“You’re on a sports scholarship?”
“Yeah.”
I shrug. “Then what Damien doesn’t know, won’t hurt him.”
He’s still grinning when I wave goodbye, and my pace on the walk home is slower than normal, needing the extra minutes to untangle everything in my mind.
Damien’s actions don’t align with the indifferent persona he projects, and that dissonance gives me pause, especially since my sympathy’s already engaged from the story of his mother. My palm tingles where I held his hand.
I wrap my arms around myself as the afternoon breeze whispers through my hair, but they’re not responsible for the strange warmth spreading across my shoulders.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
DAMIEN
The clock creepspast four-fifteen on Wednesday afternoon, and there’s no sign of Ophelia. I shift in the driver’s seat, impatient, and still raw from my admissions yesterday.
I never meant to share about my mother, only wanting to find out about Ophelia, find out her secrets. But the more I tried to hold back, the more my mouth kept blurting things out.
It’s a far cry from the hours I spent with Chelsea last night. It was our second visit to the clothing boutique, and she tried on dress after dress, chattering the whole time, before finally selecting an outfit for my dad’s party.
Throughout the ordeal, I occasionally grunted in agreement or nodded, but I don’t remember speaking a word.
As a final insult, she didn’t even invite me inside when I drove her home. No chance for snooping. No introduction to her father.
Just thinking about it now, an echo of irritation returns.
I’ll need Chelsea docile when I parade her on Saturday night, but my fingers itch every time I’m with her. Wanting to checkmy phone for messages, to watch the camera feed for another snippet of insight into my girl.
I check the screen now, just the sight of Ophelia’s room soothing.
She’s grown into an addiction; the more I have, the more I want.
The senior ball seemed long enough away when I first proposed it, now the weeks we have left feel like no time at all. I shiver and turn up the car heat, though it’s a balmy spring day.
Say you’ve changed your mind. Extend it.
My lips press together. If anything, I should bring the date forward. Get it over with before I…
Before I what? Get attached?
Sweat beads at my hairline and I shut off the air-con and roll down the window. What the hell’s wrong with me?
Ophelia rounds the corner, one hand trailing the fence for guidance, each step slow and deliberate. Her head tilts to catch sounds, pausing when other pedestrians pass too close.
I lean across, pushing the passenger door open. “Over here.” She gets into the seat and slams the door. “Why don’t you use a cane?”
“Hello to you, too. And I do use one. You’ve seen me.”
“Not at school.”
“Because it’s populated with bullying cunts.” She leaves such a long pause that I frown at her. “Why do you want to know? Do you need another reason to ignore me in the corridor?”
I tilt my head. There’s strain beneath her flippant tone like she’s genuinely upset.
“How does making yourself more vulnerable help with your bullies?” I pull into the road, setting the GPS voice low so it won’t interrupt our conversation and let the silence build.
Finally, she sighs. “Because Chelsea’s pack used to run past and kick the tip, and those waist-high bruises hurt when you don’t know they’re coming. It’s just easier.”
