Page 30 of Cruel When He Smiles

I glance at myself in the mirror and pause. My hair’s still damp, curling slightly at the ends. I leave it down and brush through it until it falls in smooth, black waves around my face.

Then I pull out the eyeliner. I don’t always wear it, but today, I want to. There’s something about the ritual—the quiet precision of dragging the liquid liner along my lash line that makes me feel more in control. The result is subtle but makes me feel good as fuck. The green of my irises pops, set against the shape I got from my mother.

She didn’t give me kindness or safety. Or anything a mother should. But she gave me these almond-shaped eyes; slightly upturned at the corners but not hooded. The kind people always tell me are striking, even if I never asked to be looked at.

My hair’s hers too. Thick and black; heavy when it’s wet, soft when it’s clean. Everything else is my dad: his jaw, his eye color, his height and smile, though I don’t use it much anymore.

The contrast has always been a mess in my eyes—Irish and Korean. Foreign everywhere. Too sharp in one place, too soft in another. But today, I lean into it and make it a choice.

When I’m done, I give myself a once-over in the mirror. I don’t look fine, exactly. But I look like someone who’s trying, and that counts for something.

I don’t look at my phone. I don’t check for messages because there won’t be any. Liam doesn’t text. Liam shows up, wraps his hand around your throat, kisses you hard enough to brand his name on your fucking tongue, then disappears into the wind like he didn’t just drag your soul out through your teeth.

There’s no closure. Just the cold silence that follows someone touching you too deeply and regretting it immediately. Which is fine, really. It’s fucking perfect, actually. Because I regret it, too.

I regret letting him get under my skin. I regret following him to that lot. I regret the way my hips moved without permission and how I moaned for him like he hadn’t spent the last three weeks slowly dismantling every ounce of confidence I built over the years.

He doesn’t want me, he wants control. A reaction.

And starting today, he won’t get one.

I keep my head down as I walk onto campus for my early class, earbuds in without music playing, just for the illusion of insulation. I’m not in the mood for conversation. I’m not in the mood for fake smiles or friendly nods. I’m in the mood to get to class, learn what I need to learn, and pretend the past seventy-two hours didn’t happen.

I duck into the classroom and find a seat near the back, pulling out my tablet and stylus with the kind of precision I only manage when I’m trying to act like I’m not unravelling. The seat beside me stays empty for a good fifteen minutes, then someone fills it.

I don’t look. I keep my eyes on the projected diagram of the muscular system as if I’ve never seen it before in my life. I take notes that won’t make sense later. I chew the inside of my cheek until it stings.

When class ends, I stand too fast. My legs are still shaky. My fingers are worse. The girl in front of me stumbles trying to pick up her binder, and I help her out of instinct. She smiles at me. I don’t smile back.

I grab my stuff and head to the next class without looking around, without scanning the halls for a tall psych major with eyes that see too much and a mouth that lies without moving.

By the time I make it to the coffee cart outside the psych building later on, I’m already dreading the hour I’ve got to spend pretending I’m not in therapy with the one person who makes my skin itch and my heart sprint in opposite directions.

I order a super sweet caramel and whipped cream mess that Sage always says will kill me one day, and sit down at the far end of the quad. I’m scrolling through the sports medicine forum on my phone without really reading any of it.

I don’t look up when I hear his voice across the courtyard. I don’t follow the sound, don’t let my gaze trail after it the way it wants to. But my pathetic resolve only lasts a few seconds.

He’s standing with some of the psych grads, and he’s got that calm, polished veneer back in place, dressed in slacks and a fitted shirt with the sleeves rolled up.

Professional. Put-together. Everything I’m not.

My stomach clenches, and I sip my sugar concoction to keep from throwing up.

He doesn’t see me, or if he does, he doesn’t care. Maybe that’s the best outcome. Maybe we’re both going to pretend it didn’t happen. Just keep showing up to those anger management sessions, tick off the weeks, and move on like we don’t both know exactly what it feels like to be pressed against a wall with a heartbeat pounding against our lips.

At least that’s the plan. The problem is, when I walk into the session ten minutes early like the model student I’m pretending to be today, he’s already there.

His head lifts when I enter, hazel eyes locking with mine for a single, electrified second before he blinks and shifts his gaze to the floor.

Fine.

I sit beside him and dare him to look up again. He doesn’t.

Dr. Ellis walks in a few minutes later, clipboard in hand, all sunshine and good intentions. She claps her hands together like we’re about to play a trust fall game and not pretend we haven’t tried to kill each other with our eyes every week.

“Morning, gentlemen,” she says. “Glad to see you both made it. Let’s check in. Nate, why don’t you start?”

I glance up. “I’m fine,” I say flatly.