Chapter 81 Ex-Factor

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Chapter 81: Hurricane Lily and Ex-Factor

Jon's Perspective

Monday morning. The beginning of another week, another round of teenage survival games in the fluorescent-lit arena of High School. Jon trudged through the front doors like a war-weary soldier, his comfortable outfit doing little to mask the slow-moving fog behind his eyes. The hallways still reeked of that ever-present combo: industrial-strength disinfectant and too much Axe body spray.

He passed clusters of half-awake students, the occasional slap of a locker door echoing through the corridor like some distant cannon fire. He was back in the jungle—and he wasn't quite sure he was ready.

The weekend had left him drained. No, wrecked was more accurate. Babysitting. Which, in theory, sounded manageable. In reality? Lily.

The tiny whirlwind had descended on their house with the energy of a caffeinated Tasmanian devil. Add Jay's spontaneous decision to host a late-night backyard screening of Casablanca—with commentary—and Jon felt like he'd aged five years in two days.

By the time lunch rolled around, Jon practically floated to the cafeteria like a condemned man being offered a last meal.

Their usual table was already partly occupied. Sam sat calmly unwrapping a sandwich with the precision of a surgeon, while Terry was already halfway through his first energy drink. Two more sat beside his tray like backup dancers, flanking a burrito the size of a small dog.

Jon collapsed into the seat beside them, letting his tray land with a muted clatter. "Thank God," he muttered.

His eyes scanned the room almost absently, pausing when he caught sight of Alex across the cafeteria. She was perched at a corner table, hunched over a debate prep binder that looked thick enough to stop a bullet. Her lunch sat untouched, a sandwich sagging next to a bottle of water like it had given up hope.

Jon raised a hand in greeting.

Alex glanced up for a fraction of a second, nodded once, and immediately returned to highlighting lines in her binder like the fate of the world depended on it. Jon shook his head with a half-smile. The girl didn't just focus—she tunnel visioned.

Turning back to his own table, he exhaled. "So," he began, voice low and dramatic. "You guys want to hear about the Category Five disaster that tore through our house yesterday?"

Terry arched an eyebrow. "What was it this time? Earthquake? Tornado?"

Jon deadpanned. "Lily."

Sam nearly spat out her water, eyes wide with amused horror. "No. No way. They left you alone with her again?"

He nodded solemnly. "Yup. Just me, Manny, and a baby with the endurance of a gremlin on espresso. At one point she screamed for a full twenty minutes—nonstop—because Manny had the audacity to change the channel from BabyTime! to regular people television."

Terry leaned in like he was about to hear a ghost story. "What did you do?"

Jon shrugged with a resigned sigh. "I broke. I gave up. I surrendered the remote, my dignity, and possibly my soul."

Sam laughed so hard she had to cover her mouth to avoid drawing attention. "I can totally picture that."

"Oh, and Ghost?" Jon added. "The minute she started wailing, he bailed. Just ran straight into my room and didn't come out until the coast was clear. Can't say I blame him."

The image of Jon, harried and helpless, while a Lily launched baby food like grenades, had the three of them howling with laughter. It wasn't forced laughter either—it was the kind that loosened knots, that reminded them they were still teenagers underneath all the stress and expectation.

They were still chuckling when Sam's phone buzzed on the table. She glanced at the screen and groaned audibly.

Jon tilted his head. "Uh-oh. Who's blowing up your phone?"

Terry perked up, ever ready for gossip. "Trouble in paradise?"

Sam rolled her eyes and made the universal air quotes. "Trevor. My ex. He's back from college and apparently wants to 'reconnect.'" she made air quotes with her hands. "Whatever that's supposed to mean."

Jon squinted. "Reconnect?"

Terry translated smoothly. "Reconnect means: 'Hey, I'm bored at home and looking for a low-effort hookup before I go back to pretending to be an adult in college.'"

Jon made a face. "Oh. Right. That tracks."

Terry turned to Sam, mock-serious. "If he keeps bothering you, I can scare him a little. Nothing serious. Just, like… weird eye contact and silent threats."

Sam shook her head. "He's not dangerous, just... a douche sometimes. I'll handle it." She tapped away on her phone and hit send. "Told him I'd meet him."

Jon nodded. He wasn't worried. Not really. Sam was sharp. That was one of the things he liked about her—zero nonsense, all brains.

Still, Jon tucked the information away in a quiet corner of his brain. Just in case Trevor was the kind of guy who didn't know when to back off.

After lunch, the hallways resumed their usual din of slamming lockers, shouted conversations, and the mechanical whine of vending machines stuck between snacks. Jon and Terry walked in sync, heading to their lockers along a corridor that smelled faintly of gym socks and microwave burritos.

Terry leaned on his locker door casually. "So… not even a little bothered? About Trevor?"

Jon opened his locker and shrugged. "Why would I be? Sam's got it handled."

"I guess," Terry muttered. "If Suki said she was meeting up with her ex, I'd be... you know. Concerned."

Jon smirked, pulling out a spiral notebook. "That's because you're a chronic overthinker. Sam can handle herself. And if Trevor tries anything, she'll hand him what's left of his ego in a biodegradable to-go box."

Terry made a face. "Still. I wouldn't trust a guy named Trevor."

Jon shot him a grin. "I barely trust guys named Terry."

"Touché," Terry said with a mock bow.

The bell rang, signaling the start of their next class. Jon bumped his fist lightly against Terry's arm before turning down the hallway. He looked as calm as ever on the outside—cool, casual, unbothered.

But as he made his way to class, something tugged at the back of his mind. It wasn't full-blown jealousy. It wasn't even suspicion.

It was just… awareness.

Because even the most composed guy knows better than to ignore storm warnings. Not even the mild ones named Trevor.