The blunt falls from Elijah’s slowly parting lips.
Gritting my teeth, I turn around and push open the bathroom door. Zach’s at my heels, and we exit silently, stepping into the empty hall.
I feel her before I see her. My head tilts, gaze sliding toward the open door to AP English, and the moment stops like spinning tires stuck in mud. Second row, slouched in her seat. Twirling a curly lock in her ponytail, and I can almost smell the lavender as she turns her head, eyes locking on mine. Chocolate irises burn and spark, pink lips part, prompting me to drag my tongue across my lower lip.
From the seat beside her, I register Whitney’s gaze on us, but all I feel is Eva. In my head, under my skin. Everywhere.
My adrenaline is still kicking, but something cold washes over me when she and the classroom disappear from view. That look, it was the same expression from this morning, and the sight drills into my chest. It confused me at the time, the somber glint in her eyes, but I can place it now.
Hurt.
What I don’t understand is, why? She’s the one who was with another guy after she came to my room. I don’t fucking get it. She could have gone to anyone last night. Anyone. But she came to me. She pickedme. And it drives me insane that she could let another guy hold her while I can’t even look at another girl without wishing they were her.
“I’m sorry.”
Her words from the kitchen replay in my head, her quiet, thick voice caressing the hole in my chest.
“I’m so sorry. I can’t tell you.”
Can’t tell me what?
Why don’t you trust me?
I try to muster up anger, rage, any emotion I should be feeling at the thought of her with that guy in my bedroom, but the emotions are dormant, unable to reach the surface the way they did when I saw them together. If she really is done with me, she wouldn’t have looked at me the way she did this morning. The way she did just now.
Right?
God, I need her to be real. I need her to be everything I know she is underneath the show she puts on, because she was made for me. She must have been. Otherwise, why would this hurt so damn much?
Or maybe I’m just as delusional and desperate as Carter, unable to accept she’ll never be mine and obsessed to the point of blindness. The ache that grips my lungs compresses, and I wince as I open the door to chem.
I’m obsessed with a girl who won’t give herself to me, and I make coffee every morning for a father who hates my guts.
Desperate.
How fucking fitting.
Eva
Look at me.
Just once.
Look at me, Easton.
Standing in front of the fridge, one hand holding it open, I stare at where he sits at the island and watch his pen scribble across paper. Textbooks sprawl out on the marble countertop, and a single glass of water sits beside him.
There’s no orange juice now.
Less than twenty minutes has passed since the world’s most painfully awkward dinner ended and Bridget left for some “emergency therapy” with her masseuse. It’s normal for Easton to pretend I don’t exist when others are present, but what isn’t normal is Vincent being away from home all week, and Bridget making an actual effort to seem like an attentive mother toward her son. She asked question after question, all of them of the standard, “How was your day?” variety. She stuttered through each one as though she was speaking Pig Latin. Maybe she was. I’ve never heard a word about her parents. I wonder just how absent they were from her life.
Chewing my lip, I grab the orange juice, shut the fridge, and set the carton on the counter. I open the cabinet, frowning at how all of the glasses are on the top shelf, and stretch to the tips of my toes. Struggling to reach a cup, I let out a frustrated breath.
Well, this is fucking ridiculous. How did Maria get these up here anyway? A ladder?
I still when warmth brushes my back and sends a light tremor down my spine. Easton’s bicep touches my shoulder. His smell and heat and presence wrap around me and squeeze tight.
He grabs a glass effortlessly, and my breath catches on a shaky exhale. Stepping away from me, he sets it on the countertop with a softtap. I look back at him, meet his impenetrable gaze, and, slowly, he slides the cup toward me. It feels endless, the quiet skid of glass against marble and his stare on me.
