PAIGE

          There's nothing about Keane Mahoney I don't hate.

          I hate all about him—from his looks to his personality, from his presence to how I feel about him.

          Whatever I still feel for him can no longer exist if I want to stay sane; being this close to him is a splash of gelid water to the face, another piece of evidence that out of sight, out of mind is the perfect way of dealing with whatever remains of our relationship.

          First of all: he's an ice hockey player. I hate ice hockey players. I hate ice hockey.

          Second of all: he plays as a goalie.

          So did Andy.

          I'm five-seven and he's not that much taller than me, especially when I'm wearing heels and we can stare at each other's eyes, so it evens the playing field. However, it also leaves me at the mercy of his stare, eyes so blue they rival the summer skies; no matter how badly I want to look at anything else, his eyes are hypnotizing. They contrast with his skin no matter the time of year; he must have spent the summer at a nice, warm coastal place, as he's tanner than he was the last time I saw him. During the colder months, when the golden tone has disappeared, they pop out even more.

          His hair, dark enough to look black under the dim lighting in the house, is springing up, loose curls all messy from partying and running his fingers through it. There's short stubble growing along his jaw, like he hasn't shaved this morning, and my stomach tightens, a bitter reminder of how it felt to run my fingers across his face.

          Last year, I convinced myself we could be more than friends.

          Last year, I broke my own heart choosing to not chase the one thing I wanted, settling for mediocre hookups with other people, all because I convinced myself he would never like me back and, therefore, it would be best to not challenge the status quo. At the time, I'd rather have some of him than nothing at all.

          Now that I have none of him and am forced to stare right at him, I'm not certain why I thought this would be easy. Now, there's just a dull ache inside of me, an eagerness to reach out for him that can't ever be fulfilled because we're no longer in each other's lives like we used to be—no matter how badly it hurts.

          It was easy during the summer, when I didn't have to see him if I didn't want to. I could simply lock myself up in my room, turn off my phone, and take a road trip somewhere far from him if I was feeling determined enough. Out of sight, out of mind, and that's how I spent my summer—pushing him away from view, away from my grip, and tried to convince myself it was easy to not care about him.

          I square my shoulders, clench my jaw, raise my head. Paige de Haan doesn't let anyone see her weak side—not anymore. That includes not letting Keane witness me being vulnerable just because my little sister managed to get under my skin and hurt my feelings.

          Feelings? What feelings? Wasn't everyone so preoccupied with accusing me of having none?

          They now call it apathy. They now shoot me concerned looks from the corner of their eyes when they think I'm not looking. They handle me carefully, like a wounded animal; they think any sudden moves or sounds will startle me and send me running on the rare occasions I dare show my face in public.

          It doesn't work like that. People don't get to cherry-pick the moments when they feel the need to hover around me like hawks or vultures. People don't get to make decisions for me or assume they know a single thing about how I'm feeling or about what I want.

          People certainly don't get to tell me Andy wouldn't want to see me like this. No one will ever know what Andy would want because he's fucking dead. If he weren't, then none of this would be happening, and we wouldn't have to wonder how he'd feel about the current state of affairs. He'd be in New York, playing for the Islanders, and my life wouldn't have run off the tracks.

          I would be okay. I would still be someone's little sister.

          "Get out of the way," I tell Keane. He quirks an eyebrow, but doesn't move. As if I wasn't already in a rush, as if I wasn't already pissed off, he isn't making it any easier. "I'm serious, Mahoney. Get out of my way. I need to talk to my sister. In case you haven't noticed, she's been doing shots for God knows how long, and I have to find her before she does something stupid."

          "Paige," he repeats, lower this time, and it's only then that I realize he's holding me by the elbows. Neither of us makes any move to switch up our positions or to leave, but I know I have to. I'm always the first to leave, after all. "Calm down."

          "I'm calm." I am. He knows I am. He also knows how I am when I'm not calm. "I really don't have time for this."

          "You're shaking."

          "It's freezing in this house."

          It's not a lie. The place might be packed and the alcohol should, theoretically, raise my body temperature, but I'm shivering and, when I look down, goosebumps cover the bare skin of my arms. I'm not entirely sure that's only because of the cold, though, and I'm regretting not having put on a jacket. I'd be less exposed that way.

          His eyes linger on my face, but I don't miss the way they dart down to my cleavage for a flash of a second. My friend or not, he's still a straight guy, and I'm still me. I know how I look and I know I look good in all the right places, wearing all the right clothes. People stare, and it's not just because they feel bad for the girl who lost a brother; my name and face are still evocative of a time when I was on top of the world.

