Page 7 of Don’t Say You’re Sorry (Hawthorne University #2)

EASTON

Easton

It’s Sunday.

Sundays are your favorite.

You’re supposed to be here.

T he next morning, I drag myself out of bed and head downstairs dressed in sweats and a hoodie, my hair still mussed from sleep.

Or lack thereof. Last night was one of the worst nights I’ve had in a long time.

For a while there, I thought I’d finally become numb to it all.

Turns out I was kidding myself. One look at the boy who was supposed to be mine, and all the pain I’d been hiding came rushing back, my hand squeezing Frankie’s a little too hard as we danced.

As soon as his hazel eyes hit mine, it felt as if it’d been seconds since he broke me, not years.

As I walk into the kitchen, my friends’ conversation fades, and four pairs of eyes drift over to me.

Xavi’s helping Nate load the dishwasher, Carter’s doing something on his phone, and Frankie’s sitting at the island, nursing a cup of coffee.

They all look at me expectantly, as if I’m going to… what? Explode? Start crying?

I hit them with a tired grin.

Carter being Carter doesn’t let me off the hook. “Why didn’t you tell me you have two stepbrothers?” he asks accusingly, sliding his phone into his pocket.

I frown. “What do you know about Axel?”

“He was here last night. Outside, waiting for his brother.”

That doesn’t surprise me. Axel never could keep his nose out of mine and Adam’s business. “Never came up, I guess.”

I pour myself a coffee, and when I turn around, Xavi slides a plate piled with food toward me—pancakes, bacon, sausage, eggs, French toast. Nate must have gone all out this morning, which is something he usually only does when he can’t sleep.

I try not to think about the fact that he might not have done this because he’s hurting, but because he thinks I am. He knows I love to eat.

Smiling at the happy couple in thanks, I take a seat next to Frankie and dig in, pretending not to notice the way they’re all looking at me as I shovel scrambled eggs into my mouth, all the while thinking, fuck him.

Fuck him so fucking hard . He didn’t just mess with my head by coming back, he messed with my vibe.

How am I supposed to fake it, to hide the way there’s a big chunk of my heart missing—the piece I thought was still running around somewhere in fucking London until last night—when they’re looking at me like that?

“Easton,” Frankie says quietly, for my ears only.

“Frankie, stop,” I say just as quietly. “It was nothing, okay? He’s nothing.”

“No, he’s not,” she whispers.

I told her some things once. Things I wish I could un-tell her now, if only to wipe that look off her face. She looks angry. Not with me, but on my behalf, her nose flaring as she curls her fingers around her cup.

The thought that she might be imagining wrapping those fingers around Adam’s neck has me huffing out a laugh.

Wrapping my free arm around her shoulders, I press my head to her temple and repeat, “He’s nothing.”

She turns to me, and I hold her gaze. Let me have this. Let me fake it. Please.

Her brows knit before she looks away, leaning into the crook of my arm as she finishes her coffee.

As I finish eating, I wonder if Adam’s eaten this morning, and kick myself for it.

“You still care.”

If only he knew how much I still fucking care, even after all these years.

“Easton,” my stepmother says, smiling, as I walk into the kitchen where she’s working on her laptop. She stands and wraps her arms around me. “Are you staying for Sunday dinner? It’s your dad’s turn to cook the roast this week.”

Over her head, I take in the food and dishes scattered across the counters.

My dad’s a messy cook, which has always struck me as odd considering how controlled he is in every other part of his life.

Then again, he didn’t cook much before Veronica.

We used to have staff for that—until she moved in and insisted we didn’t need help.

The first time he tried making breakfast—determined not to let her do everything—he nearly burned the house down. Watching my dad, of all people, bend over backward to make her happy was hilarious. He’s improved since then. Still not great, but better.

Every Sunday since we became a family ten years ago, he and Veronica have taken turns cooking. They’ve kept the tradition alive, even now that it’s just the two of them. She invites me every week. I usually say no.

Not just because this house is filled with Adam’s ghost—but because being here reminds me how much I still miss him. And I hate missing him.

“Thanks, but I already have plans,” I say, releasing her. “Where is Dad?”

“He had to run to the shop. He forgot the potatoes.”

I chuckle, attempting to act casual. “And Adam?”

“He’s staying at a hotel.” Turning, she heads toward the kettle. “Guess he wanted some privacy.”

Guess he didn’t want to sleep in the room I used to fuck him in .

“Tea?” Veronica asks.

Glancing at her laptop, I throw a thumb over my shoulder. “I can go if you’re working.”

“No, it’s okay.” She waves me off. “I’m not working. I was just looking through the photos from last night. There are some nice ones of you and Frankie. Want to see?”

“Sure.”

I pull up a chair, and she joins me a few moments later, setting a steaming hot cup of tea in front of me.

She scrolls to the top of the page, and we look through the photos together.

There are a lot of them. I don’t know much about photography, but I’m pretty sure the photographer must have been up all night if they managed to edit these in less than twenty-four hours.

