He just throws his head back and laughs.
Wes kisses me on the cheek before getting to his feet. As I watch him retrieve the volleyball and round up the guys, I feel the weight of someone’s gaze. I scan the beach until I see that Mason’s watching me again, and I look away, my lungs constricting, making it difficult to breathe.
I don’t manage a full breath for the rest of the game. Not when we pack our belongings and clean up the house. Not while we load our suitcases into the trunk of Wes’s car. It’s not until I’m buckled into the passenger seat on the way back to campus, putting the beach house and the bitter memories behind me, that air flows freely through my lungs.
Still, it’s not the relief I thought it would be.
I couldn’t tell him the truth, and I know it’s the beginning of the end.
THIRTY-ONE
No matterhow badly I wish things could go back to normal, they don’t. They can’t. I feel the world around me splintering, and despite many attempts, I can’t hold things together.
I go through the motions, sleep-deprived and spiraling, tottering on the edge of my own sanity. With every day that passes, the truth festers, and with it,anger.
Anger at myself, for being weak. Anger at the world, for continuing to rotate like everything’s fine. And perhaps the most misplaced anger of the three—anger at Wes, for not deducing the truth. For not being a mind reader. For being oblivious to the fact that his friend is a monster.
For being friends with him at all.
“Is everything okay, Ives?” he asks in class on Tuesday.
My head snaps toward him. “Why?”
He glances pointedly at my knee, which won’t stop bouncing beneath the desk. “You seem a little on edge.”
“I’m fine,” I lie, forcing my limbs to relax, but I know I’ve been acting off. Twitchy. Restless. Distant. I do my best to behave normally for the rest of class, faking through the motions, masking my true feelings. Afterward, Wes asks meback to his place, but I make up a lie about having plans with Quinn.
I continue to lie for the rest of the week, fabricating a headache, a stomachache, a study session, a test. I zone out in all my classes and feign normalcy when I can. But every lie winds me tighter. Every fake smile sets me more on edge.
By Saturday, I know I can’t avoid him any longer, so I meet Wes at his house in the late afternoon. He pulls me into an immediate hug, and my body tenses up before I can force myself to relax. If he notices (which I’m sure he does), he doesn’t comment.
We watch a movie in the living room, but I don’t curl up against his side like I normally would. Again, he doesn’t say anything, but I can sense the shift in his energy. Fifteen minutes into the film, he reaches across the couch to grab my hand, but I pull it away unthinkingly.
Wes pauses the movie and turns to face me.
“Did something happen?” he asks slowly, his eyes searching mine.
I stiffen, wrapping my arms around myself. The words tangle around my tongue for a moment. “W-what? No. What do you mean?”
His eyes roam over my face, searching for any hint into my mental state. “You’ve been acting different since we got back from the trip.”
I blink at him. He’s right, but I have no explanation for him.
His brows pull together, and I see the anxiety swirling behind his eyes. “Did I do something, Ivy?”
Mason’s face pops into my head, and I push it away. “I’m just tired,” I lie. “Stressed. I haven’t been sleeping well.”
“Ivy.” He reaches for my hand again, but I get to my feet, suddenly agitated. I’ve hardly slept this week, and it’s catching up to me. The world seems warped and off-balance. I feeldisembodied and detached, like I’m not a real person anymore. I shake out my hands, and they don’t feel likemine.“I know I’m not crazy,” Wes continues. “You’ve been distant from me. I feel like I’ve barely seen you this week. We haven’t kissed since spring break.”
I freeze, a sour feeling churning my stomach. That furious thing inside my chest prickles and paces, a caged animal waiting to strike. “You’re upset we haven’t kissed?”
“I’m notupset,but I’d like to know what’s bothering you. If I did something, I’d like to try to fix it.” His words hover in the air for a moment. They’re sorational,but the voice in my head urges me to pick a fight. To take out my anger and frustration on a man who doesn’t deserve it. I latch onto an insecurity and forge ahead.
“Why can’t you just admit it?” I demand.
“Admit what?” he asks, looking bewildered.
“Admit that you’re upset we’re not hooking up. Any normal guy would be pissed about that. Why can’t you just be honest? Why do you always have to pretend that nothing bothers you?”
