It’s okay.
Hard enough that little rolls of skin are collecting beneath my nail.
It’s okay, bub. I’m hard, too.
Deeper still until the tip of my finger is coated.
Get it out, I just want it out.
If I bleed, will there be room left for it to be okay?
“E-Em?Em.”
The creak of the bathroom door opening makes me jerk and has my stomach rolling over inside me.
A gasp tells me I’m not fast enough to sit up.
The following curse suggests I didn’t get my sleeve pulled down quickly enough, either.
I squeeze my eyes shut until I feel Hatley drop down next to me, his back to the wall like mine—lockers. I’m near the lockers—and he says nothing.
His breath is shallow. Light. Barely audible.
My wrist stings, the edges of a brand-new break in the skin catching on the fuzzy inside of my sleeve.
I roll it against my shin.
“Aren’t you going to say s-s-something?”
“No,” Hatley mutters thickly.
I don’t want him to see my face, so I don’t look at him like I want to. He shouldn’t even be here.Ishouldn’t be here.
“I’m disgusting,” I whisper.
“Also no.”
I watch from the corner of my eye as he pulls his knees up and sits like me, the heat of him warming my side, even though he’s not touching me.
I don’t want to want it; the comfort that he brings with him battling it out against the pressure in my chest that reminds me of Tristen.
It makes my stomach roll.
“Shouldn’t you be out there?”
“I’m off.”
I huff and press my arm harder into my leg. “Then what are you doinghere, Hatley?”
He draws back a long, slow breath and it feels like it takes him forever to release it. To open his mouth and answer me.
“Sitting with you.”
I wish I could take it back. I don’t want to know now.
My head snaps in his direction, the skin of my face tightening under the dried tears and my eyes threaten to unleash another wave when I see the seriousness on his abnormally stoic profile.
He’s staring off into the distance, his brows pulled low, his light hair falling over his forehead.
