Not Your Backup Plan

You think this is a game? Hiding from me for eight damn years.

At the reunion, Prestonthe man everyone was fawning overhad eyes only for me. They were rimmed with red, his grip on my wrist tight enough to bruise. He wouldn't let go.

I just wanted to laugh. It was pathetic.

Eight years ago, Kinsley, the school's golden girl, framed me for theft.

Preston was supposed to be my childhood best friend. My ride-or-die. But on my birthday, he stood by her side, forcing me to swallow the injustice. "Come on, Harlow," he'd said, his voice dripping with that maddening condescension. "We're all friends here. Don't be so dramatic. Be the bigger person."

Dramatic.

Right.

So that day, I took every gift he'd ever given me and trashed them. I blocked his number. I erased him from my existence.

And apparently, it drove him absolutely insane.

Chapter 1

The hallway outside the classroom was a fire hazard.

Bodies pressed against the doorframe, necks craning, everyone desperate for a glimpse of the drama unfolding inside. It took less than twenty-four hours for the rumor to infect the entire student body: Kinsley, the untouchable Queen Bee, had accused someone of theft.

And now, the fallout.

Kinsley sat at her desk, a vision of perfect, curated devastation. Tears streamed down her face, ruining her makeup just enough to look tragic. Her court of admirers hovered around her, whispering comforts. But the rest of the room? Their eyes were drilling into me.

Because I was the villain in this narrative. The thief.

"I'm sorry..." Kinsley sobbed, her voice hitching. "I'm so sorry, Harlow. I saw the plaid skirt that day... I just assumed it was you. I really... I shouldn't have been so reckless."

She was already beautiful. Crying just made her look fragile. Like glass waiting to be shattered.

Seeing her fall apart, the guys in the room immediately shifted into white knight mode. The hostility directed at me spiked.

"Jesus, Harlow. Kins already apologized. Stop being such a bitch about it."

"Yeah, seriously. The misunderstanding is cleared up. Let it go."

I sat there, frozen. I hadn't said a single word. I was the one who had been accused. I was the one dragged through the mud.

But the murmurs didn't stop.

"Kinsley just made a mistake. It's not like she killed someone. Why is Harlow holding onto it?"

Every pair of eyes in that room demanded one thing: Fix this. Comfort her. Absolve her.

Of course. Kinsley was the prom queen, the valedictorian, the girl on the pedestal. And me? I was just background noise.

I clenched my jaw so hard my teeth ached. I refused to look down. Refused to give them the satisfaction of seeing me break.

"She made a mistake?" My voice came out cold, shaking slightly. "What about the hell I've lived through this past week? What about the spit on my locker? The isolation?"

Kinsley wailed louder, burying her face in her hands. "Harlow, I said I'm sorry! It's my fault, okay? I'm terrible! I shouldn't have pointed fingers without proof... please, just forgive me..."

The more she cried, the more the crowd turned on me. The air in the room grew heavy, suffocating.

"Unbelievable. She's literally begging for forgiveness. What more do you want?"

"You're crossing a line, Harlow!"

Kinsley couldn't take it anymore. With a choked sob, she grabbed her bag and ran out of the classroom. Her best friend scrambled to chase after her, but not before stopping to shoot me a glare so venomous it could have peeled paint.

As if I were the monster.

They didn't know. They didn't see the reality of my life for the last few days.

My parents, humiliated, standing in the Principal's office, begging him not to expel me. The threat of my academic future being torched over a lie. The way students moved away from me in the cafeteria like I was contagious. The whispers. The stares.

I had almost lost everything.

Chapter 2

The crowd dissolved, their entertainment over. I was left standing in the hallway, the silence ringing in my ears. My hands were ice cold, the chill seeping all the way into my bones.

I looked up just as the door to the administration office opened.

Preston.

My neighbor. My childhood shadow. The boy who knew which floorboard creaked in my grandma's house. I met his gaze, instinctively searching for the safe harbor I usually found there. His eyesusually a warm, honeyed brown that softened whenever they landed on mewere different today.

They were shards of ice.

There was no comfort in them. Only judgment. A sharp, stinging reprimand. The realization hit me like a physical blow: Preston blames me, too.

I pieced together the rest from the whispers. When Kinsley had run out of the classroom sobbing, she'd apparently missed a step in her distress. A tumble down the stairs. A twisted ankle. And Preston? He had played the white knight. He'd scooped her up, carrying her bridal-style to the nurse's office.

I'd caught a glimpse of them as he walked past. Over his shoulder, Kinsley's face was buried in his chest. But for a split second, she looked up. Her eyes, red-rimmed and puffy, locked onto mine.

And a flash of triumph flickered in her eyes. Imperceptible to everyone else, but clear to me.

