Turner had shifted against the railing, revealing the person beyond: the sad little girl from the library the other day.
Jayden’s little sister? What the actual fuck?
He was holding his hands out, palms up, as if he was pleading with her . . . or maybe threatening her? Her arms were wrapped around her waist, her head hanging. She looked so vulnerable—especially next to Turner’s height and strength. He was easily twice her size.
Why the hell was he talking to a freshman in an abandoned part of the school, making her look as though she might burst into tears at any moment?
It killed me to even consider that the sweet, funny guy I was falling for wasn’t who I thought he was, but I couldn’t just stand there and do nothing . . . even though that’s what all my classmates had done for years as I’d endured Madison’s and Jayden’s torture.
I was about to bust my cover. He’d know who I was as soon as I opened my mouth. He’d had nothing to focus on but my voice for weeks.
I didn’t care.
I took a step around the corner, but Turner beat me to it. He leaned down and whispered something to Jenny, his big hand engulfing her delicate shoulder, then rushed away up the stairs.
Jenny lifted her face to the ceiling and sighed, unshed tears glistening on her lashes. She lowered her head and immediately spotted me.
Her eyes widened in fear—of me? Of him?
With one hand still gripping the strap of my bag, I cautiously reached the other out to her, taking small measured steps forward. “Hey, Jenny. Remember me? We met in the library the other day.”
She nodded and glanced at the stairs. The tears spilled over.
“I just want to make sure you’re OK. That looked kind of intense, and—”
“I’m fine,” she interrupted, squaring her shoulders and swiping at the tears on her face. “Just leave me alone.”
She started to move past me, and I let her, not wanting to make her feel any less safe.
“Was that guy bothering you?” That made her stop and face me again. “Did he do something to hurt you? Is he—”
“No,” she interrupted me again. “Leave him alone too. He’s just . . . just don’t say anything to anyone, OK? It’ll only make everything worse. I just . . . I need to think.”
She rushed off, leaving me standing at the bottom of the stairs, confused.
She’d seemed afraid of him when they were talking, but I’d caught only a glimpse of it. Was she just upset? Maybe he was trying to comfort her? He did look as though he was pleading with her at one point. And the way she demanded I leave him alone . . . it was fiercer than the way she’d defended herself.
Was I reading this all wrong? Or was my connection with Turner making me search for any explanation that put him in a positive light?
Mom and Dad were both working late, and I didn’t even attempt to do any homework when I got home. I dumped my bag at the foot of my bed and immediately reached for my makeup case. I needed to clear my head, calm my racing heart, get lost in the precision and focus required to execute a full face of makeup.
I set up in my room, retrieving the circle light I’d had out on the balcony all summer. It was getting too cold to sit out there at night anyway, but really, I was avoiding Turner. My phone had lit up with several messages from him, and it took a Herculean effort not to read them. In the end, I put the damn thing on silent and shut it in my bedside drawer.
I ended up doing a split-face makeup—definitely not something you’d ever wear in public but fun to experiment with. One side was fierce, with a strong brow and smoky eye, a defined deep red lip, and contouring around the cheeks—the bitch you didn’t mess with. The other half was youthful and vulnerable, with light makeup around the eyes, soft blush on the cheeks, and a gloss on the lips—the naïve young girl who needed protecting.
I was neither.
I was both.
It spoke to my confusion and conflicting feelings about the day.
I snapped a few photos and wiped it all off just before my dad walked through the front door. While he was in the shower, I started dinner, needing something to occupy my hands and my mind.
“Er . . . you feeling OK, Sweet Chilly?” He eyed the knife in my hand with wide eyes.
I gave him a withering look and got back to chopping the pepper. “Stir-fry, right?”
“I was gonna say we should get a pizza since your mom and I both worked late, but you’ve already done half the work, so sure!”
He put the rice on, and we had dinner ready in no time. Dad chattered about mundane things, asking about school and work. I managed to respond just enough to show I was listening, but half my mind was still in that stairwell with Turner and Jenny, my gut churning about what I’d seen and heard.
Obviously, I wasn’t the only one with secrets. I just couldn’t figure out if his were going to get me into trouble.
To both my parents’ astonishment, I sat on the couch with them and watched some TV for a while, then I went to bed early.
I took time with my evening routine before flopping into bed on my back, staring at the dark ceiling. With nothing left to distract me, I could no longer resist the urge to reach into my drawer and check my phone.
There were forty-eight messages in the group chat with the girls, mostly demands for more information about “the hottie you mentioned the other day.”
An anonymous message told me I’d looked like shit today and should stop making other people deal with having to look at me by just killing myself. I got out of that one quickly, but my heart still plummeted in my chest.
There were three from Turner.
The first was from barely an hour after school.
Turner: Hey, neighbor. Balcony?
The second was from about half an hour later.
T: Mena? I didn’t think you were working tonight. I miss you.
The third was sent about fifteen minutes ago.
T: Are you OK?
Was I? I supposed I was physically OK. Mentally, I was a confused mess. Emotionally? I didn’t even know where to start.
I stared at my phone, trying to think of something to say until it went dark and locked itself. I groaned and ran my hand through my hair, then rolled onto my side, unlocked it, and replied.
Mena: I’m fine. Just need to think.
His reply was instant.
T: About? Anything I can help with?
My fingers hovered over the keyboard, my gut churning. What was I supposed to say? Hey, are you doing something shady with Jayden’s little sister? It sounded insane, even in my own head, but I knew what I’d seen. I couldn’t just ignore it.
On the other hand, if there was a logical explanation and I accused him of doing something awful, I’d feel really bad.
Every time we spoke, Turner seemed to me like a good person—I just couldn’t reconcile that with how scared Jenny had looked while talking to him.
My screen went dark again, and he sent another message before I could.
T: Shit. Is it about me? About us?
M: Kind of. I don’t really know how to explain it.
T: Fuck, Mena, what did I do? Did I say something bad? The more I get to know you, the less filter I have.
M: No, you didn’t say anything or do anything to me.