When Breaker moves to the side, Marek is standing right behind him. Instead of taking the seat next to me, Breaker moves to the row behind us. He might as well have put a sign that reads reserved for Marek Hawthorne. Even without the sign, Marek settles in next to me, owning the space.
I have two choices. Stay put and endure the awkward tension between us, or I can bolt, run for the fucking door, crawl under my covers, and pretend I don’t have a decision to make. We’ve been playing this back and forth game of silence all week.
“Good morning, gorgeous,” Marek whispers.
I breathe out a lungful of air, but no words will form. I’ve basically forgotten my sense of decency, and I’m taking the hands-off approach. If I don’t respond, he will have no choice but to leave me be.
“That may have worked before, but it won’t anymore.” He leans into me, and I hiss in a breath. “Actually, who are we kidding? It never worked.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I lie.
“You think if you don’t speak to me that I’ll simply stop trying, but I won’t.”
“You’ve done an awfully good job of it this week. So, what’s changed?”
“Because I have something to prove.”
“Don’t make me your pet project, Marek. You won’t convince me you’re anything but the boy you were on the rooftop.”
A hard exterior is the only way I know how to survive Marek. If I’m too soft, he’ll walk right over me. I refuse to be that girl anymore, the one who allows her attraction to a guy to dictate how she’s treated by him. Palmer Weston is no doormat.
“You’re no project. You’re a lifetime of good decisions, wrapped in a whole lot of bad ones. The first good decision I made was talking to you in this very spot.” He makes a show of looking around the classroom that has changed the course of my life.
“You were rude to me and touched me without asking, if I remember correctly.” I cross my arms over my chest like a child who doesn’t get their way.
“No, I said I’d fuck you if you wanted, and as for the touching, you enjoyed it.” His tongue pushes the inside of his cheek, popping it out. “Not to mention, if I remember correctly, you enjoyed the fucking, too.”
“Not the point,” I bark, forcing down my amusement.
A hard laugh echoes through the classroom. Marek and I turn around to find Breaker leaning forward with a wicked grin splitting his face.
“Don’t stop this fun banter on my account,” Breaker says. “And if it matters, I’m kind of glad he sexually harassed you on that first day, too.”
“Are you two seriously going to sit here and pretend like this odd friendship and whatever the hell we are”— I point at Marek— “makes any sense? We’re woven together by secrets and lies.”
“Maybe we need to change that. No more secrets,” Marek offers.
“You aren’t capable of that.” I stand and lift my backpack off the floor.
“Neither is she,” Breaker whispers, attempting to cover his words with a pathetic cough. I glare at him for even hinting at my secret.
Marek crosses his feet at the ankles, and Breaker keeps a watchful eye on me, a sly smirk cemented into place. Neither follow me when I stomp away. I reach out to open the door but jump when Byron walks through at the same exact moment. We shuffle back and forth, blocking each other’s paths like a comedy routine gone wrong. The look of horror on his face would be funny if I wasn’t so concerned with putting distance between Marek and me.
“Just stop!” I shout. My outburst brings snickers from my classmates.
With my demand, Byron freezes in place, and I walk around him, finding the exit I’m desperate for. My feet, in such a hurry, get caught on the small tile lip, and I trip, falling straight to my knees. The classroom fills with humiliating giggles.
Byron offers me his hand, and I stare at it. His fingers wiggle, and even though I know I shouldn’t, I extend my own, allowing him to help me.
“Take the day,” Byron says. “Whatever it is, just take the day.”
Moments of sincerity from Byron Decatur are few and far between. I’ve seen it twice. Today and on the anniversary of my sister’s disappearance. I’d like to believe, deep inside the darkest soul, there’s a human desperate to be seen. Byron is no different. It’s why he allows himself these small, almost fleeting moments. They’re cries for help.
“Thank you,” I whisper, snatching my bag and bolting through the door.
Out in the fresh, cold air, I sit on the bench beneath the lamp post. The plaque is inscribed in memory of Georgina Matthews.
My face lifts to the sun, soaking in what I can get. I miss the sun. I’m desperate for the warmth. There is no time to sit and just be anymore. This is what I’m doing. Appreciating the fact Marek hasn’t stormed out, demanding to steal my time. He’s stolen enough.
Oddly enough, Byron’s advice to take the day is exactly what I need. I can afford to miss a class or two today, if it means I can get my shit together. Having Marek ignore me over the past few days has put me on edge.
A shadow casts over me, and I hold my hand up before blinking. The figure in front of me is merely an outline until my eyes adjust to the light.
“Can I help you?” I ask, uncertain why someone would stand so close to a stranger. With my track record, I can never be too safe.
“I’m looking for Marek Hawthorne. Do you happen to know where I can find him?” the beautiful brunette asks. She’s tall and has a certain power behind her stance.
“I can never escape him,” I murmur.
“Excuse me?” The lady lowers her brows, confused by my words.
“Yes, actually, he’s in English literature right now.” I stand. “It’s that building right there.” I point, and the pretty stranger follows my arm to the end of my finger. Once she spots the building, she smiles kindly.
“Thank you so much.” She nods in appreciation. “What’s your name, sweetheart?”
“Palmer Weston.”
“Oh”— her eyes widen— “I see. Well, thank you.”
As she turns and walks towards the building, I can’t help but notice things about her. Her alabaster skin is much like Marek’s, and her beautiful, deep ocean eyes may as well have been plucked from his head and given to her to borrow.
There’s no way that could be who I think it is. The only time he’s ever spoken of his mother is when he told me about how she treated him after his sister passed. That woman in the dark, emerald peacoat was nothing but gracious and endearing. She did seem a little spooked when I said my name, but that happens far more than I care for.
Weston. The name of a dead girl is a tattoo on my skin, permanent and impossible to hide.
The metal doors of the buildings spring open at once, setting off a chain of students filtering into the courtyard. Marek walks out into the sunlight. His eyes find mine, then bounce to the brunette lady between us.
Until this moment, I’ve never seen Marek Hawthorne rattled. His eyes widen as if he’s seen a ghost. Even from here, the tic in his jaw is noticeable. Whoever this lady is, she’s capable of bringing out a side in Marek that’s rare. There’s something about her that lights an even darker, more intense fire in his eyes. What has she done to him to deserve so much disdain and fury?