Brutal Obsession (47)



Dancing is my life. A broken leg couldn’t change that.

My phone chimes, the timer going off. I reach out and tap blindly at the screen until the noise shuts off. I’m not ready to give up, though. I take a deep breath and sink below the surface. Ice chunks bump my face, and I let out a little stream of bubbles.

There are degrees of pain that I got used to as a dancer. I don’t want to let myself get soft. With that thought in mind, I remain submerged until my lungs feel ready to burst.

I surge upward and suck in a gasp. My hair sticks to my face, and my fingers are numb. My toes, too. I lift myself out of the water.

My skin is pink and tingling. I shiver and pull the plug. In seconds, a tiny whirlpool whips over the drain. I step out and grab a thick towel. My phone goes off twice in a row, and I frown.

The list of people who have my new number is small. Since I changed it, I made a decision to limit who had access. Willow, of course, and my mother. Greyson—by force—and some of the dance team.

The first text is from Greyson. I ignore it in favor of the second.

Mia



Dr. Michaels can see us on Friday at 4:30 p.m.





She follows it with his address in Vermont.

Okay. Now I just need to get to Vermont. My phone’s navigation says it’s only about two hours away. Not terrible—at least she’s not having me fly across country. My mother would almost definitely find out about that one.

I send her a thumbs-up, then switch over to my thread with Willow. I send her a screenshot of my conversation with Mia, followed by the emoji that looks like its head is exploding.

Me



How am I going to get there?





In the past, I might’ve borrowed a car… or just had my mom take me.

The little typing dots on Willow’s end pop up, then disappear. Then again. I stare at it, gnawing on my lip, until her text comes through.

Willow



I have a solution… but you’re not going to like it.





Uh-oh.

When she comes home an hour later, she wears a sheepish expression.

“I took care of it already.” She’s keeping her hands behind her back, too, which is… odd. She sidesteps me into the kitchen and smiles. “See? Everything is fine.”

I watch her with suspicion. “You took care of getting me to Vermont?”

She rolls her eyes. “You’ve had your head stuck in the sand. Guess who’s traveling to Vermont for a game on Friday night?”

Oh shit. “No.” I immediately step back. “Absolutely not.”

She reveals what she’s holding. Yep, two tickets to the away game.

“It’s the only way I could get us a hotel room. And seats on the bus. This was the best solution, and we can totally skip the game. Even if you just want to mope around all evening, then we can catch the bus back in the morning…” She smiles, brightening. “The bus is basically a designated driver anyway.”

Yeah, right. The only thing I need more than a panic attack is to go to an away game. If Greyson has the wrong idea now, he’ll definitely get the wrong idea then.

“Wait.” I grab one of the tickets and scan it. “Did you just say hotel room? And bus?”

“You know that the school likes its section filled.” She shrugs. “I just paid for the tickets. We can take a cab to the doc.”

I swallow.

She comes forward and takes my hands. “Come on, Violet. You’ve been sulking since the Paris and Greyson thing. It’s starting to freak me out.”

I can’t exactly say that my sulking is due to my body rebelling against my sudden workout regime. It’s only for a few more weeks.

“Okay,” I agree quietly.

“Great!” She kisses my cheek. “Now, I propose a sleepover.”

I blink at her. “Huh?”

“Sleep. Over.” She loops her arm through mine. “We’re going to Amanda’s apartment. It’s been literally weeks since you had a social outing.”

“Weeks is an exaggeration.”

She pouts. “You wouldn’t go out last weekend. Even though the hockey team was at an away game.”

She has a point.

“Fine.” I heave a big sigh. “I need to dry my hair the rest of the way.”

We separate, and I stew over what the hell a sleepover entails. Like… a slumber party? As if we’re still in high school. I poke my head into the hall. “Are we actually spending the night?”

Willow laughs. “Yes, you dork. We’re going to drink martinis and do our nails and talk shit about Paris and her cronies.”

Okay, you know what? I can get behind that.

I finish getting ready, stuffing pajamas and toiletries into my backpack, and meet Willow by the front door. Ever since the guy broke in—and before that, even, to when my room was trashed the first time—the apartment hasn’t felt the same.

My skin prickles the whole time I’m outside. So much so that I have to resist the urge to hike my bag up higher, and to lift my shoulders to my ears. Willow doesn’t have such a problem. She looks ready to hit the ski slopes with a white-and-pink argyle hat, white puffer jacket, and white leggings. Her pink boots are laced up her calves.

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