Page 33 of Scars of Anatomy

Finally

Monday afternoon, after our English class, Olivia and I head to the library to study.

When we enter, we’re shocked by the number of people inside.

The library is packed, people hustling and bustling about with large stacks of books in their arms, the volume in the usually quiet building louder than normal.

I glance at the corner table where we normally study only to find it occupied.

Scanning the room, I realize all the tables are occupied with students who have their noses buried deep in their books and notes.

Some are highlighting profusely while others chug from Styrofoam coffee cups every few seconds, blinking rapidly to stay focused.

This place looks like utter hell.

“Whoa,” Olivia breathes, eyes still scanning the room for a place to sit besides the floor.

“Welcome to finals,” I mumble. “Aka Hell Week.”

She shakes her head, baffled. “We could see if there’s any space in the science building lounges. Maybe even in the business building?” she suggests.

I shake my head, knowing everyone else probably came to the same conclusion.

“Everywhere on campus is sure to be packed,” I say, trying to think of an alternative.

We could go somewhere off campus, but I don’t know how beneficial that would be.

I’d probably lose focus pretty quickly. “We could go back to my room,” I offer.

Her eyes widen a fraction in surprise. “We could . . .” She trails off, but I can tell she’s trying to think of another alternative. “But what about Chase?”

I wave my hand dismissively. “He’s going to the Delta Psi Beta party tonight, so he won’t be back until way after midnight. If he even comes back at all.”

She looks at me skeptically. “A frat party? On a Monday night?”

“What can I say. Some people just have their priorities straight.”

She shakes her head in disbelief.

“And you’re not going to said party?” she asks, a teasing smile playing on her lips.

Admittedly, in the past I probably would have gone to that party and gotten absolutely trashed.

Delta Psi Beta’s parties right before finals are legendary—not to mention a great stress reliever.

In the moment, at least. The hangovers are pretty fucking brutal, though, which is why they always throw it the week before finals.

We all may not be the brightest, but we’re not totally stupid enough to show up to finals hungover.

“Me?” I place a hand to my chest, flashing her a feigned look of innocence. “Never. Plus, why would I go to a dumb frat party when I can spend time with my favorite girl instead? Even if it is to just study.”

She rolls her eyes but I catch the blush creeping up on her cheeks. “Fine, we’ll study in your room. But no fooling around,” she instructs, jutting a stern finger in my direction.

Fooling around .

I hadn’t thought about it until now. Well, I have—undeniably—but I actually wasn’t thinking about it currently when suggesting we go back to my room to study. And now I’m definitely not thinking about it as innocently as she is.

“Whatever you say, Finch,” I say, flashing her a playful grin.

She shoots me an exasperated look before leading the way to the exit.

We leave the busy library and head back into the cold.

On the walk over to my dorm, I try to stay close to her, huddling together for warmth.

Since last week, Olivia has been much better.

Her sinuses have cleared and she seems back to her old self, but I don’t want to risk her getting sick again.

Halfway to the dorm I feel my phone vibrate in my pocket. Pulling it out, I glance at the screen and see a number I don’t recognize. It’s out of state, and I worry that it may be a football scout trying to get in contact with me.

I glance at Olivia, finding her already staring at me. “Sorry, I should probably take this,” I say, giving her an apologetic look.

She waves her hand dismissively, telling me to answer it. She pulls away, putting over a foot of distance between us as we walk, politely trying to give me a fraction of privacy.

I step closer, closing the gap between us, not caring if she hears my conversation, before answering my phone. “Hello?”

“’Bout time you answered my call.” An annoyed, raspy, chain smoker–like voice comes through the line, making my blood run cold.

Caught off guard, I stop in my tracks. Olivia jerks to a halt a couple of steps in front of me, sensing something is wrong. She looks at me over her shoulder, a look of concern on her face.

“What do you want?” I ask, my voice cold.

“Grandma is sick,” my mother says, as if the news is some sort of new revelation.

“She’s been sick for years,” I spit, wondering where she’s going with this. Why she’s really calling me.

My grandma has been stuck in a nursing home for over ten years now due to declining health.

Admittedly, my grandma and I never had a very close relationship, solely because of my mother.

