Chapter 6: Secret Breaks

The quad hummed with mid-afternoon mayhem, the kind that could be stirred up perhaps only by a pickup football game on a crisp October afternoon. Shrieks echoed off the dorms as students chased after a leathered ball on the worn-out lawn. I stood at the sidelines, fists tucked into my jacket, the wind ripping through my hair and carrying the smell of sweat and crushed leaves. Timothy was out there, blond hair gleaming in the fading sun, dodging around a tall dude in a hoodie with that smile that could ruin me if I let it. He'd dragged me here—"Come on, Mo, one game!"

—and I'd capitulated, as was usual, even after Sarah's shadow loomed over me last night, phone in her hand, her voice a blade: "We need to talk.".

She'd appeared in my doorway, Timothy's words—"Don't ghost me"—burning accusingly, and questioned me about him, about Emma, about the ring I couldn't bear to put down. "Keep him at arm's length, or I will." I'd nodded, shocked, and she'd left, but the weight was still there, heavier than the velvet box still in my pocket. Now, watching Timothy dodge through the chaos, I felt it again—a pull I couldn't escape, a trap I couldn't evade. He sprinted out of the group, ball tight against his body, and made for the makeshift end zone—a pair of backpacks stacked against the oak tree. The group yelled, a ragged one, and he spiked the ball, grinning at me with that toothy grin of triumph. "Mo! Did you see that?" he shouted, coming over, sweat pouring from his forehead.

His jeans jacket unzipped over his tee-shirt, sleeves rolled up, hazel eyes shining in the light, eyes wide and sparkling.

"Yeah," I said, putting a phony smile on my lips that was not mirrored in my eyes. "Nice one."

He stopped a couple of feet from me, hands on hips as his smile faded. "You're off today," he stated, voice dropping, questioning. "Something's wrong. You've been weird since the party—hell, since the barbecue."

I scraped the grass, my boot toe digging into the dirt. "Nothing's wrong," I lied, the words feeling dry in my mouth. "Just tired."

Tired?” He stepped closer, the game fading to a dull hum behind him. A girl in a scarf lobbed the ball back into play, and someone yelled about a fumble, but Timothy’s focus stayed on me, unyielding. “You’ve been ‘tired’ all week. Dodging me, bailing on pizza. Talk to me, Mo. It’s me.”

His tone softened on that final bit, a plea masquerading as intimacy, and my heart felt the knot around it tighten, one I couldn't untie. I longed to spill it all—Sarah's ultimatums, the ring, the way his laughter sounded—yet the words were still jammed, stuck in the backlog of years of silence. "It's just family stuff," I lied, playing along, eyes on the sidewalk. "Sarah's riding me.".

"About what?" that little crease between his eyebrows, the one that showed up when he knew I was hiding something from him. "Come on, dude. You've been a ghost. What's she doing to you?"

I shrugged, the falsehood irritating my throat. "Same old crap. You know how she is." I glanced up, cutting off his frown, and walked away quickly, the game's chaos a cloudy concealment. Red Beanie of the cleanup crew blindsided someone, and the crowd erupted, but Timothy didn't budge, his sneakers squeaking the grass as he came near.

"No, it's not," he persisted, his voice more gentle now, but still insistent. "You're me best mate, Mo. I can always tell when you're off. You've been avoiding me since—"

He broke off as Leo came over, ball under arm, his black hair bobbing under the same warm knit cap. "Good run, Tim!" he shouted, and smiled at me. "You gonna come on in, Mo, or sulk around the sidelines?"

"Not sulking," I told him, the taste of yesterday's argument with him still bitter. He'd pushed me then too—"You've got choices"—and now his eyes flicked back and forth between us quickly, his eyes shining with understanding.

Timothy ignored him, leaned closer, breath misting in the cold air. "When do you lie to me?" he asked, voice low and almost hurt-sounding. "What's really going on?

I stiffened, heart pounding against my chest, Sarah's words ringing in my ears—"Keep him away." "Nothing," I exclaimed, too quickly, and stepped aside, pretending to take an interest in the game. But he caught my arm, holding but not roughly, and I stopped, breathing hard.

"Mo—" I started, but the spell was broken by Sarah's car horn blaring the lot across the quad. Family dinner. She'd ordered—"Be there, Moses, no excuses"—and here she was, cutting across campus like a tornado. "Got to go," I mumbled and made a run for it before he could grab me, his confused "Hey!" getting lost in the applause. Dinner was more like it. The dining room was heavy with the scent of roast and tension, the table groaning under Sarah's spread—potatoes, gravy, the works. Cousins chatted, forks clinking, but I was quiet, moving food around my plate, ring box heavy in my pocket.

There had been no word from Timothy and the silence gnawed at me, a space that I couldn't fill.

Sarah was at the head, navy dress starched, her eyes darting to me every few bites as if she was sitting back waiting for me to crack.

I crept into the kitchen for water, in need of air, and stood where I was at the voices—Sarah and Leo, low and bitter through the open doorway. "He's throwing his future away on that child," she spat, back to me, arms folded protectively.

Leo fought back, louder than he meant: "He's not throwing anything away, Sarah. He has a right to be with the woman he loves. You can't just—"

"He'll marry Emma, and that's the end of discussion," she cut in. "This family doesn't bend on frills."

My glass trembled, ice clicking softly, and I leaned against the wall, breathing quietly. Whom he loves. Leo had known—known all along?—and Sarah's claws were out now, ready to shred what was left of me. There were footsteps and Timothy's face appeared, a plate of mashed potatoes awkwardly held, eyebrows tightened. "What's all the screaming about? What's this about Mo?"

Sarah twirled, smooth as ice, her face a mask. "Nothing. Moses, help him with the plates." Her eyes darted toward me—had she seen me?—and I stepped forward, "Just family business," as I grabbed a stack from the counter. The cold ceramic was a balm to my hands, grounding me, but Timothy's frown deepened, piercing.

"Sure?" he breathed, inching closer as we stacked the dishes, his sleeve touching my arm. His voice was tattered, the same pain from the quad, and I yearned to shatter, to tell him all—Sarah, Emma, the ring, how his touch inflamed me.

"Yeah," I lied, voice cracking, and turned away, stacking harder. Sarah watched us, quiet, her eyes a pressure crushing me down.".

My bedroom was stiflingly quiet that night. The posters stared back—Timothy's bands, our history—and I collapsed onto the bed, mattress creaking under me. My phone buzzed through the darkness, and his name flashed: "Miss you already, Mo." I stared at it, chest deflating, fingers hovering over a message I couldn't send. I miss you too. I'm drowning. But I hadn't written it out, couldn't, and the screen died, his message vanishing. Footsteps thundered again—hers, determined—and the door creaked open. Sarah stood before it, my phone grasped in her hand, Timothy's text burning like a branding iron. Her eyes fixed on mine, cold and unblinking. "This ends here tonight," she snarled, coming forward, and the room shrank, air suffocating me as she took hostage of my lifeline.