“Don't,” he says gently. Aiden stops cleaning and turns to me. Even if Emily Tomlinson is asleep on the couch, his stare makes me forget she's there at all. “I'm glad you were a part of the show. I got to spend more time with you.” His words are unbearably light. It turns my stomach. “Like, seeing you in school is always good, but you're always so busy. You're more driven than some of the people actually vying for valedictorian. Doing the show with you felt like...hanging out. If that makes sense?”

I shift in my seat. “Does it count if I only really did it to keep the scholarship?”

Aiden holds my stare. His easy smile falters for a split second.

I said that wrong. I glance away and hope – pray – that he moves on. Aiden might be able to keep a straight face with everyone else, but with me, I can see him.

Something about that terrifies me.

“You didn't like the after party, did you?”

The question shocks me more than it should. “I...did,” I say, thoroughly unconvinced by my answer. “What makes you say I didn't?”

“One of the perks of being me, I guess? I...have a sense about these kinds of things.” Aiden's hands spread across the countertop, pressed flat, before he steps away, letting them fall against his sides. He crosses into the living room.

I shift in my seat again.

“I, just...I don't know. I got the feeling you were tired of it all.” He chuckles. “Pretty much right from the second you got here.” To an undiscerning eye, Aiden's stare is soft and questioning; to me, it's piercing and hurts. He shakes his head, easy smile remaining. “Like, I admire the drive. I already said that. You're in more clubs than anyone I know, but if you don't enjoy any of them – ”

“It's not about 'enjoying',” I say. “It's so I can stay at Brookfell. I doubt everything most of the seniors do is for enjoyment at this point. It's about getting into whatever college they want.”

“You make the process sound so enticing,” he laughs. He goes back into the kitchen to tidy up.

I start wringing my fingers. I check the time. It's almost eleven-thirty. No messages from Mom, and I don't like where the conversation is headed at all. It's too personal, diving too deep, and I'm scared Aiden's going to find something out about me and never look at me the same way again.

A part of me would be relieved at that, though.

“On that note,” Aiden calls from somewhere in the kitchen, crouching down behind some cabinets, “what's your plan? For after high school, then?”

I take in a slow breath. “I'm...hoping to graduate valedictorian. Or salutatorian. Get into Harvard and become a legacy student like my mom was.” Like my mom wanted to be. Like my mom wants me to be. “Get a good, high-paying job in tech, and then everything after that is...kind of moot.” The second she said that, I knew there was nothing I could do. I didn't reason with her. I just wanted to read my mangas and high fantasy books and escape for a second.

But they took up space in my room, so they went.

“You have everything so planned out,” he says. “So organized.”

I blink and glance at my hands. “Well, all work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. And I am a dull boy, so...yeah.”

Aiden laughs and stands, appearing on the far side of the kitchen. “You're not dull,” he says easily. His eyes linger on me for longer, and I turn away for a second. “I think you don't give yourself enough credit.”

“What about you?” I stammer. Anything to get the conversation off me. “What's your goal?”

Aiden leans on the counter. “I know I just teased you for having everything so organized, but I'm in the same boat. Maybe a bit more obsessive with the organizing,” he chuckles. “I'll spend next year designing the lighting and sounds for the musical. I want to do the non-musical one, too, and maybe get some more time in with Mrs. Daye with designing and building the sets.” His fingers move less. “I'll apply for Julliard, Columbia, Northwestern, and, as a stretch, the Royal Academy of Dramatic Art in London. I like the idea of London, but that's too far away for my tastes, but my mom and dad told me to reach for the stars, so I am. My main one is Julliard. Maybe I'll take a year off and work on Broadway backstage, or get an internship.” His words come a bit faster than before. “I want to study theater and production technology or something of the like, with a minor in film. I think they'd work pretty well together. Keeps me flexible, and then I could work anywhere I want to.” It's too much. “Ideally, I'd graduate in the upper ten percent, but – ” Aiden stops to shrug. “ – who knows what the future holds, right?”

“And how much of that is actually real?”

He blinks. His brows furrow together gently.

I cover my mouth and look away. Shit. I didn't mean to say that.

“What do you mean?” he asks.

“I d – forget I said anything.”

“No, I'm curious.” His words are gentle, annoyance buried deep underneath. “What did you mean by that?”

“Nothing, I swear. I'm just tired. Sorry.”

Aiden's facade returns in such quick succession that it's almost jarring, his easy smile less warm and more threatening. It leaves me feeling cold all over, worse than being scolded or embarrassed publicly. “I suppose I could ask you the same thing,” he says. No malice in his tone. It's said so casually that you'd almost mistake it less as an accusation and more as a throwaway comment.

My hands tremble in my lap. I keep my eyes down and pray that he can't see how uncomfortable I am by the accusation. Maybe he knows because I hear him sigh and then the clattering of plastic cups. A drawer opening and plastic ruffling.

“I didn't...mean that,” he says, tone soft. “Sorry.”

Emily Tomlinson rolls over on the couch, pressing herself a little closer into the back.

“If you could,” he ventures, tone minutely uncertain, “what would you do? Like, if you had the time and money and the know-how, what would you do after graduation?”

I look at him, and his easy smile is more apologetic than ever. My eyes drop to the coffee table, smeared with drink stains and fingerprints, before I consider the question, tracing the threading on my pants carefully. “I don't know,” I admit. “I...don't know.”

“So you want to go Harvard?”

“Not really?”

“Then why go for it if you don't want it?”

I shrug. I don't want to look at him now. Aiden will have that awful, subtle easy smile on his face, yet his eyes will be drowned with a kind of yearning, wanting to know more. That look, I don't know if I can stand it under normal circumstances. “It's...easier, I guess. To follow someone else's plan.” Especially when you've had it for so long. “Feels a bit late to figure out what I want, now.”

“So...what do you want?”

“I don't know.” It comes out harsher than I wanted, and Aiden recoils at it. It grates at me, when people ask. When other people talk about it, I imagine it playing out like a montage in a movie, pastel-tinted and soft. When I think about it, it's this hazy gray blob, filled with hazier abstract shapes and words. I just hear my mom's voice over it reiterating her Master Plan to me, a mantra I've lived by for the past seven years: “We'll get you into Brookfell. Academically, perform at least B+/A- range. Don't underestimate clubs when applying for colleges. We'll get you ACTs and SATs tutors. Work hard and Harvard will be in your line of vision without any concerns.” Mom smiles, and the world feels a little less off-kilter when she does. And that scares me. It leaves my fingers feeling numb, and a soft thumping in my chest that weighs heavier than lead, so if I deviated from that plan, if I decided I needed to be selfish, would I be left an empty husk of a person, glassy-eyed and staring into the distance like a mannequin?

What would I even do, anyway?

“Tom?”

I look at Aiden. He's kneeling in front of me, his eyes staring right into my soul even if he's a respectful distance away from me. I lean back slightly.

“Are you okay?”

I don't know. I don't think I am, but to dive into those waters would be so stupid of me to do now. “Yeah,” I whisper. “I...yeah.”