          I hate to admit it, but part of me likes that I still have some effect on him. It's instinctive to me, the deep-rooted urge to be seen and admired and desired, and Keane was always the one person I couldn't have, not in the way my traitor heart wanted. Either way, you don't get to do what I did—the whole disappearing act, cutting ties with everyone—and expect to be received with open arms by all those people.

          "I can help you look for Izzy," Keane says, finally dropping his hands. My skin grows even colder with the loss of physical contact, but that's also how the air between us feels. I've worked so damn hard to avoid this exact scenario, and I'm not throwing it all away for one moment of weakness. "She can't have gone far."

          I scoff, venom dripping from the tip of my tongue, and it's a good thing a snake can't poison itself. It's a simple, genuine offer, and that's the exact reason I hate to hear it. "I don't need your help. Don't you have a séance to plan, or whatever? Everyone"—I open my arms, gesture around us, spin around like an albatross—"is here for it. They're all here for you."

          "There's no séance. Jeff has been letting people know that I changed my mind." Something flashes across his eyes. It's not sympathy, not exactly, but I don't like the pit it creates in my stomach. "It didn't feel appropriate."

          I don't want to care that he cares. I've slammed the door shut way too many times for such a small thing to make me feel any sort of way, not after the monumental effort I've put into severing the ties between us, but I should know better. Keane Mahoney isn't a quitter and will inconvenience himself to prove a point, even if the point is showing me that he still thinks of me.

          Or so I'm assuming. I'm jumping to conclusions by thinking he canceled the séance because of me, because he thought someone would try to contact Andy's ghost, or whatever. Ghosts aren't even real, so I don't know what he was planning on achieving; if all he wanted was attention and a gold star for the highest attendance, he has it.

          He has all he's ever wanted. How can he possibly want more?

          "How kind of you," I spit out. "Should have thought of that before announcing it to the entire campus."

          He sighs, rubbing a hand across his cheek. "I really don't want to argue with you."

          "Good. Then get out of my way."

          Keane's face hardens. The lights hit him exactly right, sharpening his angles. "I'm not in your way. You could've walked around me ages ago, but you're still here. Funny how that works, isn't it?" Faced with my incredulous silence, he tilts his head to the side like a puppy paying attention. "Come on. I'll help you look."

          He reaches out a hand towards me, knowing how easy it is to get stranded in these parties. My heart thuds hard against my chest—or maybe it's just the bassline of the annoying song blasting from the stereo—at the thought of touching him and, against my better judgment, I take it.

          Electricity immediately shoots across my nerves, shocking me from head to toe with the sudden contact. If he notices any of this, he doesn't show it, but I know we're both aware of how easy it is for my body to mold itself to fit perfectly against his. Always has been.

          "This means nothing," I remind him. My hand sits uncomfortably in his—uncomfortably comfortable, like it has found a home. I've never known what to do with my hands around him. "We're just looking for Izzy."

          "Nothing," he echoes, face falling, and a twinge of guilt strikes me through the chest. "Why would we want it to mean anything at all?"

          Fuck my life.

૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა

          On Monday, I'm wrecked.

          It's my first meeting with my senior project advisor, Professor O'Riley (yes, like the song), and I've never felt more underprepared in my life.

          While most people had already declared and submitted a project months ago, I procrastinated doing it, thinking I'd have enough time to think about it during the summer . . . and then my world came crashing down. School wasn't a priority; although I've never been particularly academia-oriented, part of me still cared about my academic performance during my first three years of college.

          All that time and effort spent should have culminated in a strong, well thought out proposal to mark the end of a cycle and the beginning of the rest of my life, but I've got nothing. There are plenty of things I can do with a Marketing and Advertising degree, so I won't be left stranded after graduation, but this senior project is standing between me and the moment I can turn my back on Bennington for good.

          Mom told me I need to stay focused, that I won't get another shot. I don't want to fail my senior year, knowing I owe it to myself (and, in a way, to Andy's memory) to get past this hurdle, but I'm scared I'll crumble under the weight of the expectations everyone has for me—including myself.

          My advisor decides to meet up with the whole group all at once in an empty lecture room. I'm the last to arrive, even though I'm here on time, and I can't ignore the way every head turns to face me as I start my walk of shame towards a vacant seat. Eyes are on me, not in the same way they were on Andy last year, and I try my best to not let it bother me too much, but there's only one thing that buries deep under my skin.

          I knew Keane would be here.