“Who’s the photographer?” I ask. “They work fast.”

“My friend Sophie’s daughter. She’s studying photography at Hawthorne, so I offered her the job for experience. She’s good, isn’t she?”

I nod, smiling at one of the pictures of Veronica and my dad. It’s a candid shot. Her arms are around his neck, his hands on her waist, and their faces close. She’s laughing at whatever he’s saying.

“I like that one,” I say.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. No sign of that big stick up his ass.”

She playfully taps my shoulder.

The more she scrolls, the more I see it. Their happiness. Her happiness. It’s hard to ignore it when it’s right there in front of me. Yet another reason why I avoid family time.

I couldn’t do it to her.

All this hurt, all the pain Adam caused me…

It was for her. All for that smile on her face.

Understanding and resentment war within me. It’s not fair. It’s not right . It’s?—

Veronica scrolls to the next image, and I force the thoughts out of my head. It doesn’t matter anymore. What’s done is done. There’s no changing what happened.

The next few shots are of me and Frankie.

Her hand is in mine, her long ash blonde hair curling down her back, and she’s wearing a floor-length, deep purple dress that clings to her curves.

She looks incredible. I’m grinning at her because after I told her just that, she’d said, “Don’t say that too loudly.

All the hot moms in here will think I’m your girl. ”

“She’s beautiful,” Veronica says.

She is. Inside and out. I’ve only known Frankie a few months, but we clicked instantly.

She’s one of the best and most loyal friends I’ve ever had.

I don’t think there’s a lot she wouldn’t do for the people she loves.

I hope whoever hurt her kicks themselves every night for being dumb enough to let her go.

I turn my face when I feel Veronica looking at me.

“Nosy,” I tease, gently bumping her shoulder with mine. “Frankie’s not your future daughter-in-law. Sorry.”

“Damn,” she huffs jokingly.

We get to the pictures of her and my dad’s dance, and I try not to look at her smile this time.

Instead, I look at Adam in the background behind them.

At first he’s watching our parents, but then he’s not.

He’s looking at me, and I’m looking at him, our gazes locked.

It was only for a second or two, but the evidence is right there on the screen.

As if she doesn’t see what I’m seeing, Veronica keeps scrolling at a leisurely pace. “Are you feeling better?” she asks.

“Hm?”

“Adam said you left last night because you weren’t feeling well.”

“Oh, right. It was just a headache. I’m okay now.”

“Good.” She smiles and sips her tea.

I scrutinize every shot as she goes through the rest, checking every background to see if Adam or I are in any more of them.

To make sure we weren’t caught sneaking into the bathroom together.

To make sure there are no shots of me cupping my hand after I hit him, and no shots of his bloody nose.

Thankfully, there aren’t. He must have laid low until he left to come to my house.

Nothing at all of Axel, but that doesn’t surprise me.

That selfish little asshole probably didn’t even bother to show up for his mom.

I want to ask if Veronica knows he’s back in Hawthorne, but I don’t want to hurt her if the answer is no, which is why I keep my mouth shut.

It’s none of my business. Veronica’s my family and always will be, but her sons haven’t been my family in a long time.

They’re nothing more than strangers to me now.

Nothing. Nothing…

“I’ve gotta get going,” I say, standing to place my empty mug into the dishwasher. “I just need to grab something from my room first.”

“Okay, sweetie.”

I feign annoyance. “Don’t call me sweetie.”

“Sorry, pumpkin,” she says with a straight face.

I snort.

The front door opens, and my dad walks in with a grocery bag. I tip my chin at him in greeting before heading upstairs to get away from him.

“Are you staying for dinner?” he calls.

Assuming Veronica will answer that for me, I ignore him.

Bypassing my old bedroom, I walk into Adam’s room, just like I do every time I come here, and quietly close the door behind me.

The room looks the same as it did when we were in high school, but also not.

The bed, sheets, curtains, and walls are the same, but most of his stuff is gone.

He took almost everything with him when he moved to London.

His clothes, his jewelry, his sketchbooks, the picture he kept of me and him on his nightstand.

The only things he left behind were some old things from his childhood, which are stored in the closet, and an empty bottle of cologne in the trash can in the bathroom.

Flopping on the bed, I lie on my back and stare at the ceiling.

Just for a moment, I allow myself to think about the old him—the one I don’t hate—my mouth ticking up at the memory of all the dumb shit we used to do together.

Right here on his bed, I woke him up on his eighteenth birthday by shoving a cupcake full of frosting in his face.

I pinned him down and licked it off afterward, and he fought me off, both of us laughing as he used my shirt to wipe the rest, exposing my abs to his greedy eyes.

That was before we became more. Back when I wanted him, and he wanted me, but we were both hesitant to do anything about it out of fear of ruining what we had.

Still, we went ahead and did that. We ruined it. We ruined everything.

It’s not Adam I should be blaming. I’m the one who pushed. If I had left it alone, maybe I wouldn’t have lost my best friend, my stepbrother, and the only person I’ve ever let myself love.

I ruined us long before he did.