Chapter 3: Cracks in the Facade

The campus spread out in front of us under a beaten October sky, leaves blowing off across the paths as if in flight from some danger. I fell into step with Timothy, hands deep inside my jacket pockets, the wind snapping at my ears. Colder than the previous day, biting enough to hurt, the air was full of the scent of wet earth and dead summer. He was talking—talking all the time—his voice a low hum in the quiet, and I struggled to keep up, but my mind was full of rings and threats and things I couldn't let get away.

"You're quieter than usual, Mo," he said to me, nudging me with his elbow. His jacket creaked, that tattered denim jacket he'd been wearing since freshman year, and I caught a whiff of his cologne—woodsy, warm, too familiar. That little nudge shocked me, like always, and I resented that it still had that effect after all this time.

"Just thinking," I grumbled, kicking a leaf off the path. It twirled away, swept up in a gust of wind, and I let it go, wishing I could too.

"Deep thoughts or dumb ones?" He grinned, all teeth and trouble, the kind of grin that could unravel me if I wasn't paying attention. His hazel eyes glinted, gold flecks dancing within them, and for a moment, I couldn't remember how to breathe.".

“Somewhere in between.” I forced a smile, but it felt brittle, like it might crack if he looked too hard. He didn’t notice—or maybe he did and just didn’t push. That was Timothy: bright as the sun, warm as a fire, and blind to the shadows I carried. He’d always been like that, ever since we met in Intro to Psych, him doodling stick figures in my notebook while I pretended to care about Freud.

He launched into a story of his previous night out—some barfly weekend, all red lipstick and sharp tongue. "She's nice, you know? She had me laughing. But not you-level nice." His tone softened, casual but charged, and my chest felt like someone had pulled a string inside me.

"You-level nice?" I repeated, trying to laugh it off. "What are you trying to say?"

"Means what it means." He shrugged, kicking a pebble with his sneaker. "Nobody's you, Mo. That's all."

My heart stumbled, a foolish, hoping lurch I couldn't afford. He didn't mean it like that—never did. I swallowed it down, with a taste of bitterness, and looked away, the campus blurring around me. Empty benches lined the path, their paint worn through from too many winters, and the trees stood treeless, skeletal against the gray. It once was home—a library spent sitting through late hours, Timothy pilfering fries in the dining hall—but that was all slipping away now as a ghost town of what once was.

Footsteps crunched up behind us, and Leo sprinted up, his dark curls bobbing, a football under his arm. "Thought I'd catch you two lovebirds," he said, tossing the ball at me. I flubbed it, almost dropping it into the ground, and he laughed, his laughter quick and clear. "Still got those butterfingers, Mo."

"Still got that big mouth," I said, but without venom. I tossed the ball back, and he caught it with one hand, grinning as if he knew too much. His eyes roamed over me, wary, as if he could see the lines spreading under my skin. He'd been at Sarah's party yesterday, when I'd fled after overhearing her yell at him in the kitchen.

Timothy spun the ball in his hands now, picking up where he'd left off. "Anyway, this girl—she has this laugh, this jeepers-creepers sound, but it's kind of cute. I don't know, maybe I'll see her again." He glanced at me, looking for something—approval, a joke, the usual—but I just nodded, lips pursed.

Leo raised an eyebrow, passing the ball back to Timothy. "You're collecting girlfriends like Pokémon cards, man. When are you settling down?"

"When I find the one," Timothy said, catching it with a grin. "Mo knows what I mean, right?"

"Sure," I said, level of tone. He didn't notice—or didn't care—and kept tossing the ball, the beat as steady as we headed toward the quad. Their banter washed over me, a familiar tide, but I couldn't swim in it today. Yesterday's promise from Sarah sounded louder than their laughter: "End it, or I will." The ring felt heavy in my back pocket, a cold little anchor pulling me down.

The barbecue had been a disaster, even before the explosion in the kitchen. Sarah had lured me into the back yard, all tight face and curt orders, to speak with cousins I barely recognized. Timothy had been along, of course—"Free food, Mo, come on"—and Leo brought up the rear, grumbling about the ribs. I'd ducked inside for a drink, in frantic search of relief from the noise, and that's when I heard.

Sarah's low, slashing voice over the hum of the house. "He's wasting his future on that boy." She'd been in the kitchen with her back to the door, and Leo had appeared and stood there, arms crossed, jaw set.

"He's not throwing anything away," Leo had retorted harshly, more loudly than he meant to. "Moses should be free to be happy with whom he loves, Sarah. You can't just—

"'He'll marry Emma, and that's the end of it," she interrupted, a touch of heat-lidded steel in her tone. "This family don't bend to moods. He has an obligation."

I’d frozen behind the door, glass trembling in my hand, the ice clinking softly against the sides. My breath caught, a cold spike sliding down my spine, and then Timothy’s footsteps thudded closer. He poked his head in, a plate of ribs balanced in one hand, his brow furrowed. “What’s with the yelling? What’s this about Mo?”

Sarah turned around, ice-cool, her face a mask. "Nothing. Moses, help him with the plates." Her eyes cut toward me—I could've sworn she saw I was there, standing like a ghost—but she didn't say anything. I jumped in, grumbling, "Just family business," when Timothy looked over at me, but his frown deepened, that crease again between his brows.

"Family business, huh?" he'd said, voice rough but inquiring. "You sure?

"Yeah," I'd lied, grabbing a stack of plates off the counter. The cold ceramic in my palms anchored me, but his gaze lingered, searching for something I couldn't give. Sarah stood there, silent, her eyes a weight I couldn't bear.

Now, back on the path, he cornered me again as Leo tossed the ball ahead, pretending not to listen. “You’ve been weird since the party,” Timothy said, stepping closer, the football forgotten. “Talk to me, Mo. It’s me.”

Wind whipped his hair, mirroring my turbulent emotions. He pressed, "You're my best friend. I know when something's wrong." I lied, "I'm fine," my voice cracking. Leo mouthed, "Tell him," but I fled. Timothy reached, "Mo—," but I retreated, claiming errands. Alone, I stared at the ring, a gleaming shackle. "One word," I whispered, "and I'd burn this life." My phone buzzed: "Miss you already, Mo." The weight of unspoken truths and forced distance pressed down, a heavy silence filling the room.