Page 4

FOUR

SABLE

T he large, dark stained wooden doors should have been an indicator that this library would be huge, but I had no idea. Immediately, I am overwhelmed by the sheer amount of knowledge in front of me. There are only a few windows in here, but are opaque to not bring in much light. Every square inch of wall is covered in books from floor to ceiling, even up onto the second floor. There are several aisles toward the back that are filled with books as well. The place is relatively quiet, only a few groups of students huddled in study circles around.

I find an empty corner, drop my backpack onto the wooden table, and sink into a plush, red-cushioned chair with a sigh. I feel like I’ve been holding my breath since I got here and this is the first real exhale. It’s been a week since I arrived and I have found myself more behind than ever. I pull out my books and laptop from my bag and quickly make a to-do list of all the projects, readings, and essays I already have due. I should be stressed out, but I’ve been taking my meds, just like the doctor said, so I should be fine.

No more episodes…

Just have to keep taking my meds.

Lakeview wasn’t so bad. I was happy there. I had friends, did the whole college thing. But one night—one stupid night—and a bad mix of drugs later, I woke up in the hospital with no memory of the past three days. After that, everything went downhill. The night terrors got worse, and my roommate finally called my mom. She didn’t even hesitate—pulled me from classes the second she found out. I guess I can’t blame her. From what they told me, I was screaming every night, and it was scaring everyone.

Ashen Grove isn’t terrible. My new roommate’s quiet, polite. And everyone I’ve met here, classmates or otherwise, has been cordial enough. No one prying into why I suddenly transferred here Junior year. That’s a relief, at least.

I blocked Silas Morgan on my phone. He has left me alone, but I don’t want him to have the option to pop up on my phone screen. I agreed to go out with Asher next week, at Heather’s insistence that I don’t reject him. I don’t really care about dating right now. I don’t even really like dating at all. Guys try too hard—like their whole personality revolves around impressing you. It’s exhausting.

That guy Kai, who spoke to me after class, he was kind. I could tell by his dark eyes as they watched my every move as we walked. He seemed to genuinely want to have a conversation with me, without ogling my tits or my ass. Which is refreshing. He’s in a few of my classes, but he always sits alone in the corner, like he’s trying to disappear. That’s something I can relate to.

Maybe next class I’ll sit near him and see if he’d talk to me more.

Brushing the thought aside, I open my textbook and flip to the chapter my professor gave me as makeup work. I’ve always been drawn to art in a way that feels more personal than academic. Art is more than just images on a canvas; it’s a language, a way of communicating what words fail to express. It speaks in colors, textures, and imperfections. That’s why I’m obsessed with it—why I spend hours poring over every brushstroke, every sculpted muscle, every shadow.

In art, every flaw is laid bare, raw, and unhidden.

There are no pretty little lies to gloss over the imperfections, no neatly packaged excuses to hide the cracks. I guess that’s what resonates with me—there’s a brutal honesty in it.

No masks, no pretense.

It’s just there.

Exposed.

I lose myself in the description of David’s intricate details—the tension in his muscles, the quiet determination in his eyes, the subtle way his body holds power. I can almost feel the cool marble under my fingertips as I trace the lines on the textbook page. The tactile sensation calms me, grounds me. It’s always been like that—books, paper, something tangible. Maybe that’s why I still insist on writing everything down in my journal first, filling the pages with notes, thoughts, critiques. I need that process. It makes things real in a way typing on a screen never could.

Most people in class go straight to their laptops, but not me. I spread out my papers, print out images from the internet, make notes in the margins. It’s all part of the ritual—each thought carefully mapped out, each argument refined. Only when I’ve organized my thoughts perfectly do I transfer them to the computer. It’s the only way my brain works, the only way I can function.

Losing my scholarship was never part of the plan.

Failing three classes wasn’t part of the plan.

Not for someone like me.

Art History was already a battle I had to fight with my mother, who still believes choosing it as my major was akin to signing my own death sentence. And then to have not one but two episodes last semester—episodes that derailed everything. Now I’m stuck with summer classes just to keep up, just to graduate on time and not completely disappoint her.

Obsessive Compulsive Disorder

That’s what they labeled me with in the hospital, as if that single diagnosis could somehow explain everything. My mother treated it like I’d been given a terminal illness. “You’ll never be the same,” she’d said. Funny, because I’ve always been this fucked up. We just used to call it my undying need for perfection.

