His words set in, and for a moment, I think about Sam, my ex. A sour feeling twists my stomach, and I shake away the memory of him. “I’ve only been in one relationship, Jake, and I pretty much knew it was a sham from the beginning. So, no.”
“What happened?” asks Sienna.
I clear my throat. “He, uh, got another girl pregnant, actually.”
The car goes silent.
“Are youkiddingme?” demands Brit.
“That’ssoshitty, Violet,” says Sienna.
“Jesus,” mutters Jake. “If someone cheated onyou,what hope do the rest of us have?”
“Jake! That’s so insensitive,” scolds Sienna.
I shrug, thinking back to my first and only relationship. Sam and I got together at the start of junior year, shortly after all the guys started noticing me. He’d never paid me any mind before, but he’d never been cruel either, so when he asked me out, I agreed. It wasn’t love, but I clung to him in a way I probably shouldn’t have, and I did everything he wanted. I tried to be the perfect girlfriend because I couldn’t bear the thought of being alone.
He cheated on me anyway.
That’s when things got…out of control.
After Sam betrayed me, I was on my own again, and I did everything I could to fit in. At parties, I drank too much and occasionally went upstairs with guys even though I knew they didn’t give a shit about me. I didn’t think it was a big deal at the time—being wanted was better than being an outcast freak with zero friends. But I didn’t realize the damage I was doing, not just to my reputation, but to my heart.
I didn’t realize that I was still the same outsider I’d always been. I’d just earned a new nickname, one even more detrimental than the things they called me in middle school.
Slut.
My smile falters, but I wave off their concern. “It’s fine. Really. Sam was an asshole. I’m not losing any sleep over him.”
“Fuck Sam!” yells Jake.
“Yeah! Fuck Sam!” yells Ollie. “We’ll hunt him down and beat his ass.”
“He was six-two and weighed two hundred pounds,” I say.
Ollie blinks. “We will curse his name from afar then.”
“And think really mean thoughts,” adds Jake, which earns a snort from Brit.
It’s almost 2:00 a.m. by the time we make it back to Brit and Sienna’s apartment. They offer me the couch, but I’m sober, tired, and eager to crawl into my own bed. After many long-winded drunken goodnights, I drive back to Mel’s on dimly lit roads and park in my usual spot on the quiet street. Mel was supposed to come home tonight, but when I check the garage, her car is still missing, and I wonder if I misunderstood her plans.
The house is dark except for the glow filtering in from the pool area. Realizing that I must have left a light on out there, I sneak across the kitchen and quietly push open the door. The last thing I need is Dr. Douchebag to storm downstairs and ream me out for waking him up at an ungodly hour.
Stepping outside, I quickly realize why that won’t happen.
Passed out on one of the lounge chairs, an empty glass in his right hand, is the dark figure of Dr. Landon Blair. On the table next to him is half of a bottle of bourbon, a bottle that I have a feeling was full when the night started.
I study Landon. Though his head is bent forward, his neck twisted at an angle I’m sure he’ll regret in the morning, his face looks surprisingly peaceful. It’s the first time I’ve seen his jaw relaxed, and though it kills me to admit it because of his shitty-ass personality, he really is one of the most handsome men I’ve ever seen.
For a minute, I debate whether I should wake him, but quickly decide that would be like waking a sleeping bear and probably not the smartest idea. Instead, I take the precarious rocks glass out of his hand and set it oh-so-gently on the table beside the bottle. Then I head back inside, grab one of the blankets off the couch in the living room, and drape it over his body as carefully as possible.
Shutting off the light, I head upstairs and wonder if whatever the hell is going on between him and my sister is the reason he’s out there drinking himself to sleep.
SEVEN
The dining room opens an hour later on Sundays, giving everyone extra time to nurse their hangovers. The group I find in the breakroom is the opposite of the bubbly, boisterous crew from the night before, and I snicker to myself, earning a dirty look from Brit. At least, I think she shoots me a dirty look. Her eyes are shielded by an enormous pair of black sunglasses, so it’s hard to tell.
“Not a word, Sunshine,” mutters Brit, before taking a slow sip of the blue Powerade in her hand. “I swear to God.”
