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I didn’t blame her. Our parental situations were night and day, but it didn’t make either one of them any less shitty. Her mom worked some nine-to-five, barely scraping by, and her dad—I don’t know what the hell her dad did—but what I did know, was that he only came home every other weekend and when he did, the energy in their house completely shifted. He was rough with her mom, beat on her brother, and ignored Sara for weeks at a time, literally giving her the silent treatment because of the type of clothes she wore, or because of the guys she hung out with, or because of something as stupid as her cracking open his two-liter bottle of soda without his permission.

I’d learned all of this based on observations alone, but even worse than that, I’d also heard him call her a whore and a slut more times than I could count, when he actuallywastalking to her. She shrugged it off like it didn’t matter, but I could tell that it hurt her. I mean, of course it did. We couldn’t be abused and neglected by the only people in this world we should’ve been able to count on to love us and not be scarred by it in some way.

Sara bit down on her bottom lip, lost in thought.

I drew her that way, shading around the space where her teeth met her lip. Shading underneath her chin and around her sad eyes.

I vaguely heard one of the guys ask Jaymes a question that involved me before he wrapped his arm around me and pulled me into his side, his other hand coming up to grasp my chin as he placed a kiss square on my mouth. My eyes went wide as I pulled back.

“Jess is mine now,” he said with a stupid grin, eyes locked on mine. “She finally let me inside her last night,” he added, a pride-filled tone that slipped past his smirk.

I shook my head at him, holding back a mouthful of curse words, and, if I was being totally honest, an exasperated laugh, too. Because we both knew exactly how it sounded. We both knew the truth behind those words. But for whatever reason, we both kept our mouths shut. I guess I didn’t really care what anyone thought about what did or didn’t happen between us. It was none of their damn business.

But when I finally looked away, I saw the back of Greyson’s head moving in the opposite direction from our table.

I tried my best to ignore the way my heart was pulsing in my throat.Had he been standing here the whole time, and I just hadn’t noticed? Or did he just happen to be walking by?

Either way…

Had he heard what Jaymes said?

I had no clue. Maybe he had, or maybe he hadn’t.

I wasn’t sure which one of these I hoped it was more.

Thirty-three Before

I STEPPED FOOTin my bedroom after school that day, and something immediately felt off. There was an easel and a line of paints, charcoals, and pencils in front of me that hadn’t been there before. And when I took a few more steps into my room, there was a person that had never been in there before either. At least not when I’d been in the room with her. Because this was her house, so obviously she had been in this room before, at some point.

Elizabeth, my…stepmom?No. My dad’s wife. She stood there, staring at the pictures I’d pinned to her wall.

I dropped my backpack onto the floor by the dresser.

“Oh—hi,” she said the words through a startled breath, jumping a little at my intrusion. “I was just leaving some things…” she gestured towards the easel and art supplies, “I’ve seen you drawing in your sketchbook, and I…” She took a step closer to the photos. “You did this?” she asked, neglecting to finish her previous sentence.

I swallowed back a rude response. It was like instinct, to throw fire at the people who stood in front of me before they could burn me first. “Um…yeah,” I eventually found it in me to answer her.

I was sure she hated it, that she wanted me to take them all down immediately. To patch and paint her pristine wall until it looked like I had never marred it in the first place.

“They’re beautiful,” she said, in a soft, awe-filled way that took me completely by surprise. “The way you’ve arranged them, but…the pictures themselves.You took these?”

I cleared my throat, feeling more uncomfortable than I wanted to admit. My hands were starting to sweat. I wiped them down the sides of my jeans. “Yeah…I did.”

She smiled tentatively. “You’re good.Really good.You should seriously think about art schools—if you haven’t already.”

The urge to talk to her came out of nowhere. Words bubbled up my throat, ready to be set free, but I clenched my teeth down around them. I’d never told anyone my hopeless dreams of places I would never see and colleges I could never afford. I wasn’t going to start now.

But of course I’d thought about them. Nearly every day for the past decade of my life. Since the very first time I’d put pencil to paper and drew castles in the sky I desperately wished I could live inside of.

“That’s not really in the cards for me,” I finally answered instead.

Her face scrunched up in that way that it does when people feel sorry for you. “How so?” she asked. “There are scholarships and awards, and I know your father would—”

“No,” I shook my head, cutting her off. We weren’t going there either. Not now, not ever. I didn’t know what my future looked like, but I knew it would be painted without his help. I could do it on my own, like I’d done almost everything else on my own since the first day I could remember.

Our lingering silence turned awkward. On my end, anyway. I didn’t know why she kept standing there, staring at my pictures when there was nothing left for either of us to say.

She released a breath. “I’ll leave you be then.” But she paused by the doorway, adding a, “Happy Birthday,” with a sad smile.