“You don’t get to blame me for everything that happened, Miles. Hendricks was just as complicit. And you can include yourself while you’re at it?—”
“He was never cruel. He doesn’t have a cruel bone in his body, and he wouldnever”—his hand slashes through the air—“have cut you out of his life as callously as you did to him. Never.”
Guilt bubbles under the surface of my skin. “Why are you telling me all this?”
“Because I want to know what your plan is.”
“My plan?”
He stares at me like I’m supposed to know what he’s talking about. “Yes, your plan. For being here. For leaving. Your contract is until July, yes?”
My arms cross tight over my chest, and I clench my teeth. God,this fucking place where everyone knows everything.
“And then what are you doing?” he continues, like he has every right to know.
“Why do you care?”
He scoffs, and his entire face screws up, making it clear he thinks I’m an idiot, and I’mthisclose to punching him. “You’re so naive, Story. Idon’tcare. I just want to be prepared?—”
“Prepared for what?”
“You leaving again. I want to know when it’s happening. Your contract is until July, but Hendricks thinks you’re leaving at Easter. So which one is it?”
“I’m sorry—” My hip pops, arms tighten, lips roll. “What?”
“Which one. Is. It?” he enunciates, like I’m hard of hearing. I’m hard of something, that’s for sure.
“Who says I’m leaving at Easter?”
“Hendricks heard you tell Benson?—”
It takes a significant amount of brain-racking to recall the specific conversation I had with Mrs. Benson because I’ve had many conversations with her over the weeks. And then I remember the first, how Hendricks interrupted us. The day Churchill was stuck, the day we almost kissed, two days before he decided we’d be better off as friends.
Hendricks was right. We are fucked up.
“All my stuff is in Australia. I was only planning to visit here for two weeks. If I’m staying, I need to pack it up, don’t I? Unlike you, I don’t have lackeys to do the grunt work for me. Us peasants have to do it ourselves.”
Only the twitch in his jaw—the same one Hendricksgets when he’s stressed—makes this entire interaction bearable. Being wrong isn’t an experience Miles used to enjoy, and it doesn’t seem he’s gotten any better at it.
“You’restaying?” he grits out, and the more annoyed he is with himself, the bigger my smile.
“I’m leaving at Easter to pack my things up.”
“That’s not a yes to my question,” he shoots back, like he’s caught me in a lie.
“I’mstaying.”
If I hadn’t already decided to stay, it would be worth doing so simply to annoy the fuck out of Milesandprove him wrong. But I have. It’s something I’ve mulled over since Churchill’s accident, and now that I know the reason for Hendricks’s abrupt one-eighty, I think I may be able to provehimwrong too.
Wecanbe more than friends.
“Then I’ll leave it up to you to tell Hendricks,” he says finally, “but do it soon.”
“I’ll do it in my own time, Miles.”
Eyes narrow, he glares at me, and I glare back. Parents walk past us. A few of them stare because obviously a teacher having a standoff with a parent is weird and, unless they looked closely at Miles’s Foxleigh Park jacket with his name embroidered on it, they wouldn’t be able to tell who I’m glaring at.
“Don’t make me regret telling you this, Story.” Miles breaks eventually, and I’m tempted to do a little jig on the spot. Winner. “But for what it’s worth, it’s only ever been you for him.”
