Deeper (Caroline & West #1)(7)

I closed my eyes and breathed in West Leavitt and green grass and warm earth.

I’m pretty sure I was still smiling when I lost consciousness.



Bridget hails me from beside the glass-paned doors that mark the entry to the dining hall.

She’s beaming the whole time I cross the lobby, right up until I get close enough for her to see my face.

“What happened to your nose?”

“It collided with an elbow.”

“You’re going to have to explain that.”

“Yeah, I know. But give me a second.”

We go through the doors, grab trays, and wait for the handful of students in front of us to make their way down the line before I dive in. “You know the fight? West and Nate? I kind of got caught in the crossfire.”

“Nate hit you? Oh my gosh! That’s terrible. Did you call security? Because that’s serious, Caroline. I’m not even kidding, you can’t let this keep going on like it is, or—”

I touch her arm to stop the stream of words. Bridget talks like a faucet. She’s either on or she’s off. You have to interrupt the flow if you want to get a word in edgewise. “It wasn’t Nate. West elbowed me, I think. Neither of us was too sure, actually.”

Her eyes get huge. “You talked to him?”

I know what she’s imagining—West and me huddled somewhere private and intimate, and him holding a warm compress to my forehead. That’s how I met her, in fact. I had passed out next to West’s car, and I woke up on my dorm bed with a cold paper towel on my head and Bridget leaning over me, all forehead wrinkles and concerned blue eyes, like some kind of adorable red-haired, freckle-faced angel.

“Not really,” I say. “That’s a good color on you.”

It’s the truth: Bridget looks good in blue. But mostly I tell her because she’s a jock—a long-distance runner on the track team—and I make a habit of complimenting her whenever she wears normal clothes, just to encourage the practice.

We’re making our way down the hot-food line now. “Do you have chicken without the fried stuff on?” she asks the student worker.

“No, just what you see.”

“Okay, thanks.” She’s in training, so she’s super careful about what she eats.

I take a plate of chicken-patty parmesan and two chocolate mint brownies. I have bigger things to worry about at the moment than calories.

“Don’t even think I didn’t notice you changing the subject,” Bridget says when we’ve made our way from the line to the salad bar, where she loads up on hard-boiled eggs and greens. “I need to know what he said. Like, was he still mad from fighting, or was he nice? Did you guys go somewhere quiet, or were you in a crowd? How upset was he that he hit you? Because Krishna says—”

“He didn’t say anything,” I clarify. “He had to leave so he didn’t get caught and end up expelled or whatever.”

“But you said you talked to him.”

“No, I didn’t.”

She rolls her eyes. “You implied it, lawyer girl.”

“We exchanged a few sentences. He wanted to make sure I was okay.”

We’re on to drinks now. Bridget goes for the milk. I get myself a Coke with ice. “Did he say anything about why he did it?” she asks.

“No.”

“Did you ask? Did you hear them arguing? Give me something here. Only you could act like West and Nate hitting each other and you getting whacked in the face is no biggie. Hey, where’s your sweater?”

“I had to throw it out. Blood all over it. And, no, I didn’t hear them or ask.”

“That sucks. I liked that sweater.” We swipe our cards at the checkout to put the food on our meal plans, and she starts walking toward the closest free table. Looking back at me over her shoulder, she smiles. “Want to know what I heard?”

“What?” I set my tray down on the table a little too hard.

Her smile falters. “You’re upset.”

“No.”

I’m not. I’m just … confused. Something’s going on, and these days when something’s going on, it’s rarely good. And if the something involves West and Nate, I’m very much afraid I don’t want to hear it.

We sit down. I brace myself. “Just tell me, okay?”

“I heard they were fighting about you.”

Crappity crap crap crap.

“Who told you that?”

“Somebody in their class. They’ve got Macro together.”

“Nate and West?”

“Yeah, and Sierra, you know her? She said that after class Nate made some random joke, and West got on his case, and it turned into an argument about you.”

“What did they say?”

There’s a rock in my stomach, dense and hot. I sip my Coke, closing my eyes against the doomed feeling slipping over my shoulders.

“I’m not sure.” Bridget’s tone is cautious. “Sierra didn’t catch all of it, only your name.”

I push at my chicken with my fork, but I can’t even bring myself to cut it. When I put it in my mouth, it will taste like ashes. The burned-up remains of the life I used to have.

People talk about me. Not to my face, but behind my back? All the time. I’d made Bridget promise to tell me whatever she heard, because I need to know. It’s the only way I can be sure they’re forgetting, like I want them to.