She used to laugh it off when I’d tear up my sketches because one stroke was out of place. I’d transform those ruined canvases into twisted, chaotic versions of what they were meant to be—abstract messes born from frustration. But no one saw the obsession with it, the compulsive need for control, for everything to fall into line, for every single thing to go according to plan.

The irony isn’t lost on me. Art is supposed to be free-form, a release from control. The very thing that attracts me to it is the thing I struggle with the most. That’s why I couldn’t major in Studio Art, even though that’s where my heart really lies. Critiquing art is safer. I can break down someone else’s creation, analyze it to death without the pressure of making something myself. It’s easier to be the one holding the magnifying glass than the one under it.

A part of me will always want to create, to lose myself in the messy, unpredictable process of making something with my own hands. That desire never really goes away—it just gets buried under the weight of medication and self-imposed control.

There’s hooting and hollering from the far side of the library, pulling me from my thoughts. My eyes flick up in an annoyed roll, the noise shattering the fragile quiet I’ve been clinging to. I’m just trying to fucking focus. Is that too much to ask? Of course, it’s a group of guys in letterman jackets, identical to the one Asher wears, huddled around an auburn-haired guy. His attention is consumed by the blonde draped across his lap, writhing like she’s auditioning for a bad music video—shimmying and bouncing her perfectly fake tits.

Gross.

Another guy standing beside them yanks her toward him, smothering her with a sloppy, aggressive kiss. She doesn’t even flinch, just keeps grinding against the first guy, caught in the center of their crude display. It’s like they’re competing over her, and she’s content to be the trophy. I shift uncomfortably in my seat, instinctively trying to sink deeper into my book, willing myself to disappear into the pages. But the noise grates against me, reminding me of everything I’ve tried to push aside.

I’ve only had sex with one guy.

Silas Morgan .

The second he finished, he zipped up, muttered something, and rushed back to his friends in the next room like nothing had happened.

I felt used. Humiliated.

It wasn’t supposed to be like that. But I had convinced myself I needed to get it over with before he left for college, afraid that I’d end up being the only virgin still fumbling through awkward firsts. My friends had warned me it wouldn’t be much better with someone else, that sex was overrated and guys were clueless.

So why bother?

Seeing Silas only reinforced what I already knew. The smug grin on his face, that arrogant tilt of his head, like he still thought he had some kind of hold over me. As if I’d forget how he treated me, how insignificant I felt in his hands. Guys like him—and anyone else with a dick, really—aren’t worth the emotional investment. Hell, even getting myself off feels like a chore more than anything else these days. There’s no thrill, no excitement. Just something to check off the list.

My mom called me that first night at Ashen Grove, her voice dripping with faux concern as she tried to play matchmaker from miles away. She always loved Silas. Even back when we were kids, she’d root for me in competitions against him, but I could tell she secretly hoped we’d end up together, like we were some ideal couple she could parade around.

When I snapped at her for sicking her golden boy on me, she brushed it off with that sickly sweet tone of hers, telling me it would be “good” for me to see a familiar face. Familiar? Sure. But comforting? Not even close. Silas isn’t some haven. He’s just another reminder of how little I mean to the people I thought I could trust.

I drag my focus back to the textbook, forcing the images of Renaissance art to drown out the noise in my head. But the echoes of Silas, of my mom’s expectations, still linger at the edges of my mind, a constant reminder of how much I hate being controlled by anyone.

About an hour later, with my notes for my paper written in an outline, I pack up my things and place them back in my bag. As I make my way toward a side door to take out, I run into a brick wall. Except this wall’s chest rises and falls, and when I look up, I am met with the whitest smile and a pair of piercing blue eyes.

“Well, hello there.” His voice is like honey—smooth, warm, dripping with an effortless charm. His hands come up to steady me, fingers gently pressing into my shoulders, as if he’s anchoring me in place. He’s much taller than me, his body towering over mine, with perfectly mussed blonde hair that looks like it belongs on a magazine cover.

A flush immediately rises to my cheeks. “I’m so sorry,” I stammer, instinctively stepping back, trying to put space between us. But for a moment, his hands stay where they are, lingering on my shoulders just a little too long. There’s a spark there—an electric tingle where his skin meets mine, and it travels straight to my core. “I’m not normally this clumsy,” I add underneath my breath.