I win.

I stood there, frozen. It was a setup. The whole thing. The accusation, the tears, the fallit was all choreographed.

I forced my legs to move, following them to the nurse's office. I needed to hear it. I needed to know, once and for all, whose side he was on.

But the moment Preston saw me hovering in the doorway, he snapped.

"Are you happy now, Harlow? Look at her." His voice was a low growl, vibrating with anger. "Is this what you wanted?"

I opened my mouth to defend myself, but the words died in my throat. My vocal cords felt paralyzed.

"You had to deal with some gossip for a few days," he spat, gesturing to Kinsley, who was clutching her ankle on the cot. "Kinsley actually got hurt. She can't even walk. How do you not see the difference?"

Ha.

The logic was so twisted I almost laughed out loud. I looked down at the floor, unable to look at him.

She stages a fall, plays the victim, and suddenly I'm the villain? The injustice tasted like bile in the back of my throat.

I turned to leave, needing to get out of that suffocating room, but his voice stopped me. Cold. Detached.

"Harlow. Drop it. We're all friends here. Don't make this any messier than it needs to be."

I froze. A wave of nausea rolled over me. Betrayal didn't feel like heartbreak; it felt like a knife twisting between my ribs.

Was he trying to keep the peace? Or was he choosing her?

By the final bell, Preston was gone.

Kinsley's desk was empty. The rumor mill was already churning: Kinsley couldn't walk, so Preston had driven her home.

A bitter, jagged smile touched my lips. Of course he did.

I shoved my books into my bag and walked out. The campus was alive with laughter, groups of friends heading to cars, making weekend plans.

I walked alone.

The concrete blurred beneath my feet as the memories clawed their way up, uninvited.

My parents split when I was a kid, dumping me on Grandma Ruth's doorstep like unwanted baggage. Preston lived next door. He was two years older, a giant compared to my scrawny frame.

Back then, I was the quiet, introverted girl who couldn't look anyone in the eye. But Preston? He was my shield. Whenever the neighborhood kids circled me like sharks, sensing blood, Preston was there. He'd step in front of me, fists clenched, ready to take a punch for me.

I became his shadow. I trailed behind him everywhere, calling his name, dependent on his protection like it was oxygen. He used to look at me like I mattered. Like I was something precious he had to guard.

But now?

That boy was gone. Replaced by a stranger who looked at me with nothing but cold indifference.

Chapter 3

By the time reality snapped back into focus, the sky had turned an inky, suffocating black. Grandma Ruth was pacing on the porch, craning her neck, scanning the street for me.

I dragged my feet toward the house, my shoes scuffing against the pavement. At the door, I hesitated. I turned around, scanning the empty sidewalk behind me.

Nothing.

The familiar silhouette wasn't there.

The boy I had relied on like a second heartbeat, the one who was supposed to be my brother, my protector... he had finally chosen to leave me behind.

Yet, the next morning, he was there.

Preston leaned against the gate of our complex just like always, scrolling on his phone, acting as if the world hadn't tilted on its axis yesterday. I clamped down on the pathetic flicker of hope in my chest. I tried to walk past him, to pretend I was going to school alone.

But he moved on autopilot. He shoved a carton of milk into my handour morning ritual.

"Let's go."

He turned his back to me and started walking. I stared at his retreating back, the distance between us feeling wider than just a few feet. I bit my lower lip until I tasted iron.

"Preston," I called out, my voice trembling. "Did you drive Kinsley home last night?"

He didn't break his stride. "You know she hurt her leg."

His tone was flat. Clinical. Like he was commenting on the humidity.

"But..." My grip tightened on the milk carton. "You should have told me."

Preston stopped. He turned slowly, his eyes devoid of any warmth. They were unreadable pools of indifference. "Harlow, it was one night," he said, his voice cool. "You're capable of walking home by yourself."

My stomach bottomed out.

He wasn't my Preston anymore. He wasn't the boy who stood in front of me to block the wind.

We walked the rest of the way in a silence that screamed.

The moment we stepped into the classroom, Kinsley looked up. Her face lit up like a Christmas tree. "Morning, Preston!" She chirped, her voice sugary sweet. "Thanks again for the ride last night."

"No problem," Preston replied politely. But it wasn't just polite.

He smiled.

It was a gentle, breezy smile. Warm. Open. The kind of smile he used to save exclusively for me. Now, he was gifting it to her.

I froze in the doorway, feeling like an intruder in my own life.

Before I transferred to this class, I'd heard rumors. Preston and Kinsley used to be tight. They were neighbors originally, before she moved. Watching them now, the truth settled over me like a heavy blanket: They were the main characters. I was just the villain who had wedged herself into their story. The pathetic interloper.

