My smile slips when I realize the cafeteria is deathly silent and this time, as I survey the room, the peculiar sensation I’ve had of being watched is valid.
Everyone’s staring, their attention idling between me and the moody guy.
Brute. That’s what I’ll call him because no way I’ll ask for his name.
Too bad he doesn’t share the sentiment.
“Your name?”
It’s supposed to be a question but sounds like an order.
My insides riot as I raise my chin higher, using my acting skills and body language to seem bored as I roll my eyes at him. “You won’t need it.”
A muscle tics in his jaw. His eyes grow even darker, downright scary, and the air thickens with impending doom.
Slowly, he looks me over from the tip of my blonde head down to my sneakers, then back up. Inch by inch. The calculated heat of his gaze flushes my cheeks and neck as if he’s holding a steady match to my skin.
I’m painfully aware that my bruises and scars are on display; that he has a clear view of the fading, vertical scratches I carved down my neck; that the flimsy little dress doesn’t hide enough. Instinctively, I swing my long ponytail to the front, masking what I can. It’s not much, but it’s better than nothing. Using my healthy arm, I partially cover the bright scar in the crook of my shoulder and the yellowing seatbelt bruise.
“Hailey,” I blurt out, caving under the need to pull his attention away from my imperfect body.
“Next time, watch where you’re fucking going,Hailey,” he hisses, my name peeling off his tongue like an insult. “It’d be a shame if something happened to you.”
I swallow hard, my skin no longer warm, but ice-cold. I bet I’m white as curdled milk. The veiled threat has the fine hairs on my neck standing on end. He rakes one hand through his short, dark hair, leaning in closer, the tangy scent of his cologne assaulting my nose.
“Now... apologize, and off you go.”
An incredulous scoff breaks free before I can stop it.
Inside, I’m shaking like Bambi taking his first steps. Chills slither along my arms and prickle my scalp but fear fails to suppress my recklessness and my unfiltered words spill out.
“Excuse me? Youwere the one standing too close.Youshould apologize tome. It takestwotocollide, you know?”
He grinds his teeth, something dark flitting across his face. “Don’t hold your breath.”
Startled, I take an involuntary step back. It doesn’t immediately occur to me why, but a second later, I notice his hands balled into fists at his side.
The cafeteria blurs as my pulse whooshes in my ears, drowning out everything else. His threat scared me, but his tight fists kick my fight or flight response up to eleven.
Relying solely on instinct, I flee, rushing for the exit as if he’s following suit about to... I don’t know what. I’m not even sure why I’m running.
The reaction could be both—an involuntary reflex to a lost memory, or a reaction to the sudden daunting thought that, while bickering with the Brute, I forgot the more pressing issue:whowas driving that damned car?
With every thud of my heart, the momentary thrill recedes and the ominous sense of impending doom returns. Stumbling into my dorm room, I slam the door, barricading myself against the world. Only temporarily because, yet again, I have fifteen minutes to get dressed and haul ass across campus into the theater before my next three-hour lesson.
I want to grab my phone and call Dad, but first things first. Ignoring the pain, I whip my dress off, tossing it in the hamper. Again, no time to borrow an iron and press my crumpled clothes, so I snatch another dress from the wardrobe.
Are all my dresses these days cute little spaghetti-strapped things? It’scoldoutside. What was Dad thinking packing for me like I was off to Hawaii?
Dressed and with twelve minutes left, I grab my phone. Finding Dad’s number in my contact list—which isn’t hard given he’s the only number there—I pause.
What if this call is a bad idea?
I pace the room, my anxiety mounting. Each step feels like I’m marching to an execution. A part of me screams for answers, the other worries what those answers might be. This is the first time my dad ever lied to me.
He must have a reason.
Either he’s afraid the truth will send me over the same way hearing about Mom did, or there’s something I’m not seeing. Something I might get back once my memories return.
