Page 39 of Chaos (The Serenity Ranch #2)

“No,” I practically yell. Loud enough to draw some attention, a few stares from ahead—Theo’s narrowed one, namely. “I’ll be fine, seriously. I’ll be right back.”

Any protest, I quite literally run away from.

I put my healing ankle to the test by putting as much distance between me and the others as possible in the quickest time possible, listening intently for following footsteps and emptying my lungs in one, relieved gust when none sound.

I make it off the path cut into the field of wildflowers in record time, waiting until there’s a building I can duck behind before pausing.

Slumping against the wooden exterior of the small cabin serving as a souvenir shop, I try to catch my breath.

Not lost due to exertion, but to frustration.

Irritation. Hopelessness because why do I even try?

Why am I here? Why did I think I could be here, why did I get my fucking hopes up that this would be a good day?

Why can’t I have one good day?

“Lottie?”

At the sound of a bewildered, familiar voice, I freeze.

Kill me. Literally fucking kill me.

Lifting my chin from where it’s tucked against my chest, I don’t know why I’m surprised. It was inevitable that I would bump into a familiar face—it’s weird, really, that it took so long.

But it’s fucking diabolical that this is the face the universe decides to throw at me.

“Jimmy Thornton,” I drawl, no vitriol to my words besides the naturally occurring hatred in my heart. “Why the fuck are you talking to me?”

My old classmate blinks. Gawks like he cannot fathom why I haven’t greeted him with squeals and a fucking kiss. As if he doesn’t remember that he used to cough slut beneath his breath whenever he passed me in the halls of Haven Ridge High—like he doesn’t think I’ll remember.

I do. Vividly. Just like I remember how the girl who appears behind him, curling a possessive hand over his shoulder, scratched that same word onto my locker on our first day of senior year.

The perpetrator of that lovely little prank scans me from head-to-toe.

“Oh, c’mon,” Lissa Ford croons. “We’re all grown, Lot. Let bygones be bygones.”

No. I don’t think I will do that. Unless it means I’ll say bye and they’ll get gone . Which I figure it doesn’t, so I make to get myself gone, only for my old track rival to step in my way. “I heard rumor you were back.”

I stiffen, if only because I know exactly what little birdie has been tweeting about my return. Although, the Webers are more like the wriggling worms that the birdie has for breakfast. “Do you want an autograph or something, or can I go?”

Lisa… laughs. I guess. Some nasty, derisive iteration of the noise. “You really haven’t changed a bit, have you?”

Fuck me, why does everyone keep saying that?

“Well.” Lissa purses her lips like she’s rethinking her words, something devious glinting in her eyes as they briefly shift to something behind me. “I guess you must’ve, a little. I don’t remember you being very… social in high school.”

Without turning around, I know who suddenly comes up behind me. The back of my neck itches with familiar awareness about a second before a palm cups it, before an uncharacteristically hard voice drones, “What’s that supposed to mean?”

It means I was a loser loner who had no friends, Finn. Catch the context clues.

Reminding me of his scrawny existence, Lissa exchanges a glance with Jimmy—with her boyfriend? Is that why she’s here, picking at me, mocking me? Is she marking her territory? Sounds fucking familiar. “I’m just joking around.”

“I didn’t ask if you were kidding, I asked what you meant.”

“Just that Lottie wasn’t exactly popular in high school. Not in a good way, at least.”

That, I wince at. Because while my friend-less-ness was mostly self-imposed, my reputation was not.

I did nothing to deserve being called a whore other than sleep with the wrong guy.

With one guy. Not the hordes that Lissa and her fucking cronies claimed, if only for the simple reason that they could.

Because that wrong guy I slept with was the one Lissa considered hers.

Despite not being very amused, I snort. “Bygones, huh, Lissa?”

Her lips thin as she rolls them together. She smacks her gloss—and fuck her even more, actually, for wearing such a pretty, mauve color and being such a raging bitch that I can’t even ask what brand it is—before opening her mouth, but whatever is poised to come out, doesn’t.

Finn might cut her off, but it’s me he asks, “You done with this?”

I flash my teeth in what I guess you could maybe call a smile. “I was done about five sentences ago.”

He grunts something that sounds a lot like thank fuck , and then we’re gone. He’s dragging me away by the scruff of my fucking neck, and he’s grunting again when I knock his grip away.

“What was that about?” he asks once we’re out of earshot, a finger hooking through one of my belt loops like he thinks I might flee.

Defensiveness, my old, insistent friend, pools at the base of my spine. “You mean what did I do to her?”

“No, Lottie. I mean exactly what I asked.”

I huff. I don’t want to tell him. I don’t want him to know that actually, I did do something—I slept with her boyfriend.

Granted, I didn’t know Carl was her boyfriend, just like she didn’t know that he didn’t consider himself her boyfriend all that much.

And even though I know I didn’t do anything wrong, it doesn’t really sound like I didn’t do anything wrong.

Especially the way Lissa has spun it over the years, what with all her rage being focused on me rather than the asshole who messed her around.

“Your knight in shining armor routine is wasted on me, Finn. I don’t have any honor to defend. ”

“You can’t seriously think I would just let them talk to you like that.”

“Darling,” I croon with a laugh that’s only a little amused, and entirely sardonic. “They’ve been talking to me like that for a long time. No one’s ever stopped them before.”

Tension tightens that grimly-set mouth. “That’s not okay.”

“If I had a dollar for every time something not okay happened to me…” Well, I wouldn’t be here. I wouldn't need to be. That cushy sum sitting in my confiscated bank account would be obsolete—it would look small in comparison. “It’s fine. I don’t care. Let it go.”

Finn does. For reasons I cannot fathom, he really, really cares. He’s really, really irritated, all frowny and dour, grumbling beneath his breath as he thrusts something towards me. “Here.”

Though we momentarily become a matching pair as wrinkles crease my forehead too, my frown is quick to smooth out.

It’s quick to become open-mouthed surprise that tips a little too close to awe, considering Finn isn’t offering me anything spectacular.

There isn’t a big, shiny diamond sitting in the clear, plastic bag he clutches.

Just my guilty pleasure in the form of lots of little, yellow-and-orange-and-white striped triangles.

“For the record,” he grunts, but some of those razor edges have dulled. “I think your obsession with candy corn is slightly demonic.”

Hissing my offense, I snatch the bag away, and I completely forget about Lissa fucking Ford as I stuff my face with pure sugar. “Then why are you enabling it?”

Another grunt. No real answer.

Until we start a slow trek back to the others and I start tossing pieces of candy and I smile every time I catch one, and Finn smiles too.

And he says, “That’s why.”