoulder and slip out the rear door of the classroom, turning away from the crowded main pavilion. Instead, I head toward the old arts wing at the back of the campus. It’s a neglected section of the academy, an annex built in the seventies that the administration mostly uses for storing broken desks and old theater flat-pieces. The floor tiles change here, shifting from polished white laminate to scuffed gray concrete that smells faintly of turpentine and damp plaster. Nobody comes down here during the lunch hour. It is the only place left where I can breathe without someone looking at me.

I reach the red fire door that leads to the secondary stairwell. My hand touches the cold iron bar, pressing down until the latch releases with metallic click. I intend to sit on the concrete landing of the third floor until the period ends.

Before the door can swing closed behind me, a hand catches the outer frame.

The iron door jolts. A sudden force yanks my upper arm, spinning me around and dragging me backward into the dim, unheated enclosure of the stairwell. The door slams shut with a concussive boom that echoes up the concrete shaft. My breath hitches as my shoulder blades hit the rough brick wall. A broad body presses directly into my personal space, towering over me and trapping my torso between two iron railings.

I open my mouth to scream Raph's name, my muscles tensing to fight off the grip, but a familiar scent hits me first. It’s the sharp, artificial sweetness of strawberry vape smoke from the hallway combined with the clean scent of cedarwood laundry detergent.

Jackson.

He’s wearing his dark gray practice jersey, the fabric damp at the collar from an early morning skate. His chest heaves against mine, rising and falling in ragged patterns. His dark hair is messy across his forehead, strands sticking to his temples from sweat. He locks both hands flat against the brick wall on either side of my head, cutting off my physical escape.

"Jackson," I gasp, my palms coming up instinctively to press against his chest. I can feel the rapid heat of his heart through the mesh jersey. "What are you doing? Let me go."

"Who the hell is he, Maya?" Jackson’s voice comes out in a raspy growl that vibrates against my collarbone. "Raphael. Where did he come from? Why is he here?"

"He's a neighbor," I stammer, my own heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird. I try to slide to the left, but his forearm shifts against the brick, blocking me. "His family just moved into the apartment next to ours last week. Jackson, please, the janitors check these doors during lunch. Someone is going to walk in—"

"I don't give a damn who walks in," he snaps, leaning closer until his lips are inches from my ear, his hot breath brushing my skin. "You walked down the main hall on his arm. You stood by the display cases and let him put his hands on your waist in front of the entire senior class. You didn't even try to pull away from him. Are you out of your mind? Why are you cheating on me?"

I freeze, my hands still flat against his chest. I stare up at him, the absurdity of the accusation overriding the initial panic for a fraction of a second. "Cheating on you?"

"Yes, cheating," Jackson barks, his fingers curling into tight fists against the brickwork, the leather wrap on his wrist clicking against the mortar. "You’re mine, Maya. You don't get to replace me in less than two weeks with some guy from your old neighborhood just because he looks good in a uniform."

A flash of heat rises in my throat, breaking through the fear that has kept me silent all morning. The exhaustion of the past twenty-four hours boils over. I plant my feet and push against his chest with all my strength, forcing his heavy frame back a single inch.

"Are you insane?" I demand, my voice shaking with frustration. "Did you lose your mind over the weekend, Jackson? Did you forget that you broke up with me?"

Jackson flinches at the word. The fury in his eyes wavers, a defensive stillness kicking in as he pulls his chin back.

"You walked away from me in the rain by the athletic gate," I remind him, the specific detail coming replaying itself in my head. "I refuse to let the tears in my eyes fall in front of him. "You told me our relationship was a mistake. You stood there and told me you couldn't do this anymore because of your family's expectations, because your dad threatened your hockey prospects. You broke my heart, Jackson. You left me on that sidewalk."

"Maya, it wasn't that simple—"

"And then you went right back to Chloe!" I shout, my voice cracking with the grief I’ve been hiding since the weekend. "Every single person in this school saw you walking with her this morning near the lockers. She was holding your arm. She was laughing at your side like nothing ever happened between us. You chose your world, Jackson. You went right back to your pristine, wealthy cheerleader the second things got difficult. You don't get to play the jealous boyfriend now when you're the one who threw me away."

Jackson stares down at me, his chest rising and falling unevenly. The anger drains out of his expression, leaving his face pale and exposed under the dim yellow bulb of the stairwell. His hands slowly drop from the brick wall, his fingers hovering just millimeters away from my jawline, twitching slightly as if he wants to cup my face but knows he has lost the right to touch me.

"I didn't go back to Chloe," he whispers, his voice sounding hollow, stripped of the bravado he had in the hallway. "I haven't touched her, Maya. I swear to God, I haven't. My dad... he forced the public appearance for the boosters' winter dinner. He told me if I didn't clear up the rumors about the scholarship girl, he’d yank my scouting profiles from the Boston representatives. I had no choice."

"There is always a choice," I say softly, the anger dying down into an ache that settles in my stomach. I look away from his gaze, staring at the scuffed concrete stairs between us. "Raph is here now. He’s in my life, he’s at my dinner table, and my family loves him. He helps Leo with his leg exercises. Just... let it go, Jackson. For both our sakes."

Before he can answer, the heavy iron fire door at the bottom of the stairwell groans on its hinges, the sound of a key turning in the lock signaling someone entering the wing.

Jackson’s hand instantly catches my wrist, his fingers cold against my skin, pulling me back into the shadow of the concrete supports before the door can swing fully open.