Page 69

CHAPTER

FIFTY

REMI

“I’m going to Asa’s apartment,” Sloane says, staring at her computer.

My arm itches from a few healing cuts, and I rub my hand over them, on top of my hoodie. I use my thumb to bookmark my spot in the book I’m reading and lower it down, turning on my side in bed to face Sloane.

She’s wearing a slouchy, purple sweater and her hair is in one long, thick braid down her back. Her knees are to her chest, and she’s just tapping one key on her laptop, over and over.

She hates me.

She hasn’t asked any more questions, but when I got back from camping yesterday, she stared at me for a long time, then went to take a shower.

I can feel the tension between us. The change.

I don’t know what to do.

Van is caught up with Ryann, and it’s easier to lie to him. To blow him off for lunch, because he’d rather be with Ryann anyway. But Sloane… my chest aches, thinking of how much damage I’m doing to our friendship.

“That’s cool,” I tell her, forcing a smile. I glance at my book and fold down a page, wondering about the next plot point. The hero in the story is accidentally burning down the heroine’s house because he’s drunk as fuck.

Romantic.

I bite my tongue at the thought to hide my smile, then toss the book down on my desk and tuck my arm under my head as I look at my best friend.

“Yeah,” she says. “I think I’m staying there for the weekend.”

Immediately, I think about all the time I could spend with Cortland while she’s gone. And right after that, a wave of guilt crashes over me.

“That’s awesome,” I tell her anyway. “So, things are going well?”

She laughs, but it’s harsh, and the little hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. She stops tapping the key on her keyboard and turns to face me, her green eyes narrowed. “You’d know if you ever went anywhere with us.” Her words are bitter. “I’ve invited you to meet him, like, a dozen times.”

Guess we’re going to hash this out now.

I swallow down my nerves, knowing I can’t tell her yet. I can’t tell anyone yet. “Sorry, Slo, I’ve been?—”

“Busy,” she butts in, and I see her hand on her keyboard clench into a fist. A muscle in her jaw ticks, and I think about her standing up to Maya when no one else did back in high school, in the locker room after practice.

She called her a bitch to her face one day.

Maya never changed her tune, but people respected Sloane more for it.

What did I ever do? Paint a pawprint on my face because Maya liked to mock me for it?

I run my tongue over my lips, but Sloane keeps talking before I can.

“It’s funny, though, Rems,” she says, her eyes on mine.

She sits up straighter, her feet on the floor as she swivels in her purple chair to face me.

“For all that work you’ve been doing…” Her eyes dart to my closed laptop, on my desk.

“You never take your computer.” She arches a brow.

“Using your old one? Oh, wait. That one’s here too.

Maybe you’re writing all your assignments by hand? ”

Despite the fact I’ve been lying to her, and hiding shit, I sit up with those words, swinging my legs off the bed.

“Actually,” I tell her, “yeah. Some of them, I have.” It’s not complete bullshit.

When Cortland and I come apart in his bed, I do work on some of my assignments in notebooks while he watches football.

I’ve come to learn that he doesn’t give a fuck about school.

Sloane snorts, shaking her head, then she stands, turning away from me. “Whatever, Remi.”

My pulse pounds in my ears. “You have something else to say?” I ask her, my voice low, but my words strong. “Say it.”

She just stands with her back to me for a moment, her hands parked on her hips, over her yoga pants.

Then she spins around, pointing her finger in my direction.

“You’re lying to me,” she says, her brows pulled together.

“You’re lying to me about something, and…

” She drops her hand, glancing at my hoodie sleeve.

For a second, I think it’s pulled up again, but I glance down and see it isn’t.

She’s just thinking about the time she saw everything.

“You look like you got attacked by a cat.” “You’re hurting yourself, you’re blowing off your therapy appointments… ”

My stomach twists into knots. That’s true. I’ve blown off Dr. Ravi a lot lately.

“What’s going on, Remi?” she asks, and that question is soft and low. Her body language even shifts, from angry to scared.

She’s scared for me.

I hate that.

I cross my arms over my chest, my feet at the ankles, dangling from my bed. “Nothing,” I lie to her. “I’m fine.”

This was my moment.

This was where I was supposed to tell her the truth.

And I didn’t.

She knows this was the moment, too. Looking down at the floor, she nods. “Okay,” she whispers, and my heart cracks. “Okay.”

Then she packs her stuff, grabs her keys, and tells me she’ll be back Monday.

As she walks out, locking the door behind her, I realize I never even told her I’m meeting Silas tomorrow night.

A knock on the door wakes me up.

I blink, thinking for a second I’m at home, but then my mind catches up to my body and I’m bolting upright, my heart racing as I realize even at home, my stepdad didn’t knock. He barged in, or he yelled. There was no waiting for me to let him in.

And as I sit up, my gray sheets clutched to my chest, I realize I’m not at home anyway.

I’m in the dorm.