I tried to act unbothered, but my chest ached. I didn't say a word to Preston all morning. I couldn't.

During the break, Kinsley limped over to my desk. She placed a mug of hot water right in front of me. "Harlow," she started, her voice soft, performative. "I'm genuinely apologizing. I really hope you can forgive me."

I didn't even have time to turn my head.

Crash.

The sound of shattering ceramic tore through the room, followed instantly by a high-pitched scream. "Ah!"

My head snapped up. Kinsley was clutching her hand, her face twisted in agony.

"Harlow!" she wailed, tears instantly springing to her eyes. "If you don't want to forgive me, fine! But did you have to splash scalding water on me?"

She looked devastated. A trembling, fragile victim with eyes full of tears.

I sat there, paralyzed. Staring at her.

I hadn't moved a muscle. I hadn't touched a thing.

Chapter 4

At the sound of Kinsley's scream, Preston moved.

He didn't just walk; he blurred into motion, crossing the distance in a single stride. When he looked at me, his eyes were unrecognizable. The warmth was gone. Replaced by a glacial, terrifying cold.

"Harlow. You are crossing a line."

He bit out the words, each one a jagged stone thrown in my direction. The classroom went dead silent. Every head turned. The air grew heavy, suffocating.

Kinsley sniffled, clutching her wrist to her chest, looking up at Preston through wet lashes. "It's okay," she whimpered, her voice trembling just enough to break hearts. "It's not her fault. I just... I didn't hold it tight enough. I'm clumsy. I dropped it."

It was a masterclass in manipulation. A perfect cover-up that only made me look guiltier. She wiped a tear. "I just wanted Harlow to forgive me. That's all."

Preston's jaw tightened. He reached for her uninjured hand to help her up. "Come on. We're going to the nurse."

Something inside me snapped. The injustice burned like acid. I shot up from my chair and grabbed Preston's arm.

"Stop the act," I said, my voice shaking with rage. "I didn't touch that cup. We are going to the administration office right now. We are pulling the security tapes."

I was done being the villain. I hate being framed.

Preston ripped his arm out of my grip.

"Harlow!" He shouted, his voice echoing off the walls. "Do you have any heart left? Look at her hand! She's in pain, and you want to play detective instead of getting her help?"

I glanced down at Kinsley's hand.

The skin was pink. Just pink. No blisters. No peeling. No steam rising.

The water was lukewarm at best.

Of course it was. Kinsley was a perfectionist; she treated her body like a temple. She would never risk scarring that porcelain skin for a stunt. It was all theater.

But Preston didn't see that. He wrapped an arm around Kinsley and led her out of the room. The door clicked shut, leaving me alone in the center of the storm. The whispers started immediately, like a hive of angry bees.

My chest felt heavy. Like I was breathing through a wet wool blanket.

They came back twenty minutes later.

Kinsley had a layer of ointment on her forearm. I heard someone whisper, "Thank god it wasn't serious."

Preston's anger seemed to have evaporated. Was it because Kinsley wasn't hurt? Or because he couldn't stay mad at me for too long?

I sat at my desk, numb. My hands were freezing. The noise of the classroom sounded distant, muffled, like I was underwater.

Suddenly, a presence settled beside me. Preston slid a bottle of ice water onto my desk. The condensation pooled on the wood. He sat down, his voice dropping back to that familiar, soothing register.

"I'm sorry," he murmured. "I didn't mean to snap at you like that. I just... I panicked when I saw she was hurt. I was worried."

I turned my head slowly, looking at him as if seeing him for the first time. "So," I whispered, "she's the priority now? Her safety matters more than the truth?"

Preston frowned, his brow furrowing. "What are you talking about? Don't start this, Harlow. Don't be unreasonable."

I took a deep, shaky breath. "Preston. Your reflex proved it. You didn't even hesitate."

For the next few days, I shut him out. I treated him like a ghost.

We rarely fought. In all the years we'd known each other, silence like this was unprecedented. But I couldn't stomach it. I couldn't watch his gaze drift to her, couldn't watch him orbit another girl while claiming to be my best friend.

Preston reached his breaking point first. After school, as I was walking out, he lunged, gripping my wrist tight.

"Harlow. Stop. Look."

He shoved a small, velvet box into my hand. Inside sat a bottle of perfume. YSL. Expensive.

"I bought it for you," he said, his eyes pleading. "Just take it."

Chapter 5

Even for Preston, whose family never worried about bills, the price tag on that bottle was steep. It was a dent in his allowance, maybe more.

He lowered his voice, that desperate, pleading edge creeping back in. "Harlow, please. Stop being mad. Okay?"

I tried to shove the velvet box back into his hands. He refused to take it, closing my fingers around it instead.