The stranger chuckles, low and lazy, and my heart skips a beat as I watch his tongue slowly glide across his bottom lip in a deliberate motion. “That’s alright,” he says, his eyes locking onto mine with a playful intensity. “But ‘I’m Not Normally This Clumsy’ seems like a long name. Got anything shorter?”

I blink at him, my breath catching in my throat. What the hell? His confidence radiates off him like heat. “I—uh—I’m Sable,” I finally manage, trying to ignore the way my pulse is racing.

“Well, Sable, I’m Dayton,” he says, flashing that impossibly white smile again. Dayton?

“Dayton Hughes?” I blurt out before I can stop myself.

He looks at me, slightly confused, but when the name sinks in, a flicker of recognition lights up his face. His blue eyes widen, and then a slow grin spreads across his lips. “Sable?” He tilts his head, studying me in a way that makes my skin prickle. His gaze is intense, sweeping over me like he’s memorizing every inch, every detail. The attention makes my breath hitch, and suddenly, it feels like the entire library has shrunk, leaving just the two of us.

I nod, and he takes me into a rushed one-sided hug. His body is warm and firm against mine, and I catch a hint of his cologne—something woodsy and intoxicating.

“It’s been a few years. Silas said that you transferred here.” He gives a low chuckle, shoving his hands in his pockets, but his eyes never leave mine. There’s heat in them, something that wasn’t there before.

I swallow hard, trying to regain my composure. “Yeah, I saw him last week. He, uh, welcomed me.” My voice sounds steadier than I feel. My heart is thudding so hard in my chest I swear he can hear it. And as much as I try to break eye contact, I can’t.

Dayton Hughes.

Silas’ best friend.

The guy from the elite private school, the one who was always a little too sure of himself, too smooth for his own good. I remember thinking he was full of himself back then—handsome, rich, and he knew it. The kind of guy who could coast through life on charm and good looks alone. He was the best athlete and could have easily gotten into a D1 school, but tradition is tradition in a family like the Hughes. He was the main reason Silas fought to be able to play lacrosse, when his father was very much anti any team sports.

And now? I hate to admit it, but he’s even hotter than I remember. Tall and lean, dressed in a navy blue hoodie with a scorpion crest stitched over his heart. His body looks like it was carved from stone, and the way his eyes keep raking over me, like he’s sizing me up, only adds a flutter to my already irregular heartbeat.

“You’ll have to come by the house sometime,” Dayton says casually, but there’s nothing casual about the way his gaze trails down my body and back up again. “Hang out, catch up.” His voice is smooth. I don’t remember him being this... alluring.

I shake my head quickly, trying to snap myself out of whatever spell he’s weaving. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

I step back, ready to make my escape, but his hand shoots out, gently grabbing my forearm. He pulls me back into his space, and this time, I don’t fight it. My breath catches in my throat as I glance down at his hand encircling my wrist, his fingers large and strong, yet so gentle.

“Silas didn’t know what he had back then,” Dayton murmurs, his voice dropping to a low, husky whisper that sends heat straight to my core. He leans in closer, his breath warm against my ear. “But I do.”

Before slowly letting go of my wrist, like a flip of a switch, he returns to his normal, charismatic state, and it’s like the sky opened back up. My lungs fill with air, and the space between us feels lighter.

“Goodbye, Dayton,” I manage, forcing myself to turn away before I lose my nerve entirely. My legs feel like jelly, but somehow I make it a few steps without crumbling.

“I’ll see you around.”

I don’t stop until I am back inside my dorm room. Once inside, I close the door behind me and lean my head against it, letting out a deep sigh. The room is small but cozy, with just enough room on my side of the room for a desk, minimal art supplies, and a bed pushed into the corner. My roommate Heather is at her desk with noise-canceling headphones in her ears, tapping away on her laptop. She looks up as I enter, but quickly turns her attention back to her laptop. I toss my bag onto the bed and move to the window, pushing the little opening of the stained glass until the fragile piece turns slightly, allowing me to see outside. The sounds of campus bleed into my room as I collapse onto the bed.

“Rough day?” she asks, leaning back in her chair and crossing her arms. Her reddish hair falls off her shoulder, then her green eyes look back at me.

“You have no idea,” I reply, my eyes never leaving the ceiling.

