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“Really, Isla?” he grits through his teeth, stepping closer to me. With his blades on, he looms over me, making me feel tiny. “Don’t you have anything to say to me?”
I blink up at him, focusing on keeping my breathing steady. “What are you talking about?”
“I walked into the locker room and caught the tail end of Turner’s conversation with the boys. He said you agreed to go to the Harvest Ball with him.”
Heat floods my face and neck. “Yeah,” I say, lifting my chin. “I did.”
He drags a hand through his hair, groaning. “Dammit. Don’t you know how he is?”
That makes my hackles rise. “And how is he, exactly?” My voice trembles—not from fear, but from frustration with the boy who’s supposed to be my best friend but who feels more and more like a stranger every day. “You’re the one who told me to get out more. Attend school events. Make friends.”
“I did,” he responds, his tone sharp. “Just…not with him.”
That stings more than it should. Heat pricks at the backs of my eyes, and my vision blurs as I fend off tears.
“If who I went with mattered so much to you,” I whisper, “then maybe you should’ve asked me yourself.”
His eyes go wide, his chest rising as he sucks in a fast breath. “I thought I already did. We’ve talked about the ball. I assumed that meant we’d go together as friends. I didn’t think I had to officially invite you.”
His words hit me in the lungs like a slap. I laugh, but it sounds broken. “Right. Friends. Best friends. Who apparently don’t tell each other things anymore.”
He stiffens. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
I should stop now, before I fall apart in front of him, but I can’t take the hurt anymore. I’m too weak to fight, and the words escape me.
“It means,” I say softly, “that I know you’re keeping things from me.”
He blinks, his lips tugging down in a frown. “What are you talking about?”
My throat tightens. I want him to say it. I want him to look at me and admit it. All of it—the dare, the kiss, the comments, the excitement. His feelings for the girl who fits into his world so much better than I do.
Instead, I say, “I know about Sienna.”
His whole body goes still, his jaw slack, and that makes it hurt even more.
“I know about the kiss.” My voice comes out thin, shaky. “Sienna told me.”
He blanches, and then hurt flashes across his face. “So that’s why you’ve been ignoring me.”
“I wasn’t—”
“You were,” he grits out, his tone low and gravelly. “You shut me out for weeks. Weeks, Isla. And you didn’t think to maybe, I don’t know, talk to me?”
My heart hammers against my rib cage. “I didn’t know how.”
He laughs once, the sound disbelieving, harsh. “Right. But you knew how to say yes when Turner asked you to the ball.”
“That’s not fair.” I lift my chin even though all I want to do is run.
“No?” His eyes burn into mine. “What’s not fair is that when you heard something about me, you didn’t come to me and ask. You just disappeared. Like I’m supposed to read your mind and magically figure out what I did wrong.”
My throat closes. “It didn’t once cross your mind that I’d hear about the kiss? When I did, I hoped you would tell me eventually.”
He blinks, stunned. Then, his voice drops, frustrated and somehow wounded. “If it mattered that much to you, why didn’t you ask me about it?”
I look down. My chest aches, like my heart is shredding itself inside me. “Because I wanted you to tell me yourself,” I whisper. “Without me having to ask.”
He exhales sharply, dragging a hand through his hair. “If it was important, I would’ve told you. But it wasn’t. And when you heard a rumor, you immediately believed it without asking me. Then, you froze me out for a month. Then, you said yes to the one guy you know I can’t stand.”
