Kiss Me, Captain

Chapter 123

Emily’s POV —

Ava corners me outside the library like a woman staging an intervention, arms folded and expression dangerously determined. I'm halfway through pretending to read a textbook when she shuts it with one decisive motion.

"You're coming out tonight," she says. "You need air, music, and something stronger than cafeteria coffee."

I raise an eyebrow, sliding the book back like it might defend me. "I have air," I reply, gesturing vaguely around the room. "It's everywhere. Very convenient."

"That's not the kind of air I mean," Ava says, tugging my sleeve until I stand. "You're starting to look like a villain origin story."

"I resent that," I mutter, grabbing my jacket. "Villains usually have better outfits."

Chris appears behind her like he's been summoned by the promise of chaos, leaning on the doorframe with a grin. "Did someone say villain?" he asks. "Because Emily already has the intense stare down perfectly."

"I don't have an intense stare," I reply, rolling my eyes as I follow them out. "I have a face."

"You have a face that looks like it's planning revenge," Chris says, bumping my shoulder lightly.

Ava hooks her arm through mine and steers me toward the exit. "There's a bar near campus where the upperclassmen go," she says. "It's loud, crowded, and nobody talks about skating."

"That sounds suspiciously like torture," I reply, though my steps follow hers without argument.

"Perfect," Chris says cheerfully, as if it's all sunshine and rainbows. "You'll fit right in."

The bar is already packed when we walk in, music vibrating through the floor and conversations colliding into one loud blur. Ava orders drinks before I can protest, sliding a glass toward me like a peace offering.

"You're not allowed to analyze anything tonight," she says, raising her own drink. "You're just allowed to exist."

"I exist very well," I reply, clinking my glass against hers.

Chris leans over the table, watching me take the first sip. "She's lying," he says to Ava. "That smile is doing too much work."

I laugh louder than necessary. "I'm having fun," I say brightly. "Look at me, thriving in a social environment like a normal human."

"You're acting like someone who just discovered sarcasm," Chris says, squinting at me suspiciously.

"That's because sarcasm is the only language Emily speaks," Ava replies, nudging me. "Relax. Nobody here knows you're a skating tyrant."

"Give it time," I say, lifting my drink again, though I'm not thirsty.

The alcohol warms my chest quickly, softening the tight edge in my shoulders. Someone slides into the empty seat beside me.

"Hi," the girl says, smiling at me. "You look like you're either having the best night ever or the worst."

I laugh, resting my elbow on the table. "That depends," I reply. "Which one seems more entertaining?"

"The worst one," she says easily, relaxed. "People having the best night ever are boring."

Chris raises his eyebrows at me. "Emily, meet someone whose hobbies include psychoanalyzing strangers," he says, pointing between us.

The girl grins at him before turning back to me. "I'm Lena," she says, extending her hand.

I shake it. "Emily," I reply, already regretting how automatically that came out.

Lena leans closer, voice lowering to cut through the music. "Are you always this intense," she asks with a playful smile, "or is that just your bar personality?"

"I'm not intense," I protest, waving a hand like the accusation is deeply unfair and also completely accurate.

"You literally practice skating like you're trying to win a war," Chris muses sarcastically.

"Traitor," I mutter, nudging his knee hard enough to make him wince.

Lena laughs softly, eyes bright. "I like intense," she says. "It means someone cares about something."

"That depends on what they care about," I reply, finishing my drink.

Ava nudges my shoulder and whispers, "You're flirting," with the satisfied tone of someone who has been waiting for this.

"I am not flirting," I whisper back, tone sharper than I intended.

"You absolutely are," she says, grinning wide enough to be a public hazard.

Lena rests her chin in her hand. "So what do you care about?" she asks.

"Skating," I answer, which comes out more honest than intended.

"That's very serious," Lena says, tilting her head like she finds this unreasonably charming.

"I'm a very serious person," I reply, with all the exaggerated dignity of someone on their second drink.

Lena laughs again, leaning closer. "You don't look serious right now," she says softly.

For a second I consider leaning in, letting the moment happen just to prove something—to Ava, to Chris, mostly to myself.

Her face is close enough that I can see the faint freckles on her nose.

Then my vision shifts. Just enough that the curve of her smile becomes familiar in the wrong way. For a split second it isn't Lena.

It's Maddie. Same distance. Same expression.

My chest tightens so fast it feels like I forgot how breathing works. I blink hard, pulling back.

"Sorry," I say quickly, pushing my chair back. "I need some air."

Lena blinks, confused. "Oh," she says slowly. "Okay."

Ava stands halfway up. "Emily?" she asks, voice sharp with concern.

"I'm fine," I say, grabbing my jacket quickly. "Just need air."

Chris watches me. "You want company?" he asks, already half rising.

"No," I manage out, already moving toward the door.

The cold night air hits me like a shock. I lean against the brick wall, rubbing my face with both hands.

"Get it together," I mutter to myself in rasping panic.

The image of Maddie's face lingers, superimposed over Lena's smile like a cruel trick. I push off the wall and start walking.

The anger comes first. Then the disgust. Not at Lena. At myself. Because the idea of replacing Maddie feels wrong in a way that doesn't make sense. We're broken. She chose something else. I should be moving on.

But the thought of kissing someone else still feels like betrayal, and I hate that it does.

I walk until my feet ache. It doesn't help.

I try not to think about Maddie: about how her nose would crinkle when she smiled too bright, about the strict tone of her voice when she was with the team and how it would soften whenever she would switch the talking to me.

About how her lips tasted. About how good it felt to have her in my arms.

Fuck. I'm thinking about it anyway. About each and every moment we had.

I think of Lena and how disgusting it felt just to have the mere idea of her replacing Maddie. Even after Maddie dumped me.

Cold air hits me in the face, and I don't feel as drunk. But it doesn't ease the thoughts.

I miss her. I hate knowing it. I hate feeling it, too.

My chest aches, not from alcohol, as I stride back and forth across the streets, not even sure where I'm going and when I'm coming back.

The stars shine brightly above me despite the clouds of thick darkness. I wonder if Maddie stares at those same stars.

I wonder if she thinks of me as she does. She probably doesn't.