Hostile(3)

He looks at her fondly—like the mother he never had—and shakes his head. “I’m all set. I’ll see ya tonight.”

After a quick hug, he’s gone, and Blair sits back down with me. “What about you? You need anything?”

Blair is a badass, but she’s also a caretaker type. She wants and needs everyone around her to be okay all the time. And again—I should be grateful for it. But instead, it makes me uneasy because I don’t think I’m ever going to be okay.

And I feel like I’m letting her down.

“Nope. I’m fine.”

She narrows her eyes, searching—always searching. “You sure? You’ve been . . .”

Moody. Angry. Ungrateful.

I fill in the blanks with the words she doesn’t say and stand up from the table, taking my bowl to the sink to rinse it. “I’m okay. Just eighteen. I should probably get out of your hair soon.”

She doesn’t look relieved like she should. No. Instead, she looks hurt, just like Bree. I’m on a fucking roll.

The two most important women in my life, and I’ve managed to upset them both in less than twenty-four hours. “You don’t need to leave just because you had a birthday. That’s crazy.”

But I want to.

I know, I know. I’m an asshole. I should love living here in this big fancy house.

“Yeah . . . I know.” I stand awkwardly as she examines me, hoping for a good answer. A talk where I divulge a real piece of myself like she’s been trying to make happen since I was thirteen years old. “I just kind of think . . .” I grip the back of my neck. “I think it would be good for me.”

Again with the sad eyes as she leans against the kitchen counter. “Where would you go?”

Okay, be delicate with this. Don’t tell her you’ve had this planned for a while now. “Well . . . there’s this studio apartment. It’s not too far.”

She looks surprised and carefully asks, “You already found a place?”

“Y-yeah.” I drop my hand and sigh, trying my best not to hurt her feelings. “I’m going to move in this weekend.”

Her mouth drops open slightly and then closes. I think she’s searching for something to say, but I can’t take any more guilt thrown my way. No matter how well-intentioned it is.

“Yeah. So, um . . .” I grab my backpack, “I’ll move out this weekend, and yeah . . .” I give her a quick, awkward hug and kiss on the cheek. “Thanks.”

She blinks at me, and I start for the door. “Wait.”

Damn. So close. I turn to look at her. She has her arms folded and one foot slightly in front of the other. “Yeah?”

“You’re just leaving? Just like that? You know, even if you moved across the country, you’re still part of this family, right?”

I do know that. “I’m late for school.”

“Rhett . . .”

Damn, she’s using her mom voice. “I know. And I’m glad. I want to be. I just . . .” Shit. How do explain this to the woman who has moved the earth for me? Who has taken care of me for five years and loved me even though I’ve done my best to be unlovable? “I need this.”

Her eyes soften slightly, and she takes a deep breath before she nods. “Okay. We’ll help you move your things this weekend. And if it’s too far away, I’ll just have to move in next door.”

I laugh and shake my head. “I wish you were kidding.”

She laughs too. “Nope.”

I do love her. I love them all. It’s just weird how I show it, I guess. “It’s not far.”

“Good. Now get your ass to school.”

“Yes, ma’am.” I leave, grateful for the reprieve, even if it means I have to go to the school I hate.

Anything is better than talking about my feelings.





THREE





“Lancaster!” A big, meaty arm wraps around my neck, and then a hand ruffles my hair. “You ready to party tonight?”

Oh yeah. Can’t fucking wait.

I push Potter off me. Josh Potter. Wide receiver. My best friend since we were kids, if you can call us that. Really—we just grew up together. We were born in the same town in the same year. Our parents happened to be friends, and we’ve gone to the same school since pre-K.

So yeah. Friends.

By default.

“Yeah, sure.”

He stares at me, clearly confused by my lack of enthusiasm to go out and get shit-faced like we do every weekend. “Come on, man. It’s going to be a blast. You know, Crystal has been asking about you a hell of a lot lately.” His eyebrows go up in an exaggerated motion, and instead of excitement, I feel that same sick feeling I always get when my friends talk about girls.

Because what eighteen-year-old star quarterback trust-fund kid doesn’t want to talk about tits all day? Right?

Me. It’s me. I don’t. But if I say that . . . there’ll be a hell of a lot more questions I can’t answer.

“Oh yeah? I thought you said she was into you.”

He stands a little straighter. “Well, she was. Or I was in her not all that long ago.” Again, with the eyebrows, and I try not to cringe.

“Yeah, I’m definitely not interested in sticking my dick anywhere yours has been.”