“Thank you for dinner,”Isla says, turning toward me slightly once we reach the arena and I pull up beside her Jeep. “It was fun.”
“Fun?” I gasp. “Did number nineteen just tell me she had fun with me? Say it again so that I can record it, would you?”
She fights back a laugh and shakes her head. “Shut up. Don’t make it a big deal.” She grows somber, her eyebrows tugging together slightly. “Hey … it’s okay if you don’t want to answer, but I just wondered …” She stops, her hands fidgeting. “You said your sister used to get panic attacks. And I didn’t know … does she still get them now? Or …”
Unable to stop myself, I tense slightly. It’s not Isla’s fault for asking about Lilly. She doesn’t know that one of the things that makes me hold on to this deep, dark anger inside of me is the guilt I feel for not knowing where my sister is. Or feeling like I abandoned her because when I went to juvie, she was left alone for the state to take. Everything in me wants to shutthis conversation down because that’s what I always do when something makes me feel like this. But when I look at Isla, for whatever fucked-up reason, I don’t want to be a dick to her.
“I’m not really sure,” I say honestly. “I haven’t seen my sister in a few years. I’m not sure where she is or how she’s doing.” I have to stop talking and swallow as emotion creeps up the back of my throat. And because I am who I am, my body grows rigid, and I come off like a complete dick, even though that’s the last thing I want to do.
I can’t look at Isla anymore when I see the sympathy in her eyes, so I look forward instead. Every part of me is turning ice cold just at the mention of my little sister. I know I can’t forget my past or my mistakes, but when I’m with Isla, for a little while, I escape it all.
Until right now.
“I’m sorry, Hendrix,” she whispers softly. “I shouldn’t have asked. I didn’t … I wasn’t thinking.”
My body grows rigid, making my head abruptly ache. Shame fills my being because she shouldn’t be saying sorry to me.
“All good, Nineteen. No worries,” I reassure her.
Even with my eyes facing forward, I can feel her watching me. I hate to end the night like this, but here I am, suddenly in a fucking funk.
“Well, I guess I should head home,” she says, reaching for the handle and making the lights come on inside the cab.
I turn my head to look at her, my heart skipping a fucking beat when I see her in my hoodie in the light.
My eyes drink her in, and she nervously looks down at herself.
“Oh, I’ll give this back to you.”
Her fingers hook around the bottom, but I stop her.
“That’s okay. I’ve got others,” I say, not wanting her to take it off. A part of me feels like she’s mine when she’s wearing it. “Looks better on you anyway.”
Her cheeks turn an adorable shade of pink, but she drops her hands down.
“Good night, Hendrix.” She smiles. “Thank you for dinner.”
“I’ll walk you to your car,” I say lowly, pushing my own door open.
“It’s literally right beside your truck.” She giggles. “But … okay.”
Ignoring her, I walk to the other side of the truck just as she’s stepping down. In the dark, we stand here, looking at each other, and it’s all I can do not to kiss her. I want to so fucking badly that it actually hurts, but after she heard what Jameson said in the hallway, I don’t want her to think that I’m only after one thing when it comes to her.
“Thanks for coming to dinner with me.” I bring my hand up, setting it against my truck, and stand in front of her. “I know that I’ve given you plenty of reasons to tell me no, so thanks for saying yes.”
“Food is food, right?” she teases, sniffling out a laugh before her expression grows serious. “Though I have to admit, I wasn’t sure I wanted to after what West said at homecoming—about you guys making a toast to get laid.” Her shoulders stiffen. “I don’t like to feel like I’m part of a joke that I’m not in on.”
Stepping closer, I keep my hand against my truck and crowd my body to hers, bringing my free hand to her cheek.
“Isla, that was some stupid thing West said. It had nothing to do with me, I swear.” I brush my thumb against her cheek. “I would never talk about that shit with them about us.”
“Why?” she whispers.
“Because I don’t give a fuck what they think,” I say bluntly. “And I wouldn’t want them to know anything when it comes to you.”
The night is cold, and it’s almost completely silent outside with no one around. Her eyebrows pull together. “So … they don’t know about us in the closet?”
“Fuck no,” I utter. “That’s our business, Isla—that’s it.”
