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)
“Where are you going?” I call after him.
“Home.” He still doesn’t turn. I have to dart toward the doorway to be able to hear him. “I’m going home to my wife. And you will serve your suspension without complaint. I’ll see you at Thanksgiving.”
Then he’s gone, and I almost keel over, my legs suddenly too flimsy to support my weight. I stumble over to a chair and collapse into it, mimicking Dad’s defeated pose with my face buried in my hands, one of which still aches.
I punched my father in the jaw.
Christ.
Your mother would be ashamed of you.
As I sit there, hunched over, pulse weak, I can’t stop from ruminating over everything he’d said. His words run on a loop until I’m unable to fight the conclusion that takes root in my mind.
He’s right.
I am a fuckup.
Mom would be ashamed of me.
And I have no business letting a girl like Casey love me.
I groan into my palms. Goddamn it. What am I doing with this girl? I’ve known since the first time I had a real conversation with her that she’s too good for me. She’s the girl who rescues injured animals and keeps them in shoeboxes by her bed. She’s the girl who forgives when she shouldn’t and forgets when she ought to remember.
I should have just let it end. It was over, damn it. She dumped me. Rightfully so. But instead of letting it be, I pushed and poked and fought to get her back, and for what? So she can be with a fucked-up asshole who drinks too much and is best friends with a drug dealer who might have almost killed her?
She deserves better than that.
So much better.
CHAPTER 36
CASEY
“THANK YOU,” I SAY FROM THE DOORWAY.
My father observes me over the rim of his teacup. He’s in his study, drinking tea, an open book in front of him. It’s the one I got him last Christmas, a historical account of the Hundred Years’ War. He’s been holed up in here all day reading.
“I know you wanted to expel him,” I continue when Dad doesn’t speak. “But I promise you, he didn’t do anything wrong. Fenn’s only sin was rushing over here when I needed him.”
A muscle ticks in his jaw.
“Are you going to say anything?”
Dad sets his cup down. “What would you like me to say?”
“I don’t know.” I fidget with my sleeve. “Just something.”
“All right. Here’s something—if I ever find a boy in your room again in the middle of the night, he will be expelled if I have the power to expel him, and you will be homeschooled for your senior year. Understood?”
“Yes,” I say tightly.
“And I expect you to keep the promise you made earlier,” he adds, his eyes stern.
“I will.”
During our hourlong talk this morning, in which I laid out my case for why Fenn shouldn’t be punished too harshly for last night, one of my father’s conditions was that I return to therapy. Weekly. I wasn’t thrilled to agree, but I don’t mind Dr. Anthony that much, and it seemed like a fair exchange to keep Fenn at Sandover.
He owes me, though. And I plan on settling that debt tonight—I won’t accept anything less than the truth about prom.
“Sloane just put a lasagna in the oven,” I tell him. “She said it’ll be ready by seven.”
Dad nods and reaches for his book. “I’ll see you at dinner, then.”
Dismissed.
I wait until I’ve closed the door to roll my eyes. I get it. He’s pissed that he caught Fenn in my bedroom. But come on, it wasn’t that big a deal.
In the hall, I fish my phone out of the pocket of my zip-up sweatshirt.
Me: Hey, we still on for later? Dinner’s at 7, so I’ll be free around 9. Meet on the lake path?
Fenn is typing, but the dots keep appearing and disappearing for what seems like an eternity. I get bored of waiting and head upstairs. I want to shower and change before dinner.
My phone buzzes as I’m striding into my room.
Fenn: It kills me to say this, but you were right. It needs to be over. I’m not the guy for you, Casey. I’m sorry.
I stare at the message.
A second ticks by. Two. Three. Ten.
Still I keep staring. In the hopes that it will make sense soon. I even double-check it’s actually written in English because my brain won’t compute. My eyes see words like “over” and “sorry” but obviously my eyes are stupid and wrong. There’s no way he’s ending things with me.
Over text.
That’s preposterous.
My pulse gets weaker, slowing to a crawl as I send back three words.
Me: Are you serious?
This time he answers straightaway.
Fenn: I am. I’m so sorry. You need to forget about me.
I exhale in slow, measured breaths. My pulse accelerates now. Faster and faster, until it’s thundering angrily between my ears.