“Like me?”
“Yes.” Her voice shakes. “I’m nothing like you.”
The words hit harder than they should, and I fucking snap.
“No, Poppy,” I say quietly. “You’re worse.”
Her eyes flare with both hostility and confusion.
“You pretend you’re this perfect little good girl.” I lean closer. “But something’s off. Your grades have slipped. You barely scraped into Stanford, and you look like you haven’t slept in weeks. That’s not the girl I grew up with.”
Something in her snaps.
“The girl you grew up with?” Her voice is vibrating with fury. “She’s fucking grown up, Wesley. That girl has responsibilities now… pressure… expectations you could never live up to or understand.” Her eyes glisten with unshed tears. “But how would you know that? You’ve spent your entire life blaming everyone else for your fuckups.”
My jaw locks into a scowl.
“I don’t blame—”
“Yes, you do,” she cuts me off, voice trembling. “You always do.”
We glare at each other through the glass, years of history and resentment cracking and fracturing between us like thin ice giving way.
“Well, at least I have people to turn to when life stresses me out. Unlike you, I don’t need pills to keep me going.”
Her mouth pulls into a sneer. “You know what? I don’t need this shit. Have fun rotting in prison,” she growls, pulling the receiver from her ear.
“Poppy!” I shout after her.
But she’s already gone, storming toward the door without a backward glance. Leaving me alone to chew on everything I didn’t say.
I didn’t even get to tell her that I love her… despite how much I fucking hate her right now.
Figures.
So what does a guy do after seeing the girl he loves for the last time? He goes to commissary, buys himself a pen and notebook and starts to write.
Chapter Eleven
Poppy
My sister sits on the corner of my bed, giggling at something on her phone. It’s been a few days since I saw Wesley up at Parr, and ever since then, I’ve been in a horrible mood.
“Gosh, Poppy, why don’t you cheer up? It’s not every day your best friend gets married. Help me plan her bachelorette party,” Pippa suggests.
“I’ve never been good at planning parties, and you know it.”
She laughs. “True. I have been the mastermind behind most of our birthdays. You’ve just always went along with whatever I wanted.”
“It’s easier that way.”
Looking up from my book, I see her studying something on her phone screen, her smile pulling evilly. “Oh, this is going to be epic,” she mumbles under her breath.
“You’re up to something.”
Her head shoots up. “I am not.”
“Yes, you are. I know you, Pippa. You only get that look on your face when you’re up to no good.”
