Total pages in book: 126
Estimated words: 122030 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 610(@200wpm)___ 488(@250wpm)___ 407(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 122030 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 610(@200wpm)___ 488(@250wpm)___ 407(@300wpm)
So I’m done. Ready to blow this Popsicle stand. As I shoulder my way through the throng of dancing, talking obstacles, I try not to think about everything that transpired tonight. Like the very public shunning courtesy of Fenn and Co. Or the tension-filled exchange with Casey in the hallway.
Or the fact that she’d hesitated.
I don’t want to dwell on it, to wonder if it means something. Because of course it doesn’t mean anything. I probably imagined it anyway.
No.
I can convince myself of a lot of things, but not that.
Casey hesitated when I’d asked if she had feelings.
“Watch it,” someone scolds when I slam into them on my way out the door.
“Sorry,” I drawl.
Both our eyes narrow in recognition as my gaze locks with Amy’s.
“Whatever,” she mutters under her breath.
“Amy,” I say graciously. “You look nice.”
She does. Her bronze-colored dress brings out the flecks of green around her light-brown irises. In the fluorescent lighting of the hall, her hair looks a bit reddish. She’d curled it into loose waves that fall over her shoulders. It looks good, makes you want to run your fingers—
I give a sharp intake of breath.
“Uh-huh, I’m sure,” she says sarcastically, trying to move past me. “Have a good night, Lawson.”
“Was it you?” I blurt out.
Amy stops walking, shooting me an irritated look. “Was what me?”
My mouth drops open as I stare at her freckled girl-next-door face. In a rare instance, I’m stunned stupid.
“All right, I, ah…” I pause to collect my composure and figure out how to best phrase this. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but… did you blow me at prom?”
Dead silence.
Amy stares back at me, her own lips parting in surprise. But her eyes… She shutters them quickly, but I think I glimpse a flicker of panic before she does.
“Go fuck yourself, Lawson.”
She tosses those long brown waves over her shoulder and marches back inside.
Guess I was mistaken.
I shrug off the crazy thoughts and text my usual car service to arrange for a driver. Not long after, I’m back at Sandover, wandering through the courtyard with a bottle of champagne in one hand and gin in the other because my room felt too suffocating.
In my aimlessness, I wind up at the soccer field, a great empty expanse surrounded by bleachers to fill with my ghosts. All their disappointed gazes cast upon my slumped shoulders. I stride to the center of the field and emerge into vast darkness. Open space. I tilt my head back and breathe in the stars, then find myself at odds with gravity and collapse onto the soft, prickly comfort of grass.
What the hell was I thinking, anyway? I had one job. Don’t deflower my friend’s estranged soulmate.
Worst thing is, I knew better. I had no business corrupting that, taking advantage of her sincerity. Because I could have stopped myself. There was a moment when we could have been friends. Except at any given moment, I’m incapable of not being a total disappointment.
Sloane hated me before. Now I’ll be fortunate to escape an assassination attempt. Even Silas and his performative martyr complex of perpetual patience hasn’t outlasted my worthlessness. I’m too tiresome even for Silas’s pity.
A fucking joke.
And they’re right. All of them. I waste every talent and advantage. A benefit to nothing and no one. I’m chaos and destruction, bored with my own existence and digging my fingers into the soil for something to hold me.
There’s salt on my lips when I fish the phone out of my pocket. I swallow a mouthful of gin that stings my teeth and pull up a contact I rarely use.
“Lawson? Christ, what time is it?”
“Hey, Dad.”
“What is it now?”
“No, I was just calling ’cause—”
“Are you drunk? I swear to God, Lawson. Is it so fucking hard to stay out of trouble? Go on, then. How much is it going to cost to bail you out this time, huh?”
“No, I’m not in—”
“You can’t help yourself, can you? Take every opportunity you’re given to be a constant fuckup.”
“Yep. Okay, Dad. Thanks. I’m gonna go now.”
The phone slips from my hand onto the grass. I leave it there, scavenging in my pocket instead for a tiny plastic baggy of pills I can’t quite discern through the darkness. Maybe Valium. Or Vicodin. It’s possible I had some codeine at one point, but I’m not even sure how long ago that was. At any rate, I’m certain the surgeon general would frown upon mixing these pills with booze.
Good thing he’s not here.
I swallow and turn my gaze toward the stars, letting their gentle sweep across the sky draw my eyelids closed.
Goddamn redheads. Strawberry-blondes like poisoned apples.
Fuck.
I fucked it up good this time. And there’s no coming back from it.
CHAPTER 52
CASEY
AFTER I’VE WASHED MY MAKEUP OFF, PUT MY HAIR IN A BUN, AND changed into my pajamas, I go to the kitchen to scrounge up something, instead finding Dad waiting for me at the counter.