Sawyer snorts. “You’ve been beady-eyed since we got here.”
I glance around the dining hall, bypassing several faces I saw the night of the fight. It’s packed with students talking to their friends over cereal and eggs, drinking stale coffee in between rubbing the sleep from their faces. How many of them were rooting for Nicholas? How many of them know him?
“I just recognize some faces from the other night.”
It’s not a lie.
But it’s not really the truth either.
I am beady-eyed, but I can’t tell Sawyer the real reason I’m on edge. Ever since my run-in with Nicholas, I’ve been on alert. My body has been in fight-or-flight mode for the past several days, and Iswearsomeone is following me.
As if on cue, Cross comes into the dining hall with his backpack slung over his shoulder, wearing his bruises loud and proud. We immediately lock gazes. I turn my back to him, annoyed that he keeps appearing out of thin air.
I mean, we live with each other, so passing by him in the kitchen makes sense. However, I’ve found him lurking outsidemy classes multiple times this week. Sometimes, he’s with a group of his lacrosse friends, and other times, his arm is slung over some girl’s shoulders.
Either way, I keep catching him in my proximity, looking in my direction.
“Come on.” I gesture to Sawyer. “The coffee cart has better coffee.”
I toss our to-go cups of coffee in the trash and walk in the opposite direction of Cross and his friends.
“Two coffees, one with cream and sugar, and one with only cream,” I say.
Sawyer tries to step in front of me to pay, but I beat her to the punch.
“You know, I’m fine with paying for our coffees every once in a while too.” She elbows me.
I smile. “You can get the next one.”
To be honest, Ishouldlet her get the next one—since I owe my stepbrother twenty thousand dollars.
“Oh shit,” she blurts. “I’m going to be late for class.”
Sawyer pushes her phone into her back pocket and gives me a quick hug. “Text me later!”
Then she’s off, half-running down the sidewalk toward the science building.
I laugh, until it’s cut short when I hear a deep voice behind me.
“You just want a black coffee?” the barista asks. “Nothing in it?”
“Just black,” Cross repeats.
I turn and gape at him, and sure enough, he’s leaning on the coffee cart with one elbow, staring directly at me.
“Are you following me?”
He doesn’t answer me. Instead, he just stares, expressionless.
“Do you need something?” I ask, popping a hip.
The barista hands him his coffee, and he takes it before giving him a nod of gratitude.
“I sent your last assignment to your email,” I stress. “So I don’t owe you anything. Why do you keep following me?”
Cross takes a long sip of his coffee, his throat moving with a swallow. He pulls the cup from his mouth, and my stomach slips when his tongue jolts outward to lick his bottom lip. I’m suddenly flushed. I pull my hair to the side, letting the cool air rush to my warm neck.
“You don’t owe me anything?” He hums. “I disagree.”
