Cracked Kingdom (The Royals #5)(34)

I straighten my shoulders, tip my chin up, and walk out. The afternoon sun hits my face and momentarily blinds me. I trip on my own two clumsy feet and nearly face-plant into the concrete. Chagrined, I slink over to Bran’s car and wait for him to join me.

He does about five minutes later, carting a new cone for me.

“Here. I didn’t want you to go home empty-handed.” He holds it out but I don’t take it, because I’m at the point where I’m concerned that taking an ice cream treat is a substitution for an agreement to go down a path I don’t want to travel.

“What was that all about?” I ask.

“What was what all about?” He blinks innocently while taking a bite of his own cone.

I don’t appreciate him playing dumb and I give him a look that says exactly that. Since he’s not completely clueless, he rubs his lips together and glances away.

“I thought you said we were friends,” I say. He’s lucky it’s cold outside or that ice cream would be dripping down his fingers.

“We were. We are,” he says to the parking meter.

“Then why are you acting like there’s something more between us?” I mean, it’s possible, but I doubt it. I’m not conceited enough to think that I’ve somehow managed to land the most popular kid in my bed, as well as the high school quarterback. All of this attention—the venom from Felicity, the treatment at school, this boy with the sunny smile carting me around town for the last two days—all of it stems from something that’s only loosely related to me. The center of the storm is Easton Royal. I’m just getting kickback from floating in the jet stream behind him. “What do you have against Easton?”

My question flusters Bran so much he doesn’t answer right away, taking refuge behind his cone. I wait until he finishes it, which doesn’t take him long.

“I like Easton,” he says. “He was a scary defensive end and I’m glad that I didn’t have to face him on the field for a game. He’s fun to hang around with, but...”

There’s always a but. I’m starting to get riled up on Easton’s behalf. “If he’s a good guy, then maybe you shouldn’t be doing stuff that intentionally pisses him off. I’m not a game piece that you can move around to score points off of other people.”

Bran scowls. “That’s not what I’m doing.”

“Then explain.”

“Fine.” He folds his arms across his chest. “He’s a player, all right? I don’t want to see you taken advantage of in your condition.”

Bran sees me as weak and vulnerable. A damsel needing saving. I might not be in top form at the moment, but I can fight my own battles.

“I don’t know much about what happened to me in the last few years but I plan to figure it out, and that’s probably something I should do alone. Thanks for the snack and the ride.” I start to leave.

Bran’s hand snakes out and grabs my wrist. “Hartley, wait. I’m sorry. It was a kneejerk reaction. My sister got dicked over by a guy like Easton, and I didn’t want to see it happen to you. That’s all.”

Gently, I peel his fingers off my wrist. “I believe you, and I appreciate your concern, but I’m still taking the bus.”

I leave him on the curb and walk off toward the bus stop. Taking those rides with Bran didn’t feel right before but I couldn’t figure out why. He was nice and nonthreatening. He didn’t make any moves on me. He answered my questions to the best of his ability, even the awkward ones about my cheating. But I never felt fully comfortable with him. It wasn’t until I ran into Easton that I realized why.

Guilt had spiraled through me when I looked up into those ocean-blue eyes. I felt like I’d done something wrong. When Bran’s hand came down on my shoulder, a moment of shock and hurt flashed across Easton’s face before the shutters slammed down and he tried laughing his way out of the situation. I felt as bad as if Easton had walked in on me and Bran naked.

And Easton’s totally right. I’ve been doing everything that the doctor advised me against. Every night I strain to remember who I was for the last three years, and every day someone inserts some version of their truth into my head. Or I absorb it. Either way, it’s all mixed up like my head’s full of M&M’s and Skittles. I can’t tell the chocolate from the candy and when I try to, I get an awful taste.

So maybe I don’t look back. Missing those three years is awful, but isn’t it worse trying to remember and failing? Or trying to remember and coming up with only really bad things? Maybe this is a gift? How many people get a very real opportunity to shed themselves of the guilt over their past sins and move forward unfettered?

Why don’t I take this restart and form new relationships—with my parents, my sister, my teachers and my Astor Park classmates. I should count my blessings. It’s not everyone who gets a diploma from Astor Park Prep. I’ll be able to get into nearly any college I want based on the strength of my high school degree. Astor Park is that prestigious.

What good is it to try to build a past with fragments of other people’s memories? They aren’t even memories, then, only stories—fictionalized events. If I had to create a film reel of my past, I’d be the heroine. Someone who read to the lonely elderly at retirement villages or who saved animals or dug trenches in villages. I wouldn’t be this spineless social climber who used anyone within her grasp to move ahead.