“Hey, stranger.” Lila walks toward me from Curtis Hall, shoving the rest of her peanut butter sandwich between her pink lips. “Want to go to Friday After Class at The Oxblood Taproom? Two for one wells?”
Within a month of moving into our dorm, Lila somehow managed to find us both fake IDs. I haven’t asked. She hasn’t explained. It’s probably safer that way.
“I have a ten-page paper due Monday.” I bite my lower lip.
“Oh, my god,” Lila groans. “You’re almost twenty. Come get one drink with me. Live a little. You’re killing me here.”
If someone had told me years ago that I’d turn into a studious, college embracing nerd, I’d have never believed them, but for the first time in my life, I feel like I’ve finally found my groove.
I wake up when I want to wake up. I take classes that actually interest me. High school cliques and politics don’t seem to be an issue here because there are literally tens of thousands of students, and last but not least, I don’t need a car. The extensive bus system gets me where I need to go, and anything else is within walking distance.
I’ve also managed to land a part-time retail job on the weekends, which pays for most of my clothes and extras.
All things considered, I’m doing really fucking well.
Glancing over Lila’s shoulder, I spot Emily Miller in the distance, laughing and walking in a group of girls who all look alike: mousy and tiny. She finally found her people. I saw her at the food court the first week of school. She pretended like she didn’t know me, which at the time, caught me off guard. But the more I thought about it, the more I realized Bree probably spent the remainder of our senior year trashing my reputation to anyone who would listen.
I can only imagine the kinds of things circulating the halls of Rosefield High.
“Lila, hey.” Two guys with khaki shorts, neon polos, and backwards visors approach us, their gazes darting between us as they wear mischievous grins. “Didn’t see you in Econ this morning. What gives?”
“Overslept.” Lila bites her bottom lip. “I can’t do eight AM classes.”
“Ah, well. I took notes. Let me know if you want them,” the first guy says.
“What? No way. That’s so sweet of you.” Lila’s mouth pulls wide and she tilts her head. The note-taker blushes. She’s so good at playing the charm card it’s disgusting.
“Anyway, we’re going to grab some drinks at Oxblood if you and your friend want to join us?” he asks.
Her face lights. “We were just talking about going to FAC. We’ll totally join you.”
I shoot her a look, which she proceeds to ignore, and the second the guys leave, I jab my elbow into her ribcage.
“I cannot believe you just did that,” I say, my voice hushed.
“What?” The legitimate confusion on her face is concerning. “We were going anyway, what’s the big deal?”
All those years spent away at a girls’ only prep school have done some serious damage to this woman. We’ve only been here a couple of months and already she’s doing everything she can to make up for lost time.
I’m pretty sure if I looked up “boy crazy” in Webster’s dictionary, there’d be a cross-reference to Lila Mayfield.
Folding her arms, she squints. “When are you going to move on?”
“Excuse me?” I ask.
“This is about that guy, that principal guy,” she says.
“No, it’s not.” I try to sound convincing, but I don’t even convince myself.
Her jaw hangs. “That’s exactly what this is about. That’s why you’ve been acting so weird since we came here. All you do is study and hide up in our room, and when you’re not studying, you’re reading books, and when you’re not studying or reading books, you’ve got a million Google tabs going at once.”
Busted.
Trying to find Kerouac has become a compulsive obsession that occupies ninety-nine percent of my study-breaks.
“When are you going to move on, babe?” Lila asks, one hand on her hip. “It’s been a year.”
“It feels like yesterday,” I say, my voice narrowing to a whisper.
She places her hands on my shoulders, almost shaking me as she gets in my face. “I promise you, Halston. Where ever he is? He’s not sitting around waiting for you to walk back into his life. So why are you?”
I let her words replay in my mind, hoping they might actually sink in for once. It’s not like I haven’t had the exact same thought a million times before …
My heart just isn’t ready to accept it.
Chapter 38
Ford
“Not that you’re not welcome to live out the rest of your days on my living room sofa,” Nic stands over me, a mug of coffee between her palms, “but it’s been a year now, and I feel like you should probably start thinking about figuring your shit out.”
I lost everything.
My job. My career. My house. My livelihood.
Everything.
Nicolette takes the spot beside me, pushing my feet out of the way, and I sit up, dragging my palms down my scruffy face.
“You’re a shadow of your former self, Fordie,” she says with a half-hearted chuckle, though there’s concern in her eyes.
I never told her what transpired last year. I was too ashamed. Too proud to admit I’d fucked up and thrown away everything I worked for over a girl.
“Have you thought about talking to someone?” my sister asks.
Tossing my blanket off, I rise. I should shower. I can’t remember the last time I showered. It’s not that I don’t shower every day, I just literally don’t remember any of it. I couldn’t begin to tell you what I had for dinner last night or what day of the week it is.
I’m simply existing in this weird little bubble with no concept of space or time. I don’t think about tomorrow. I try not to think about yesterday. Everything blurs and blends together. It’s easier that way. It’s easier to avoid mirrors and calendars and anything else that might lure me out of this limbo headspace and back into reality.
“No,” I answer her. “I don’t need to talk to anyone.”
“Then maybe try to get out of the apartment a little more?” She shrugs. “Sometimes you don’t leave for days. I go to work and I come home and you’re in the exact same place you were when I left you.”
“You don’t have to say anything else.” I wave my hand to silence her. “I know I’m pathetic. I know you feel sorry for me. I know you’re worried about me.”
“Damn right, I’m worried about you. This isn’t you. You are not my brother. You’re not Ford Hawthorne,” she says, voice pitched. “And it scares the hell out of me.”
Her easygoing demeanor fades, and for the first time since our father passed, I see tears in my sister’s eyes.
Sinking down into a chair across from her, I hold my head in my hands. “Fuck.”
She’s right. This isn’t me.
And maybe deep down, I already know that.
Maybe that’s why I avoid my reflection like the plague.
Maybe that’s why I spend my days holed up in this shoebox apartment, hiding from the rest of the world.
“Go for a run or something,” she says. “You used to run all the time. Go run. Go to the coffee shop every morning so you can at least have some human interaction. Just do something. You can’t sit around here anymore.”
“Are you kicking me out?” I half-chuckle, though I know she’s fully serious.
“I don’t think I have a choice, do I?” She worries her lower lip. “I love you, Ford. You’re my brother. My best friend. But I want you to be happy. And at this point, I’m enabling your unhappiness. I love you too much to do that.”
“So, it’s settled.” I sit up, my eyes locking on hers from across the tiny room. “I’ll be out of your hair by the end of the week.”
Her nose scrunches. “Where are you going to go?”
“Not sure yet.” Shrugging, I add, “As far away as possible.”
Chapter 39
Halston