And I have just about zero friends on this hall aside from Sloane, unless Lyza counts, and considering our only conversation was in the bathroom when I tried to puke my guts out, I’m guessing it doesn’t count. That seems so long ago. Like I was a different person then.

I glance at the clock on my nightstand. It’s just before midnight.

I dive my hand under my pillow, closing it around my phone, yanking it off the charger plugged into the wall beside the bed.

For a minute, silence echoes, save for my own racing heart as I hold my phone up and see I have a missed call from Cortland, a message from Van telling me goodnight.

My stomach flips.

The pounding on the door comes again, louder.

I unlock my phone, swiping my finger over the screen, then I dial Cortland’s number. After a second, the line rings, and I hear a buzzing sound outside my door.

My throat constricts.

Until I hear his voice in my ear and in the hall say, “Open the door, baby.”

A smile pulls at the corners of my mouth and I speak into the phone. “Is that you?”

I can practically hear his eyes roll just outside my dorm room. “Yes, and if you don’t open the door in five seconds I’m going to?—”

I don’t hear what he’s going to do because I’ve already ended the call and leapt off the bed, bare feet skidding over the cold floor. I flip the light on and the lock. Then I pull open the door, and he crosses the threshold, picking me up and crushing his mouth to mine.

My legs and arms wind around him as I kiss him back, relieved that I don’t taste alcohol on his tongue. Just nicotine, and I don’t mind it.

The door closes at his back, and his tongue is twirling with mine, his hands under my ass to hold me up.

When we finally break apart, I’m grinning up at him as he leans against my door, still holding me.

“How did you even get in here?” I ask him, breathless. “What if Sloane was here?”

He smiles, but there’s something else in his eyes.

Concern? Fear? It sends the little hairs on my arms on end, but he answers me with a light voice.

“I don’t give a fuck if Sloane is here or not.

And a cute girl let me in,” he says. My mouth drops open.

I smack his chest and his laughter rumbles through it. “I’m lying, she wasn’t very cute.”

I narrow my eyes playfully. “What are you doing here?” I ask him, pressing my brow to his. “Do you want to stay? Sloane is away for the night. You’d have to sneak out in the morning?—”

“We’re not staying here.”

“Excuse me?” I ask him, thinking about the dinner I have with Silas and his girlfriend tomorrow night. “I can’t?—”

“I want you in my bed tonight.” He pulls away, yanking my arm with him toward the door.

“Cortland, I’m in my pajamas.”

He turns back, raking his eyes over my body. “Looks good to me.”

Despite myself, a laugh bubbles through my lips, but I still pull my arm from his. “Let me pull on some sweats, okay?”

He sighs but nods, crossing his arms over his chest as he leans back against the door. I take in his EU shirt, black and orange, and his fitted, black sweats.

Turning, I rake my hand through my hair, wondering what the hell I look like, but thankful his frame blocks the mirror on the back of the door so I can’t think about it too much.

I slide the door open on my closet, pull out an overnight bag and pack a few things.

Then I pull on a black hoodie, sweats over my shorts, and push my feet into my white Chucks.

After I throw my toothbrush in my bag, gargling with mouthwash in the bathroom and avoiding my reflection, I’m ready.

He opens the door for me after shouldering my bag, then slaps my ass as I walk through it, leaning in close and pressing his mouth to the back of my neck. A chill slides down my spine as the dorm door closes and we head arm-in-arm down the narrow, empty hallway.

Despite our closeness, something feels off about this. Cortland is obviously spontaneous, the way he whisked me off to the caves, then took us camping, but this is a rush even by his standards. We agreed we’d see each other Sunday, after his game and my dinner with my stepdad had passed.

As we walk down the stairwell outside, the cool night causing me to shiver, I see his truck is parked right by the sidewalk in a no parking zone, at the bottom of the stairs. He opens up the door for me, tossing my bag in the back first.

He leans over, pulling on my seatbelt. “You good?”

I catch the scent of nicotine in his truck, and I frown down at him, the interior lights of the Chevy illuminating his charcoal eyes. “Yeah, but… is something wrong?”

He grips the frame of the door, staring at me.

I know something is wrong, but he doesn’t look like he wants to talk about it. And after a second he says, “I just don’t want you out of my fucking sight.” Then he shuts the door and walks around the truck.

Wrapping my arms around myself, I remember the last time he told me that in his truck. Foreboding snakes through me as he hops in and closes his door.

“Every Time You Leave” by I Prevail plays softly through the speakers. He leans over to me, threading his fingers in my hair as he kisses me, his tongue flicking over the seam of my lips as mine part for him.

His kiss seems urgent, and my fingers find his forearm, resting on the center console. I dig into the corded muscle, half out of my seat as he steals my breath.

When we finally pull away, he traces my cheekbone with his finger. “God, you’re perfect.”

Then he straightens, throws the truck in gear, and we drive off. I bring my fingers to my swollen lips, trying to gauge his mood beside me. But he’s focused on the road, his high beams on, and I can’t help but feeling like there was something ominous in that kiss.