The Deal (Off Campus #1)(61)

Sweet Jesus. She just keeps twisting the knife deeper and deeper.

"College is all about exploring your options, right?" She's talking so  fast now that it's difficult to keep up. "I'm supposed to be meeting  people and going on dates and finding out who I am and all that stuff,  or at least that's what I was hoping to do this year. I didn't expect  you and I to get together, and I really didn't expect it to get so  serious, so fast." She shrugs helplessly. "I'm confused, okay? And I  think what I need right now is some time to … you know … to think," she  finishes feebly.

I bite the inside of my cheek until I taste blood in my mouth. Then I  draw a long, unstable breath and cross my arms. "All right, so let me  get this straight-and feel free to correct me if I'm wrong. You fell in  love with me and didn't expect it, so now you want to date other people  and fuck other guys-sorry, you want to explore, just on the off chance  that you meet someone who is better than me."

She averts her gaze.

"Is that what you're saying?" My voice is cold enough to freeze everything south of the Equator.

After an eternity of silence, she looks up.

Then she nods.

I'm pretty sure she hears the massive crack in my chest as my heart  splits open like a watermelon. God knows she's the one responsible for  it.

In the back of my mind, a little voice whispers, This is wrong.

No fucking kidding, asshole. There's nothing right about this.

"I'm going to leave now." I'm amazed that my paralyzed vocal cords allow  me to speak. I'm not amazed by the naked anger in my tone. "Because I  honestly can't look at you right now."

A tiny breath puffs out of her mouth. She doesn't say a word.





  

I stagger to the door, my brain and heart and motor functions eerily  close to shutting down on me, but I manage one hoarse parting line as I  reach the threshold. "You know what, Wellsy?" Our gazes lock and her  lips tremble as if she's trying not to cry. "For someone who's so damn  strong, you really are a fucking coward."


ALCOHOL. I NEED some fucking alcohol.

There's no alcohol in the fridge.

I barrel up the stairs two at a time and burst into Logan's bedroom  without knocking. Fortunately, he's not in the middle of boning some  nameless puck bunny. I wouldn't have cared if he was. I'm a man on a  mission, and Logan's closet is the mission.

"What the hell are you doing?" he demands as I throw open the closet door and reach for the top shelf.

"Taking your whiskey."

"Why?"

Why? Why?

Maybe because my chest feels like someone scraped it with a dull  razorblade for the past ten years? And then they took that razorblade  and shoved it down my throat so it would tear up my windpipe and shred  my insides. And then to add insult to injury, they ripped my heart out  and threw it on the ice so an entire hockey team could slash it up with  their skates.

Yup. So that's where I'm at right now.

"Jesus Christ, G, what's going on?"

I find Logan's Jack Daniels bottle underneath an old hockey helmet and curl my fingers around it. "Hannah dumped me," I mumble.

I hear Logan's shocked breath. A bitter, spiteful part of me wonders if  he's happy by the news. If he thinks this might be his golden  opportunity to move in on my girlfriend.

Sorry. My ex-girlfriend.

But when I turn around, I find nothing but sympathy flashing in his eyes. "Shit, man. I'm sorry."

"Yeah," I mutter. "Me too."

"What happened?"

I twist off the bottle cap. "Ask me again when I'm shit-faced. Maybe I'll be drunk enough to tell you."

I swallow a deep swig of whiskey. Normally the alcohol would burn its way down to my gut. Tonight I'm too numb to feel it.

Logan stops asking me questions. He wanders over and snatches the  whiskey from my hand. "Well." He sighs before raising the bottle to his  lips and tipping his head back. "Then I guess we're getting shit-faced."





41

Hannah


I KNEW I would be a basket case for the rest of the semester, but I  didn't expect it to be because of the hollow cavern in my chest that  used to hold my heart.

I haven't seen or spoken to Garrett in a week. A week is not a long  time. I've noticed that as I get older, time seems to fly by in  hyper-speed. You blink, and a week has passed. Blink again, and a year  has gone by.

