“I mean, is it ever enough for you? CarterandDevon?” she asks.
As if she actuallyknowsDevon. Either of them, really. Frustration flares, sending heat up through my neck and into my cheeks. “Lennie—”
“Are we even really friends?” she snaps. Her wounded feelings have turned to anger, eliminating one of my problems at least. I can’t feed off anger. “With the way you treat me, I can’t tell. Maybe you just keep me around for a laugh, to feel better about yourself. Or maybe because I give you things, like a free place to live over the summer.”
Stung, I straighten up. “Lennie, that’s not fair.”
Chessa, with Daan in tow, arrives next to us. “Lennon,” she says calmly. “Shut up. You don’t need to be spilling your business all over the—”
“No. No, I won’t,” Lennie says, on the verge of shouting. “It’s like Jo wants me to be unhappy.” She turns to face me. “You think people can’t tell, but it’s like you… thrive on misery or something.”
Heat and cold wash over me at the same time, the feeling of exposure and humiliation simultaneously. I can’t move, can’t breathe.How does Lennie know? Does she know? She can’t know…
“You’re upset,” Daan says with a frown. “Let’s perhaps talk about it at—”
“No! You see it, you know what I’m talking about. It’s always abouther.” Lennie throws her arm wide in an exaggerated gesture. It’s an accident, a manifestation of drama and big feelings. But the result is the same. The back of Lennie’s outflung hand—the one with that heavy ring—connects with my mouth, hard enough to be heard. Heat and pain radiate outward from my top lip into my nose and up to my eyes.
I clap a hand over my mouth, automatically. My eyes start to water, and I taste copper.
The dartboard side of Happy’s gives a collective gasp. But Lennie doesn’t back down. “Jo is just a selfish bitch.”
After a moment the initial pain dies down, but my lip begins to throb where Lennie’s ring made contact.
Fury—that liquid fire that lives in a molten state in my chest, collecting over the years of exhaustion, resentment, and sheer terror of what I might do—bursts through the various dams and barriers I’ve built to keep my emotions in check.
It’s always about me? You have no idea what that even means. Always starving, always pretending. I’m doing my best, and believe me, you don’t want to see what happens if I make it about me.
I clench my fists, willing myself to stay still. That thing in me, the needy hungry thing, writhes, demanding freedom, retribution. Food.
Daan gives me a wide-eyed look. “Are you all right?” hemouths, and under other circumstances, I might be afraid of what my expression was giving away. Not tonight, though. Not now.
Breathe, just breathe. Keep it together, Jo.
“Okay,schatje, come on. Let’s go.” Daan wisely steps up and puts an arm around Lennie, ushering her away.
She immediately breaks into shoulder-heaving sobs. As if she’s the one who was hit.
I exhale sharply and shake my head, forcing my fury down and wrestling for control. It doesn’t matter. Lennie is right, even if she doesn’t know exactly how or why.
Daan leads Lennie toward the front door and Chessa follows behind, grabbing at my sleeve to tug me along with her.
Feeling the curious gazes—on all of us, but specifically me—I veer off to grab our stuff at the booth, as well as a handful of napkins for my bleeding lip.
That’s when I realize Carter’s coat is missing. I glance back automatically, but he’s not where I left him near the bar. I would have passed him. Which means he’s gone. After witnessing I-have-no-idea-how-much of that drama.
I close my eyes for a moment. Fan-freaking-tastic.
4
Weak early morning light strikes my closed eyelids, painting the space in a dim grayness.
For a moment, I’m cozy and content, wrapped in my blankets and curled in the hollow at the center of my mattress, carved into the foam and springs from however many bodies have slept here over the years in Branwick Hall.
The distant sound of water running somewhere in the old building, with the accompanying creaks and groans from the pipes, is a lullaby as familiar as the tapping of the rain against the partially open windows and the old copper gutters. Branwick was the original president’s mansion, and it still feels more like a home than any of the other residence halls, particularly up here in the former attic.
Chessa and I have a corner room, so my bed is under one of the window gables, and Chessa’s is under the other, perpendicular to mine. Her side is a random, chaotic collection of clutter, while I like to be able to actuallyseethe floor on my side. Still, we make it work most of the time. She readily admits to being “a barelyreformed slob,” but she’s tagged me with control issues because I make my bed every day. I mean, she’s definitely right. But not because I pull the sheets up.
The air seeping in from outside smells cold, crisp, and damp. Snuggling in deeper under the covers, I might have drifted off again, lulled back to sleep, but the memory of last night chooses to resurrect itself with full force, like a bowling ball to the face.