"I was going to give it to you for your birthday," he admitted. "It's a little early, but I figured... I figured we needed this."

My heart did a traitorous little stutter. Pathetic. How was it possible to forgive him so easily? I hated myself for it.

Later that night, my phone buzzed. It was Mom.

"Harlow, honey. Have you thought about it? When are you coming to live with us?"

Since the divorce, Mom had started a new life. New husband, new money, new zip code. She kept pushing for me to move in, dangling the promise of a private school education and a bigger future. But I couldn't just leave Grandma Ruth.

And, if I was being honest with myself... I couldn't leave Preston.

"Mom," I whispered into the receiver, gripping the phone tight. "Give me a couple more days. Please."

Things with Preston settled into a fragile truce.

He stopped bringing up Kinsley's name. The tension in the air thinned out. For a moment, I actually let myself believe she was gonea glitch in our programming that had been patched out.

Then the rumors started.

Whispers in the locker room. Glances in the cafeteria. Preston and Kinsley. Walking home together. Shopping after school.

My stomach dropped.

Then came the storm.

My birthday arrived with a crash of thunder that shook the windowpanes. The sky was a bruised purple, dumping rain in sheets.

Usually, the ritual was sacred: Preston picked up the cake. He'd bring it to me, light the candles, and smile that smile that made me feel like the only person on earth. *Happy Birthday, Harlow.*

Not this year.

"Pick up the cake on your way," he'd texted. "I have to prep the venue."

I stared at the screen, trying to rationalize the sting away. It's fine, I told myself. He's probably setting up a surprise. He's busy making it perfect.

But the rain was relentless.

I couldn't bike. Holding an umbrella and balancing a cake box was a recipe for disaster. So I walked.

The wind whipped the rain sideways, rendering my umbrella useless. I hunched over, curling my body around the cake box, shielding it with my own warmth. My shoes squelched. My clothes plastered to my skin, heavy and freezing.

I finally reached the restaurant. I stood outside the private room, shivering, water dripping from my hair onto the floor. I reached for the handle.

Then I heard it.

Laughter. Her laughter.

"Preston," Kinsley's voice drifted through the wood, light and teasing. "Do you really think Harlow is going to forgive me?"

Then, Preston's voice. It was gentle. Softer than he'd spoken to me in weeks. "You've put in so much effort," he said, the warmth in his tone undeniable. "What possible reason would she have to say no?"

I froze.

The cold wasn't just on my skin anymore. It went deeper. A bone-deep chill that paralyzed my lungs.

He was comforting her. About my forgiveness.

I pushed the door open.

The laughter died instantly. The room went silent. Every head turned. They stared at the girl in the doorwaydrenched, shivering, looking like a drowned rat.

Preston was there. Kinsley was there. And surrounding them were half a dozen strangers I didn't recognize.

Chapter 6

My eyes snapped to Kinsley.

She was a vision in a pristine white sundress, her hair cascading over her shoulders in soft, perfect waves. Her makeup was flawlesslight, dewy, innocent. Standing next to her, the contrast was brutal. She looked like the guest of honor. She looked like the protagonist.

And me? I was the swamp creature. Mud splattered up my calves, hair plastered to my skull, dripping stagnant rainwater onto the floorboards.

"Well," Preston said, breaking the silence. "You're here. Come inside."

I gritted my teeth, fighting the sting of hot tears against the cold rain on my face. I looked up at him. "Preston. Why is she here?"

He didn't even flinch. His tone was breezy, dismissive. "Kinsley came to apologize. What's the problem?"

"You know the problem. You know I don't want to see her."

"Harlow." His voice dropped an octave, warningly. "She bought you a gift. She's trying. How long are you going to keep this act up?"

My act.

"You think I'm the one acting?" I choked out, my throat tight.

Kinsley sat there, dry and elegant, clutching a perfectly wrapped box. I stood there, shivering, a drowned rat holding a soggy cake box. The joke was on me.

The math finally clicked in my brain.

He made me walk. In a thunderstorm.

He sent me into the rain to fetch the cake alone, just so he could pick her up. So he could drive her here dry and safe.

Preston stood up. He crossed the room and clamped his hand around my wrist. His grip was iron. I tried to yank back, but he held fast.

"Harlow, seriously. We're all friends here. Just clear the air. There is no need to make this so awkward."

No need.

That phrase again.

Fine. If there was no need for my feelings, then there was no need for me to keep him in my heart anymore.

I reached into my bag with my free hand. My fingers closed around the small velvet boxthe YSL perfume he'd forced on me days ago.

I jammed it into his chest.

Then, I reached down to his hand on my wrist.

One by one, I pried his fingers off my skin.

Index. Middle. Ring