But ever since I broke up with Garrett, time has reverted back to the  way it was when I was little. When a school year felt like forever, and a  summer never seemed to end. Time has slowed down, and it's  excruciating. These past seven days may as well be seven years. Seven  decades.

I miss my boyfriend.

And I hate my boyfriend's father for putting me in this impossible situation. I hate him for making me break Garrett's heart.

You want to explore, just on the off chance that you meet someone who is better than me.

Garrett's bleak recap of my lying-through-my-teeth breakup speech continues to buzz in my brain like a swarm of locusts.

Someone better than him?

God, it killed me to say that. To hurt him like that. The bitter taste  of those words still burns my tongue, because damn it, someone better  than him?

There's no one better than him. Garrett is the best man I've ever known.  And not just because he's smart and sexy and funny and so much sweeter  than I ever gave him credit for. He makes me feel alive. Yeah, we  bicker, and sure, his cockiness drives me crazy sometimes, but when I'm  with him, I feel whole. I feel like I can drop my guard completely and  not have to worry about getting hurt or taken advantage of or being  afraid, because Garrett Graham will always be there to love and protect  me.

The only silver lining to this awful mess is that the team is winning  again. They lost the game that Garrett missed thanks to his suspension,  but they've played two more since then, including one against Eastwood,  their conference rival, and they won both. If they keep going the way  they're going, Garrett will get what he wants-he'll lead Briar to the  championships in his first year as captain.

"Oh God. Please don't tell me that's what you're wearing tonight." Allie  marches into my bedroom and frowns at my outfit. "No. I forbid it."

I glance down at my ratty plaid pants and sweatshirt with the collar cut  off. "What? No." I point to the garment bag dangling from the hook  behind my door. "I'm wearing that."





  

"Ooooh. Let me see."

Allie unzips the bag and proceeds to oooh and aaah over the strapless  silver dress inside it. Her animated reaction is a testament to how out  of it I've been this week. I was pretty much in a trance when I drove to  Hastings to buy this dress for the showcase, and although it's been  hanging on my door for four days, I never bothered showing it off to  Allie.

I don't want to show it off. Hell, I don't even want to wear it. The  winter showcase starts in two hours and I could not care less. The  entire semester has been building up to this one stupid performance.

And I could not. Care. Less.

When Allie notices my disinterested face, her expression softens. "Aw, Han-Han, why don't you just call him?"

"Because we broke up," I mumble.

She nods slowly. "And why is that again?"

I'm too depressed to give her the same bullshit excuse I dished out a  week ago. I haven't confessed to Allie or my friends the real reason I  ended things with Garrett. I don't want them knowing about his asshole  father. I don't want to think about his asshole father.

So I told them, and I quote, "it didn't work out." Four measly words,  and they haven't managed to pry a single detail out of me since.

My stony silence drags on long enough for Allie to shift in discomfort.  Then she sighs and says, "Do you still want me to do your hair?"

"Sure. If you want." There is zero enthusiasm in my voice.

We spend the next thirty minutes getting ready, though I don't know why  Allie bothers dressing up. She's not the one who has to get up on stage  and sing in front of hundreds of strangers.

Though, out of curiosity, how exactly does one sing a heartfelt ballad when their heart has been crushed to dust?

I guess I'm about to find out.


THE BACKSTAGE AREA of the main auditorium is chaotic when I wander in.  Students rush past me, some carrying instruments, all dressed to  impress. Panicky voices and brisk orders echo all around me, but I  barely register them.

The first face I see belongs to Cass. Our gazes hold for a beat and then  he walks over, looking like a million bucks in a black suit jacket and a  salmon-colored dress shirt with the collar propped up. His dark hair is  styled to perfection. His blue eyes offer no trace of remorse or  apology.

"Great dress," he remarks.

I shrug. "Thanks."

"Nervous?"

Another shrug. "Nope."

I'm not nervous because I don't care. I never thought I was one of those  wimpy girls who walks around like a zombie after a breakup and bursts  into tears at even the smallest reminder of her true love, but  depressingly enough, I totally am.

"Well, break a leg," Cass says once he figures out I'm not interested in making conversation.