I would only see her once every blue moon, sometimes when there was a holiday, or when my mother was sober enough to remember to show up to a family function.

When I was a baby, my teenage mom pushed me off on my grandma most of the time.

Hell, she practically forced the woman to take care of me, sneaking out of the house to go get trashed, leaving me with her.

My grandma finally had enough of her and her out-of-control drug addiction, and kicked her out.

While my grandma didn’t want me to be stuck with my mother, she couldn’t keep me either. I guess I can’t blame her for not taking me in. I wouldn’t want to be stuck with a baby, either, after I thought I was done raising my own kids and my health was starting to decline.

At least she seemed to care about me, though.

Just because she couldn’t take care of me herself didn’t mean she didn’t try to find me a good home on her own.

But when all of my family members and the friends she trusted declined to take me in, she had no other choice than to put me in foster care.

She figured it was a lot better than being with my mother, who could put me in danger or overdose herself any second.

That was the first time I went into the system.

I’ve kept in touch with my grandmother minimally over the years. Not so much after I became an adult. The last time I talked to her was probably over four years ago, and her dementia was pretty bad. She didn’t even remember my name.

“Well, she’s really sick now,” my mother says almost blandly. “They say this will be her last Christmas, and she really wants to see you.”

Bullshit.

The last time we spoke she hardly remembered who I was. There’s no way in hell she personally requested that I come see her. This is just a gateway for my mother to get me to Florida to see if she can snag any cash from me.

“I’m busy,” I say through a clenched jaw, my patience wearing thin.

“Too busy to come see your dying grandmother?” she asks, trying to manipulate me, making my blood boil.

“I’ll see,” I say sharply, and hang up the phone, not wanting to deal with her anymore.

I know this is all just a game to her. She couldn’t really care less if my grandmother is dying, especially since my grandmother left her out of her will, and my mother sure as hell doesn’t call me for anything important. She only calls if she needs something.

Not even ten seconds after hanging up, the same number calls back and I instantly hit Decline. I turn off my phone and shove it into my pocket, not wanting to deal with it.

Blood boiling, I look up and see Olivia’s concerned face. I instantly snap back to reality. I’d forgotten where I was and what we were doing, spiraling in my anger.

She approaches me slowly, cautiously. “Hey, you okay?”

I look deep into her warm brown eyes, seeking comfort. Letting out a long exhale through my nose, I loosen my shoulders, my muscles taut from stress. “Yeah, I’m good,” I say, my voice rough.

She frowns, seeing through my lie, but her eyes are patient.

Those damn eyes, they get me every time.

Usually I’m a very reserved person. I’m not a big talker, especially when it comes to personal things, but when it comes to Olivia, all I can seem to do is talk.

It’s almost scary how much I’ve told her in comparison to anyone else.

But those eyes: big, warm, innocent, patient, inviting; they make me feel safe. Like I actually want to open up.

I let out another exhale, my hand coming up to cup the back of my neck. “That was my mom.”

Her eyes widen in surprise. “What did she say?”

I shake my head. “Nothing important.”

I can tell that’s not the answer she’s looking for just by the look on her face, but her eyes are still patient, breaking me.

I swipe a hand down my face, rubbing my jaw. “My grandma’s sick.”

Her eyes fill with worry and sympathy. “Bronx—”

I cut her off, saving her from a pity speech by waving my hand dismissively.

“She’s been sick for years. It’s nothing new,” I inform her, my anger suddenly prickling again.

“My mom says she wants me to come visit her for Christmas, but it’s just a ploy to get me to come to Florida.

My grandma has dementia, and the last time I spoke to her she barely knew who I was, so I know my mom is just trying to get me down there to see if I’ll give her cash or something.

Like she always does,” I scoff bitterly.

She frowns, nodding in understanding. “But do you want to go see your grandmother for the holiday?”

“No,” I answer honestly.

I see the disappointment in her eyes, and I realize how harsh that must have sounded.

“We were never close,” I explain gently, grabbing her hand, hoping she doesn’t think of me as some kind of monster. “I only saw or spoke to her once every couple of years.”

“Oh.” I see the sadness behind her eyes. “When was the last time you saw your grandma?”