“Wanna talk about it?” she asks, her voice kind but persistent. I can sense her curiosity—a natural byproduct of her journalism major. She’s quiet, a bit of a wallflower, but relentless when it comes to digging for the truth. She went through my class schedule before the first day of the semester and gave me the lowdown on every professor. She knows everyone, and somehow, everything.

I shake my head, not sure where to even begin. “Maybe later. Right now, I just need to chill.” I kick my shoes off and they land somewhere underneath the raised bed.

Heather watches me for a moment, then pulls her headphones off and sets them beside her laptop. “Well, if you need a distraction, I just downloaded the latest episode of that crime documentary series I’ve been binging. It’s pretty intense.”

I offer her a weak smile. She means well. “Sure, that sounds good.”

We watch a few episodes of the show on her laptop before there’s a sharp knock at the door. We exchange puzzled glances; it’s late, and we’re not expecting anyone. Heather stands up, crossing the small room in a few steps and opens the door.

“Hey, Heather!” A girl with short, spiky purple hair and a nose ring stands in the doorway, a mischievous grin on her face. It’s Tessa; she’s roommates with the chick who was getting mauled by the group of guys earlier today.

“Tessa, what’s up?” Heather asks.

“Big party tonight,” Tessa announces, practically bouncing on her toes. “At the chapel.” She pops her gum with a snap, the grin on her face widening.

“Really?”

“Yep! It’s gonna be epic. You guys in?” Tessa’s gaze flicks at me, and I feel the full force of her scrutiny. I shrink back slightly, suddenly self-conscious. Her pupils are blown wide, her energy electric. If she’s not already high, she’s definitely pre-gaming.

Heather glances at me, then back at Tessa. “I don’t know. Sable and I were just winding down.”

“Oh, come on!” Tessa protests, stepping into the room uninvited. “You guys need a break. It’ll be fun. Just a little drink, a little dancing.”

The last thing I want to do is go to a party. The last time I went to one, everything spiraled out of control. Almost losing my academic career—and my mind—because of one stupid night was enough to turn me off from parties forever. Not almost. I did lose it. The only reason I’m still here is because my mother had enough money to make the problem go away, to clean up the mess I made.

I hate it, but it’s there. If I don’t go, I’ll be the weird roommate who hides in her dorm all weekend.

Before I can stop myself, the words tumble out of my mouth. “We should go, Heather.”

Her head snaps toward me in surprise, her green eyes widening. “Are you sure?” she asks softly, sensing my hesitation.

I force a smile, trying to bury the anxiety clawing at my chest. “Yeah. Why not? We could use a break, right?”

Heather gives me a tentative smile, then turns back to Tessa. “Alright, we’ll go. Meet you there?”

Tessa’s face lights up like a firework. “Awesome! See you guys soon!” She gives us a thumbs-up and bounces out of the room, leaving behind a trail of chaotic energy.

The walk to the chapel feels like a march toward an impending disaster. The night air is cool, but it does little to calm the nerves jangling inside me. Heather sticks close to my side, though. Her buzzing energy helps energize me slightly.

When we arrive, the chapel is anything but holy tonight. The building, with its dark stone and towering spires, pulses with neon string lights and the heavy thump of bass coming from someone’s truck.

There is a bonfire off to the side of the abandoned church, which is almost completely obscured by trees from the main road.

“Will cops not bust this down?” I ask, my brow arching at the sheer chaos unfolding in front of us.

Heather scoffs. “As if. The cops around here don’t touch these kids. It’s the Syndicate you have to worry about.”

Touché.

We push through the forming crowd and head inside the chapel. The heavy wooden doors have been practically ripped off their hinges, and the once-holy space is now a den of sin. The pews are skewed at odd angles, graffiti covering every inch of them. Broken windows let in the cool night air, and the scent of alcohol, sweat, and weed hangs thick in the air.

Tessa spots us almost immediately, waving us over with a wild grin. “You made it!” she shouts over the music, shoving red plastic cups into our hands. “Drink up!”

I peer into my cup, the liquid inside a murky pink mess. It smells like trouble, but the pressure to fit in drowns out my better judgment. Heather clinks her cup against mine with a wry smile.

“Here’s to surviving your first week,” she says before taking a big gulp.

“To surviving,” I echo, taking a tentative sip. The alcohol burns its way down my throat, but I keep drinking. Because here, survival is more than just making it through classes. It’s about blending in, staying invisible, and hoping I don’t lose myself again.

But deep down, I know I’ll need to do a lot more than just survive this year.