The Probability Of Us

The morning sun always looks better on glass than on people. At least, that is what I tell myself as I lean against my locker, watching it bounce off the polished walls of Westbrook Academy. Everything here gleams. The students, the hallways, even the smiles. But underneath, it is all just cracked glass pretending to be diamonds.

"Cole, you coming to practice?"

That is Ryan, my best friend and the school's golden midfielder. He looks like he stepped out of a prep-school magazine, tie loose, grin cocky, the kind of guy teachers pretend to hate but secretly adore.

"Eventually," I say, slipping my phone into my pocket. "Got a few hearts to break first."

Ryan laughs like he has heard it a hundred times, and he has. The thing about being Aiden Cole is that people expect me to play the part. The playboy. The heartbreaker. The one who smiles like he has never lost anything in his life. It is easier to let them believe that. People do not dig too deep when they are busy admiring the surface.

The bell rings, shrill and impatient. Westbrook's halls come alive, a symphony of chatter and perfume and laughter that sounds just a little too rehearsed. I walk through it like I own the place, because that is what they expect me to do.

"Hey Aiden," a girl from my math class says, brushing her hair back in a move that is definitely not accidental.

"Morning, Ivy."

She blushes. They always do.

Ryan nudges me as we head toward first period. "You really should start charging for that smile."

"I am generous," I say, smirking. "Community service."

He laughs, but his eyes flick toward a group of guys near the end of the hall. Three of them, varsity jackets, too much swagger and not enough substance. Tyler Mason stands in the middle, smirk already loaded.

"Watch it, Cole," Tyler calls out as we pass. "Wouldn't want you stealing anyone's girlfriend again."

His voice is loud enough for the whole hallway to hear. Heads turn. A few girls giggle.

"Relax, Mason," I say, keeping my voice light. "You need someone to make her feel wanted while you are too busy talking to your mirror."

The crowd bursts into laughter, but there is a sharp edge in Tyler's eyes. He steps closer, the air tightening just enough for me to notice. For a second, I think he might actually do something. But then the teacher's voice echoes down the corridor, and he backs off with a smirk that does not reach his eyes.

Ryan mutters, "One day he is going to swing."

"One day I might let him," I reply, but my smile does not quite reach either.

It is always like this. The jokes, the girls, the attention. People think I thrive on it. And maybe I do. But it also keeps them at arm's length, which is exactly where I want them. No one looks too closely at someone who keeps