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CHAPTER

TWENTY-THREE

REMI

“You good?” Sloane asks, looking over at me from her desk.

I’m sitting on my bed, leaning against a stack of pillows with my laptop on my lap, going through directions for an assignment for one of my psych courses.

I decided to minor in it because it’s fascinating.

As long as I don’t think about my own fucked-up head too much and why I am the way that I am.

With Sloane’s question, I look up, my heart racing. “Yeah,” I say, and my voice sounds strangled, even to my own ears. “Why?”

Sloane pops a Hershey’s Kiss into her mouth, and I glance at the Reese’s by my side. My favorite candy, we used to sneak entire bags into the movie theater back in Aben.

That was before I was lying to her about everything.

She shrugs, her cream-colored sweater slipping over her arm. Absentmindedly, tossing the little foil wrapper from her candy down on her desk, she pulls up her sweater and scoots her purple chair back, resting her bare feet on her desk, crossing her legs at the ankle. “You’ve seemed a little off.”

Guilt flares through me.

Another weekend has nearly passed, and the fourth week of classes is coming up tomorrow. I’ve seen Cortland once since we collided after therapy, when I was walking with Van to eat lunch in the cemetery on Friday.

He glared at me but kept his mouth shut.

He hasn’t followed me anywhere.

I’m grateful.

Sweat beads on the back of my neck as I try to hold Sloane’s green eyes. I glance out the windows at the darkening sky and swallow down my nerves. “No,” I tell her, “I’m good.”

I don’t dare look at the scissors on my desk.

It’s becoming a daily habit. It’s like getting coffee. Or brushing my teeth.

Scratching an itch.

Cutting any moment I’m alone.

I cross my arms over my chest, my laptop screen dimming in front of me. The keys are sticking which makes typing hard anyway. The thing is ancient but I’m not going to ask Silas for anything more than he gives me on a weekly basis. He’d just laugh in my face.

Sloane tilts her head. “Are you sure you’re not…

” She trails off and my skin crawls. She can’t know.

She hasn’t brought Cortland up once, which, if I think about it, is a little odd.

He’s the quarterback. Sloane doesn’t cheer anymore, but she enjoyed football.

I know she hasn’t gone to any games and she’s been spending time with Asa, but…

I wonder if she’s not talking about it for my sake.

A hot wave of guilt flushes through me again.

She takes a deep breath.

I hold my own.

“You’re not mad I’m going to my sister’s instead of Grim are you?” she finally blurts out.

I blink at her. Then relief cools away my discomfort. Oh my God. She thinks I’m mad at her.

I should feel sickened by that, since I’m fucking up our friendship, but instead, I can only laugh. “Sloane, what? No.” I shake my head, feeling my shoulders relax, my entire body less tense. “No, not at all,” I tell her honestly.

She seems to relax too, sinking back into her chair as she tilts her head back, staring up at the ceiling.

“Oh, thank fuck, because I was worried you were secretly hating me because I’m going to miss your birthday.

” She dips her chin. “And by the way, I’m not going to.

I have your gifts planned, okay?” She glances at the poster from I Know What You Did Last Summer pinned above my desk.

A scene from Dawson’s Beach, it was a gift from Van.

Her nose wrinkles but she looks back at me with a grin.

“I have them and you’ll get them before I go.

” She brushes her fingers through her hair.

“And Van can suck my dick because my presents are gonna be better than his.”

I laugh, a real laugh, for the first time in a long time. “I’ll be sure to tell him. You know he swings both ways.”

Sloane shakes her head. “I thought so.” She shifts her legs off her desk and scoots closer to it, opening up her laptop.

“I’m glad I got this off my chest, Rems.” Her voice is quieter, and she taps her keyboard, waiting for her computer to light up.

“You know…,” she glances at me, and I breathe in. Out.

In. Out.

“You can talk to me about anything, right?”

I look away, suddenly finding a spot of lint on the sleeve of my black hoodie very interesting. “I know, Slo,” I tell her, the words thick in my mouth. The lie heavy on my tongue.