Chapter 16: Let's Ditch
"Hey, hey, what up," Andrew said, looking at Hannah, who was storming down the hall with a fury that practically sparked off her heels.
She barely glanced at him, her eyes narrowed, the tightness in her jaw speaking volumes.
"Are you okay?" Andrew asked, genuinely concerned.
Hannah scoffed. "No, not really."
Andrew raised a brow. "Uh, look, I'm having a pretty crap morning myself, and I was contemplating ditching."
Hannah gave him a look, somewhere between curiosity and disbelief.
Andrew smiled lightly. "Would be a lot more fun if I had a mate."
She noticed the motorcycle parked nearby, sleek and out of place against the school backdrop.
"A mate?" Hannah repeated, her arms folded.
"Yeah. Was gonna go for a joy ride," he said, tilting his head toward the bike.
There was a pause — a long, defiant pause — before Hannah smirked. She climbed onto the bike like she had nothing left to lose.
"Let's roll," Andrew said.
The helmet itched against her scalp, and the breeze stung her cheeks. It was terrifying and thrilling. Her hands cautiously found Andrew's waist, then tightened instinctively as the bike roared to life.
Andrew chuckled. "So, a heiress like you can be scared of a little bike?"
Hannah didn't dignify that with a response, eyes fixed ahead. But her hands didn't let go.
"Try looking at the beautiful trees, Hannah," Andrew called over the wind.
She blinked, then lifted her gaze. The sky was impossibly blue. The trees and flowers blurred into a watercolor smear of color. And somehow, the knot in her chest began to loosen.
A smile cracked through the fog.
They pulled up to a wide, rusted warehouse surrounded by wild grass and time. Andrew steadied the bike and helped Hannah off, careful not to let her stumble after a sharp turn.
He pushed the large metal doors open with a metallic groan, then held out a hand. Hannah ignored it, stepping past him.
The inside was stunning.
Tall ceilings. Natural light pouring through fractured glass windows. Paint splattered across walls and floors, canvases as tall as people leaned against every available surface. Lamps, mismatched furniture, a cabinet stuffed with supplies — and even a small fridge humming quietly in the corner.
"What!" Hannah gasped, spinning slowly. "What is this place?"
Andrew stepped beside her, taking in the view like he hadn't seen it a hundred times. "My dad bought this warehouse a couple of years ago but didn't want it, so... he left it with me."
"Wait, so this entire warehouse belongs to you?"
"It's an artist collective," Andrew explained casually.
Hannah cocked a brow. "Artist? I didn't know you were an artist."
"Well, you don't tend to ask people questions about themselves," he replied with a small smirk.
Hannah blinked. "Okay, rude." She paused. "But fair."
Andrew nodded, already adjusting a massive whiteboard three times her size. There were at least ten stacked in a line.
"So, what are we doing here?" she asked.
Andrew paused a moment. "When my parents divorced, I felt like I was going to get caught in the middle of everything... and I was just angry. Really angry."
He crouched and picked up a tray of dried paint tubes and brushes. "But I found out that throwing paint at a canvas helped. More than I thought it would."
Hannah watched him, unsure how to respond. The warehouse suddenly felt more sacred — like stepping into someone's diary.
Then it hit her: since when did she start honoring someone's request? Since when did she ditch school and hop on a bike with someone who wasn't in her social calendar?
And worse… since when did it feel like freedom?