          Months ago, we decided we'd choose the same advisor, along with Ripley and Jeff, and everything was perfect. We knew Professor O'Riley typically liked to partner people up for their senior projects and there's no one I work best with than Ripley, so I'd always find something good in it. Now, I'm not so sure, as the sudden proximity to Keane in such a short period of time is threatening to dismantle all the walls I've carefully built around me.

          It's the dance we've been doing for months now. He stares at me, silently begging me to notice it and extend an olive branch, and I pretend like he doesn't exist.

          One by one, Professor O'Riley calls people to talk to them privately, a hushed conversation in front of everyone else. Everyone gets called before I do, likely in order of arrival, and all I can do is watch my future fly past me in the blink of an eye, championed by the small person sitting on the other side of a wooden desk. They're wearing their non-binary pride pin today and it stands out against the lapels of their black blazer.

          To me, it's silly to be this frightened of someone that small, but I'm not good around authority figures. There's always an urge in me to not let other people intimidate me and I don't take lightly being told what to do, which has led professors to refer to me as 'argumentative', 'difficult to work with', and 'rigid'. I don't take direction well. I've heard it all.

          "Paige de Haan," they call, after an agonizing eternity. I stand up, pull down my A-line skirt when it begins to ride up my legs, and straighten my back on my way towards the taunting desk. Once I stop, Professor O'Riley raises their head. "Hello, Paige." I nod. "I heard about your brother. What a terrible loss. I'm really sorry."

          "Thanks," I mutter, unable to meet their eyes. They keep their voice down so no one else can hear us, but it doesn't matter. They all know, anyway.

          "I know this isn't ideal and I don't want to make things any harder for you, but you're the only one of my advisees who still hasn't presented a proposal. Partnering up isn't mandatory when I'm an advisor, but everyone has already submitted something, which doesn't leave you with much wiggle room."

          My stomach sinks. I know Ripley couldn't have risked her own project by waiting for me to make up my mind, so this is all my fault, but part of me still believes we can somehow make it work. I'll make it up to her, pull my own weight, but I can't be left stranded.

          "It was a rough summer," I admit. "I thought I'd have more time. I'm sorry."

          "I know." I dare to meet their eyes, and they soften. I hate pity and commiseration enough to not want to weaponize them against people and I don't want special treatment, but I also cannot have control stripped away from me. "I'll have to partner you up with someone whose proposal will work for a pair. Do you understand?"

          "Yes, but, Professor . . ."

          "Not with Lucy, mind you." They nod at something behind me. When I turn around to follow their stare, the only thing in our line of sight is Keane. My heart drops to the center of the earth. "I think a change will do you good. Break you out of your shell."

          "Professor O'Riley—"

          "I've already made up my mind. I just wanted to give you a heads up instead of surprising you at the very last second." They close their notebook, setting their elbows on the desk and lacing their fingers. "Talk to Keane about it. He has already agreed to it, but I'm sure he'll appreciate hearing it from you."

          I know arguing with them and begging for an alternative partner or an extension aren't options at this point, so I don't do it. I know how to pick my battles and I can tell when I'm fighting one I can't win.

          I don't cry easily. Not even out of frustration.

          However, the past couple of months have been, undoubtedly, the worst months of my life and, just when I think things can't get any worse, they do. I even have to bite down on my bottom lip to stop it from trembling, close my hands into fists to hide my nerves.

          This is my worst case scenario—not having a clue what to do for my senior project, having the possibility of choosing it be stolen from me, and being paired up with the last person I would ever want to be locked in a room with. Keane throws me a knowing look, in spite of his efforts to keep a neutral facial expression, and I'm certain he loves this. He loves me when I lose, when I have to beg him for a chance.

          Well, I don't beg. I don't lose.

          Letting out a shaky exhale, I swallow the lump in my throat and my pride. As I make my way towards the empty chair next to Keane, heart thumping hard against my bones, I swear I can feel the ground shake under my feet.

          "Looks like we're partners," he tells me, without waiting for me to say anything. He doesn't look at me, either, shoulders so stiff I can feel the tension. You can cut it with a knife. "Ready for this?"

          "No," I confess. Part of me wishes he could look me in the eye, but I know that's too much to ask from him. I know I'd be feeling the same way. "Are you?"

          Keane sighs, staring straight ahead. "I'm always ready for you."

✦⋆𓆩✧𓆪⋆✦

and they were PARTNERS. oh my god they were partners

next chapter is a keane one a la FEMALE GAZE. i'm nothing if not predictable