“Then leave. Go follow the redhead instead.”
“Jealous?” Said with a satisfied lilt.
How dare he call me out when he couldn’t care less about me?
I march to the tree with my arms crossed. But I deserve it, don’t I? I can’t deny that I was angry and jealous when I saw where he was looking. Phoebe is pretty and always well put together with her hair, makeup, and outfits, which she posts on her social media accounts.
Leigh showed me how to set up mine, and I follow the kids who go to Cambridge High. They don’t follow me back. I have four followers—Rue, Leigh, Malice, and Seven.
It hurt that Trace decided not to include himself, and it’s a good enough reason for me not to follow the group to Dumas University this fall. I applied, but I haven’t decided whether to go if I do get accepted. Leigh said I have a great chance of getting grants and financial aid because of my situation.
My situation.
My future is defined by what happened in my past. I can’t move forward in life when my past is holding me back.
What if I can change my future one small piece at a time? First, the job. Then, maybe I’ll earn enough to rent a room. My boss, Mason, said he might consider it. Would it be weird to live with my boss?
I finally reach the end of the path. We’re alone. The unobstructed view is absolutely breathtaking. The moon is bright and reflects in the lake below.
“Don’t stand too close, Sorrow.”
I listen. Safety is my exception when Trace tells me what to do. Does he boss every girl around, or is it just me? Does he think I don’t have a spine and can’t stand on my own two feet because my tragedies weigh me down?
After I pull out my bottled water, I set my canvas bag on the ground to keep my butt off the dirt. Trace takes off his ball cap, pulls his hoodie over his head, and using it as a barrier between him and the ground, he sits down next to me. He shoulder bumps me. “Warm enough?”
Like he does it all the time, he flips his hat in the air, catches it, and sets the ball cap backward on his head. I stare. My mouth falls open. Jesus, why does he have to do that? Guys are hot when they wear their caps like that. It changes the vibe from wholesome to panty-melting hot.
“Why?” Clearing my throat, I look away from his sexy profile. “Are you planning on offering me your T-shirt and freezing to death?” I sound ungrateful, so I backtrack. “I’m sorry. I’m warm enough. Thank you for asking.” I’m trying my best to undo what being around my father did to me.
My father used words as weapons to tear me apart, slicing into my self-confidence. Or he used words to beat me into submission and fear, claiming he had enemies who would kidnap and kill me without hesitation. He owed money to dangerous people. I believed him. Now? I’m not so sure.
I hug my knees to my chest and stare at the view of the lake. “Do you need more layers?” I glance sidelong at him.
The backward ball cap doesn’t hide what the girls clearly know. Trace is so handsome with his tousled dark hair, cheekbones that a cover model would envy, full lips that would feel like heaven, broad shoulders that could shoulder a girl’s problems, and muscular arms that would hold her and keep her safe.
“I have a blanket in my bag,” I offer.
“Nah, I’m good.” With his arms extended out behind him and his legs stretched in front of him, Trace tips his face to the moon.
If he were a wolf, he’d be howling at it. Liking his relaxed posture, I get up, pull my blanket from my bag, and sit on it, mirroring him. It’s so peaceful to stare at the moon and the lake, reflecting the moonbeams like glass, and listen to the croaking frogs.
“I used to stare out the window and wonder what kids did at night.”
There’s a beat of silence before he answers. “Are you asking me in a roundabout way what I did?”
I am, and for how he’s staring at me right now, like he’d like to peel away my layers, Trace sees me in a way Leigh doesn’t. Is it because he’s a guy and guys think differently? I haven’t had guy friends—not that Trace is a friend—but would a different guy understand me in the same way?
That’s another piece of me I would like to change.
I need more experience with guys so that, one, I don’t get taken advantage of, two, I don’t fall for the first guy who shows me attention, and three, I know exactly how I’d like to be kissed and touched.
I nod. “Did, do. Yes.”
“Well . . .” He draws out the word. “Of course, there’s the partying, and”— he clears his throat—“sneaking inside a girl’s room, or sneaking her inside my room, hanging out with Seven and Malice, or staying up late playing video games.”
“Do you still do that?”
Do I want to know? Why did he bring it up other than to make me jealous again?
