“Just because I’ve agreed to help you doesn’t mean you can insult me whenever you like. Keep it up, and I’ll give you another black eye.” I try my best to sound serious and threatening, but it’s comical considering he’s a good eight inches taller than me.

He scoffs. “I’d hardly call it a black eye.”

It was technically cut below a purple eye that puffed up for about a week until it faded into a disgusting yellow-green color.

“What would you call it?” I asked him. “A lucky shot?”

The corner of his mouth ticks. “Undeveloped reflexes, which I can assure you is no longer the case.”

He’s definitely insinuating something.

I blush instantly, feeling the splotchy red forming on my neck and cheeks, which is pathetic considering he’s just saying it to make me uncomfortable.

Maybe James was right. I am innocent. And cute.

I shake away that thought and the emotion with it.

“Whatever it was, you deserved it,” I insist.

“I can’t entirely agree with that.”

He’s been quick-witted and callous for as long as I can remember. I assume it’s a genetic trait, passed down from his parents and their generational wealth.

It’s not lost on me that the one born with every opportunity has to stoop down to ask the partial scholarship kid for help with something so important in his life.

He stands and stretches his arms overhead, and I divert my eyes from the exposed skin of his stomach.

I play with the fraying strap of my bag, but I stop once I realize he is watching the movement with a frown.

He’s going to have to get used to the secondhand, non-designer things around me.

“So, I’ll text you later with a study schedule,” I tell him.

I’m lame enough to have already entered everyone’s numbers in my phone from the school directory. This is the first time, outside of yearbook-related activities, it has actually come in handy.

My mind already starts to plot the best way to make up the past units and intersperse them with the current workload he has likely abandoned. But I suppose I’ll have to gauge how fast of a reader he is before I finalize everything.

“You’re actually looking forward to extra work, aren’t you?” Dylan laughs. “I can practically see your brain getting excited.”

I wave him off toward the locker room, as if I’m some sort of princess and he’s a fly buzzing around me.

But he doesn’t move.

“Did you want to fit one final insult in before you foam roll?” I ask.

He rolls his eyes. “Do you need a ride home?”

“Oh, no,” I say, unable to hide my surprise. “Thank you, though.”

This doesn’t match up with what I know about his character. Polite and concerned for my well-being aren’t exactly traits I associate with Dylan Archer.

Manipulative and smug? Yes. Selfless? No way.

He eyes me like he doesn’t believe me. “If you’re planning to hitchhike, I can assure you that no one is going to bother to slow down for that hair.”

I involuntarily snort. “But you would?”

“Against my better judgment.”

And there it is—the insult.

He can’t even do something nice without having a sharp edge.

But I don’t think he’s going to leave until I tell him the truth, so I do. “James is driving me home.”

“Does he do this every day?” Dylan asks.

“Yep.”

In exchange, I buy him coffee and donuts every Friday and don’t complain about whatever terrible music he forces me to listen to. I don’t know how he can stand listening to heavy metal early in the morning sometimes, but I’ve chosen to look past it.

Of course, I keep this information to myself.

“Do you not have a car?”

“Of course I have a car,” I tell him. “I know that you’re, like, ungodly wealthy, but us scholarship kids are doing just fine.”

“So, you’re just voluntarily waiting around all pathetically for James to cart you home?”

I don’t bother answering that sneer.

“That’s...not good,” Dylan sighs.

“What could possibly be wrong with carpooling? It’s better for the environment. Convenient. And I can read on the ride to school.”

Dylan crosses his arms over his chest, a nonchalant move on anyone but him. “You need to start driving yourself.”

“But I hate driving,” I admit. “James doesn’t mind, honestly.”

“It’s not sexy to be a burden.”

“I hardly think I’m a—”

“Let me give you some free advice, Reed, since you’re doing me a favor and all,” he says, facing me as he walks backward over to the locker room. “Don’t sit out in the cold, waiting for someone to validate your existence. Get some of your own goddamn independence.”

I frown.

I’m many things, but I like to think I’m some degree of self-reliant. Hell, I’ve taken the planning of my entire life in stride.

Independence might as well be my middle name. Or maybe fortitude.

When he sees me not taking his demand seriously, he adds, “Girls think that guys have this innate need to care for them, but we’re all selfish bastards. It might be better for the environment, but it’s bad for you. Trust me on this.”

For some reason, I do.

It might be because I don’t have any other option.

“Fine,” I huff. “I’ll drive myself to school tomorrow if you’re so concerned for my existence and self-worth.”

“A ‘thank you,’ works just as well, you know.”

I laugh.

Somehow I got roped into doing a favor through insults. I guess he’s right—his approach really does work.

Well, on teenage girls at least. But, unfortunately for him, I don’t think he can go crying to his school board father. In fact, I bet he’d be furious if he knew his son was failing.

“Archer,” I say, purposefully using his last name to catch his attention once more. “Be prepared to grovel tomorrow.”

He quirks an eyebrow, waiting for me to continue.

“You’re going to have to use your skills to get Miss Delway to let you catch up on everything from this semester so far,” I explain. “She doesn’t really like to give second chances.”

He rolls his eyes. “That won’t be a problem.”

That won’t, but I have a feeling everything else will be.

4

James is quiet on the ride home.

He’s tired and distracted enough to let me pick the music, which is rare.

My French Indie playlist is the perfect soundtrack to zone out to as he drives. Even though I have no idea what they’re saying, I’ve been obsessed with it lately. It’s a one-eighty from the stuff he insists on blaring through his speakers every morning.

And starting tomorrow morning, I’ll be able to listen to whatever I want, setting the soundtrack for my day on my own terms.

“Hey, James?”

“Hmm?” he hums in the back of this throat.

“I’m going to start driving myself to school from now on,” I say quickly, ripping it off like a bandage.