“Motherfucker.”
“Yep.” I push to stand and take a big breath. “What period is it?”
“Lunch. Where are you going?” he says as I walk around the room, spying my backpack that someone must have dropped off. Grabbing my blazer that’s lying on top, I slip it on, wincing but glad it hides the holes in my shirt. I lean down and swing my backpack up and over my shoulder. My fingers linger over my locket for a moment and my spine straightens.
“Ava?” Knox has moved and is standing next to me. “Maybe you should head to the dorms and rest. If you want me to drive you, I’m sure Maxine will—”
No.
He doesn’t want to kiss me.
We can’t do this, he said.
“I’m fine.” I brush past him, walk over to Dane, and stare up at him. A faint smile tugs at my lips. “Next time, I’ll hit you harder, asshole.”
He smirks. “Yeah, yeah. Maybe I need to teach you how to hit, sweetheart.”
“Meh, I was holding back,” I say. My efforts to fight him were half-hearted. Even as upset as I was, I recognized that it wasn’t Dane’s voice who said those words to me.
He scrubs his face and gives me a little grimace as if to remind me—Remember what you saw on my nose? Can you just forget that?
I send him a shrug. Maybe.
He rolls his eyes.
I think back to those words he said while carrying me: Things will be okay, I promise, I promise, I promise.
Yeah, someday it fucking will be okay. Not today, but soon. The guy from the woods lashed out at me, which means he’s getting careless, and if he’s getting careless, he’s scared…
“Don’t tell me you’re actually going back to class?” Knox says as he crosses his arms.
“Why wouldn’t I? Just another day here.”
He exhales. “Ava, come on, let me take you home.”
Home? I don’t really have one.
Ava? I want him to call me Tulip, dammit.
“I agree,” Dane adds. “You’re pale.”
Huffing out a laugh, I throw him an Are you serious? glance. Has he looked in the mirror lately?
Dane laughs and shakes his head as if he reads my mind.
“Ava, I don’t think you should go to class. You need to rest.” Knox again. His jaw pops and he reaches out and takes my hand, his thumb brushing over the top of my hand.
And there it is, just a tiny touch from him and electric tingles dance up my arms and over my body. I look down at our hands.
He’s worried.
He keeps fighting my battles when he clearly has his own.
His gray eyes cling to mine. “Please.”
My body clenches at the mere sound of his voice. I want him so much, yet it’s so much more than simple lust or desire; it’s deeper and stronger and crazy and how have I let him scale my fortress?
He wants me, and he fights it.
I don’t want to think about the whys of it.
I lick my dry lips, and it takes everything inside me to pull my hand out of his grasp.
This is my journey, not his.
I walk out of the nurse’s station and head to lunch.
16
Love dies.
Then you’re at the end of my kaleidoscope,
Broken, bright shiny pieces.
Obviously, you can’t love me.
And neither should I.
The text from SA comes in on Wednesday night as I sit on my bed, my laptop and textbooks scattered across my quilt. Earlier, I had a quick dinner with Tyler at the group home, and now I’m at the dorm and bored, my homework looming.
Ava? You there?
I stare down at my phone. It’s been several days since I heard from him, and I can’t stop the curl of excitement in my chest.
Another poem? Wow, you’re really into this class. Same author? I ask.
Yep.
Funny. I googled that last one you sent, and it never came up anywhere. The internet is a pretty amazing tool. Wanna tell me who wrote it?
He doesn’t respond for several moments, so I open a bag of Doritos and chomp down on a few. I’m grinning around my munches, imagining SA squirming. I can’t help but think about Knox, holding his phone somewhere, typing. Maybe he’s at home. Maybe he’s in his car and had to pull over because he can’t stop thinking about me.
I scrunch up my face. I wish.
I was too embarrassed to admit I wrote them.
Oh, it’s getting good now.
Yeah, the jock who writes poetry. For me, I assume? I send.
YOU.
They’re pretty nice.
I scroll up, read the poem again and type, So you’ve never been in love? You said it dies.
My parents didn’t even want to be in the same room as each other. He loved her one day and she loved him, then they both changed.
SA is a bit of a pessimist.
