Tell Me Pretty Lies(7)

Pulling out my phone, I scroll through my missed calls and texts. Two texts from Mom asking me if I’m okay, one from Grey telling me to call Mom, and three from Valen demanding more than the vague excuse I gave her earlier.

After tapping out a quick text to all three, letting them know I’m fine—and Valen that I’ll call her later—I take one last look at the barn, then close the door behind me.




“Where have you been?” Mom asks before I’m even fully through the door. I shoot her a look, confused. She’s never cared much about my whereabouts before, and one could argue that Shadow Ridge is a hell of a lot more dangerous than Sawyer Point.

“I went for a walk. Why?” I shrug my backpack off my shoulder, tossing it onto the couch before making my way to the kitchen counter that doubles as our dining table. I take the stool next to her as she sips on a glass of wine.

“I was just worried. Being your first day back and all.”

Right. “It was fine. No one seemed to notice, or if they did, they didn’t care,” I lie.

She narrows her eyes, not believing me.

“I’m fine, Mom.”

“I can’t believe you’re turning eighteen soon,” she says, pinching my chin between her thumb and finger. “You get more beautiful every day.”

I give an uncomfortable laugh and try to pull out of her grasp, but she holds me in place.

“Promise me you’ll be careful.” Her eyes are red and weary, and for the first time in my life, my mother looks…tired. She’s still beautiful with her blonde hair and heart-shaped face that will probably always make her look younger than she is—both traits I inherited from her—but the spark has faded from her eyes. There’s no denying that I am my mother’s child. The only thing I didn’t get are her chestnut eyes. My father, whoever he is, must be responsible for my blue ones.

“What could possibly happen—”

“Not just with your safety,” she clarifies. “With your heart.”

That heart she’s referring to starts to work overtime in my chest. Does she know about Thayer and me? I swallow hard, then shake off the thought. There’s no way. We were careful. Mostly. Toward the end, I couldn’t hide my heartbreak if I tried, but everyone assumed that I was grieving. And I was. In more ways than one.

“You don’t have to worry about that,” I assure her.




“Shayne?”

My head pops up when I hear the teacher’s voice to find her standing at the front of the class, holding a slip of paper in her hand.

“You’re needed in the guidance center.”

Flipping my binder shut, I don’t waste any time pushing out of my seat. I might be more nervous about what I’m walking into if it wasn’t for the fact that I’m just grateful for the excuse to get out of this class and away from Holden’s scrutiny. I make my way down the aisle, between the desks, and stop short when a beige closed-toe wedge with a dainty ankle strap shoots out in front of my path in an attempt to trip me. Really? I arch a brow and Taylor Sanders simply pouts, shrugging a shoulder. Images of her dropping to her knees in Thayer’s room pop into my mind, and I have the sudden urge to rip her hair out.

“Oops.”

I roll my eyes, forcing myself to not react. It’s not worth it, it’s not worth it, it’s not worth it. Without a word, I step over her foot, ignoring the snickers coming from Alexis and the rest of Taylor’s cronies. When I get to the end of the aisle, I catch Holden’s gaze. I expected him to be laughing along with them, but instead, he seems...bored out of his mind. I break his stare and head out the door, into the hall.

The halls are quiet, my shoes squeaking against the vinyl floor the only sound. I’m torn between dragging my feet or getting it over with, because I know what this is about. I’m surprised it took this long, to be honest. Deciding to rip the Band-Aid off, I go with the latter.

“Come in,” Ms. Thomas says, standing from her desk in a fitted Guns N’ Roses tee, and I’m thrown off when she pulls me in for a hug. She smells like vanilla lotion and coffee, and her soft, black curls tickle my cheek. “Sorry.” She clears her throat, pulling away from my stiff form, keeping her hands on my upper arms.

“It’s okay,” I say, letting her off the hook. Ms. Thomas isn’t your typical guidance counselor. She can’t be older than twenty-five. She’s dry and sarcastic and kind of a hard ass. Suffice it to say, hugs are out of character for her.

“Have a seat,” she instructs, moving back behind her desk.

I do as she says, sitting in the chair in front of her. She folds her hands together, elbows braced on the desktop.

I clear my throat, uncomfortable under her attention.

“So,” she starts. “How was your summer?”

I roll my eyes. “Come on, Ms. Thomas. Cut the crap. We both know you didn’t call me in here to make small talk.”

She mashes her lips together to hide her smirk. “No, I didn’t,” she agrees. “I do want to know about your summer, but if you’d rather we cut the pleasantries—”

“Please do.”

“Okay, then.” She sits back in her chair, crossing one leg over the other. “I called you in here to see how you were settling back in.”