That display back there was one of the hottest things I’ve ever seen. I don’t think either of them noticed, but I came.
Twice.
And I fucking hate myself for it.
I should be traumatized, horrified, running to report them both.
Instead, I’m scrounging my mind for every memory I can find, replaying them as I wonder if I’ll ever feel their hands on me again.
And hating myself more and more every second.
The front door mutes the sound of the rain as I close it behind me, and I take a moment to press my back against the wood, eyes closed as I draw in a slow breath.
It’s so quiet in here.
I wish I could savor the moment, but I’ve never felt this tired in my life. It’s not just exhaustion. I feel drained, like I donated blood and they took too much. My body is aching, my skin feels too tight, and a pressure behind my eyes that’s the precursor to either a headache or an hour of sobbing.
I just want to go to sleep.
Like, forever.
My feet leave soggy footprints on the carpet as I hurry toward the stairs, then damp marks on the wood as I race up them. The bedroom doors are all closed, but mine and Melissa’s is unlocked.
I’ve only slept here one night, so I can’t understand why I feel an overwhelming sense of homecoming when I see my bed. I don’t remember ever feeling this when I got back to my single-wide, or the apartment above the grocer. Not even the car I’ve been living in these past few months felt like home.
My chest grows tight at the thought, but I force in a deep breath.
No time to feel sorry for myself. I’ve got some serious shit to work out.
Like which magic trick I’m going to pull out of my sleeve so no one figures out I forged legal paperwork. Or how I’m going to get through the next semester in such close proximity to Kai and Professor Rooke without letting them fuck up my life.
Grabbing a handful of clothes and my toiletries, I let my head hang back as I plod to the bathroom and let myself into a stall so I can pee.
The stall door closes behind me, and I sit with a sigh, waiting for my bladder to relax.
There’s a faint mark on the back of the door, like graffiti that was painted over. Shocking, but I guess a girls’s school bathroom by any other name…
I lean forward to read the faint scrawl, eyes narrowed, then sit back in a rush when I make out the word.
HAVEN IS A FUCKN WHORE
Tears spring up out of nowhere, hot and blinding.
Only when I swipe the heel of my hand over my eyes do I realize I misread the graffiti.
H A R P E R
But each time I read it, all I hear is Haven.
…Haven is a fucking whore…
…Haven is a fucking whore…
…Haven is a fucking whore…
My body gives one convulsion as I fight for composure before violent sobs wrack every inch of me.
I press my fist against my mouth, trying to silence the sound, terrified someone will hear.