Another text comes in. I care for my brother. He’s all I care about. Who have you been in love with?
I sit up straighter in bed. Knox cares for his brother.
Ava, tell me—who have you loved?
Gah, we’re getting personal, and part of me can’t resist it. It’s a place to pretend we might just have something special, and I want to trust SA; I do. His poetry is revealing…
I loved a boy once. He moved to Texas for college.
Do you still see him? Email him? Text him?
SA is poking a little hard.
Another text comes in. Never mind. I don’t want to talk about him. I don’t want to think about you with him. Then, What was his name?
I laugh out loud.
Luka.
Luka with his shaggy brown hair and cigarette burns on his arms. We started off as friends, but nights were lonely at the group home and soon we were sneaking into each other’s room, talking about our hopes and dreams. I loved his crooked smile and shy glances. I don’t know that our emotions were the kind of love that’s forever, but he was my friend, and I trusted him. We fumbled through sex, and while it was never the way I’ve read about in books, it was enough.
My eyes widen at the next text.
I only want you.
My fingers clutch the phone as I type out a response.
Is that what this is then? A way to woo the girl you can’t have?
No response.
WHY did you leave that letter if you aren’t going to tell me who you really are?
A hard, rapid series of knocks sounds on my door, making me yelp. It’s past eight and visiting hours ended a while ago. In fact, the hallway’s been eerily quiet tonight, an almost expectant air in the stillness. I frown and type.
Hey, someone’s at my door. Weird, right, this late?
He doesn’t reply right away, and I feel antsy about the knock. I set my phone down and look at my black booty shorts and camisole—not exactly how I want to greet someone.
“Who’s there?” I call out, but all I get is a whole lot of silence.
I look through the peephole, but no one’s there. Anxiety drifts over me, giving me goose bumps. I’ve been more cautious since the hit at school, especially since no one knows who it was. According to Trask, there aren’t any cameras in that part of the gym. Of course not.
I bend down to my hands and knees to see if I can see feet or a shadow, but it’s only the bright white lights of the hallway. I consider calling the resident assistant but quickly dismiss the idea. It’s just a knock, right? I could text Wyatt, but he said earlier he was headed out to grab dinner with some guys from the baseball team. I think he’d come up to my floor if I asked, even though visiting hours are over.
Still…
There’s no one there. Someone probably just knocked on the wrong door, realized it, and moved on. Maybe it was for Camilla.
Yet, I can’t stop myself from pacing the floor, feeling that anxious pit in my stomach expand. I stop in front of the door and soon it’s not just a door; it’s the woods at night.
Another knock then “Ava!” The voice is male and low and instantly recognizable.
I fling the door open, relief washing over me.
“Knox! What are you doing here?”
My eyes run over him. He’s still in football practice clothes, his hair damp and pushed back off his face. I swallow at his roped forearms and tanned skin, the sculpted muscles beneath his pants.
I cock my hip against the doorframe.
“Got done with practice, was just around the corner. Thought I’d come over and check on you, see how your head is. Plus, you might need me.”
Need him?
“Someone knocked on my door a few minutes ago—it wasn’t you?”
“Nope, but I can guess who.” He looks down the quiet hall, studying the closed doors. He even walks to the end of the corridor, opens the stairwell door, and checks it out. I notice he’s carrying a duffle bag. Weird.
“Who would you guess? Also, what’s up with the duffle? You planning on sleeping over?”
“May I come in? I can explain.” He leans against the edge of my doorway, and he’s wearing a cocky grin. It’s so different from how he is in class that I feel disarmed.
I cross my arms. “Why the heck is King Shark standing at my door asking to come in?”
He smirks. “Trust me, Tulip, you’re going to need me.” He holds up the duffle bag. “I have supplies.”
I arch a brow. “Color me intrigued.” I do a sweeping motion. “Please, come in.”
He waltzes inside, running his eyes over my small room, taking in the twin bed against the wall and the small dresser that come standard with the rooms in the dorm.
“You need to decorate,” he says, looking around.
I scoff. “Yeah, my neighbor Camilla has these cute twinkle lights up around her bed. I haven’t had time.” Or the money to burn. “Trust me, this is plush compared to my room at the home.”