“Is he yourboyfriend?” Nora teases.
Esme scoffs a laugh. “She hasn’t had one of those inyears. Not since?—”
“Enough!” I don’t need reminders of Dylan when I’m daydreaming about all the dirty things his dad did to me. “Will you two quit it?”
“Someone’s touchy,” Esme mutters, grabbing Nora by the arm and pulling her out of the kitchen.
I slump against the bench. Ethan is off-limits, and I need to move on. Tuesday night was nothing more than goodbye. Besides, it’s not like I’m going to run into him on campus again. My next creative writing class isn’t until next Tuesday, and surely Professor Johnson will be better by then. Plus, with Luca and Willow gone, I won’t be dragged to any soccer games. I’ve gone four years without interacting with my ex’s dad. I’m sure the next three months will be no different.
So why does that thought make my insides feel like I’ve just stepped off a cliff and the ground is rushing up at me?
“What’s the matter with you?”
I straighten when my mother walks into the kitchen with my stepfather.
“Just missing Willow,” I choke out, my fingers tightening around my glass.
Mum huffs. “That girl is a bad influence, sleeping with her stepbrother under their parents’ roof like that. It’s disturbing.”
What’s disturbing is the way her husband ogles me when she says that, and I’m suddenly uncomfortable ignoring the spicy thoughts I’m sure he’s having right now.
“Whatever,” I mutter, moving to leave the room.
“We need you to look after the girls this weekend,” she says before I escape. “Roger is taking me to the spa.”
Ew, gross.
“Amazing,” I say with a forced smile. “Have a great time.”
“You’ll need to pick them up from school tomorrow. They have horse riding lessons at eight on Saturday, and dance at one. They’ll need you to take them shopping forJessica’s birthday present in between because her disco party starts at five. I want them picked up by nine. Make sure they have something nice to wear. Just put it on the emergency credit card. Then tennis lessons at midday on Sunday, and make sure they practise their instruments for at least an hour.”
Perfect. Exactly how I wanted to spend my weekend.
“Sure thing, Mum. Anything else?”
She eyes me warily. “What are you up to?”
I put my acting skills to great use, perfecting my innocent look as I blink at her. “Nothing. Just trying to be helpful.”
She purses her lips. “No guests over while we’re gone. We don’t need you corrupting your sisters.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” I say. Though after Esme’s comments, it sounds like they don’t need any help in that department.
“Right, well we’re leaving around lunchtime tomorrow, and getting back at some stage on Monday. Keep your phone on you in case we don’t make it back in time to pick the girls up from school.”
“Will do.” With another fake smile, I finally escape to my bedroom, closing the door behind me. Only three more months and I’ll be out of here. I can’t wait.
The plus sideto running around after my sisters all weekend is I’m too busy to be totally consumed by thoughts of a certain sexy professor, though that doesn’t stop me from touching myself at night, only to be leftcompletely unsatisfied when my fingers and toys don’t get the job done half as well as the man himself. I resort to watching the video he sent me, which results in me feeling even more pathetic.
Why can’t I just move on? Ethan had no intention of taking things further, even before he knew who I was. I wasn’t enough for him. He’d already decided to leave Beckford before we had sex. I need to accept that even though he gave in to his primal desires when I went to his house last week, nothing I did was going to be enough to make him want me for more than a rebound fuck. A way for him to move on from his ex. Though as much as I keep telling myself that, something in my gut won’t let me walk away.
It’s why I’ve opened our DM thread no less than twenty times this weekend, typed out at least fifteen messages, which I promptly deleted, and even went as far as to write an email to Professor Johnson enquiring about his health, which is thankfully still sitting in my drafts.
Like I said, pathetic.
I put a little more effort into my appearance on Tuesday morning and arrive at my creative writing lecture fifteen minutes early, proceeding to pace back and forth nervously until the room empties from the previous lecture and I can get a seat front and centre.
Amy arches a brow and makes a beeline for me when she spots me. This is the only class we share, and since I skipped our tutorial last week, she hasn’t had the chance to grill me over what Coach Rourke wanted to see me about.
