Hopeless (Hopeless #1)(45)

I don’t know how he does it because I was just about to burst into tears and sob and snot all over his car, but after those words come out of his mouth, I actually smile.

“I love ice cream.”

The ice cream helped, but I don’t think it helped that much because Breckin just dropped me off at my car and I’m sitting in my driver’s seat, unable to move. I’m sad and I’m scared and I’m mad and I’m feeling all the things that I’m warranted to feel after what just happened, but I’m not crying.

And I won’t cry.

When I get home I do the only thing that I know will help. I run. Only when I get back and climb in the shower I realize that, like the ice cream, the run really didn’t help that much, either.

I go through the same motions that I go through any other night of the week. I help Karen with dinner, I eat with her and Jack, I work on schoolwork, I read a book. I try to act like it doesn’t affect me at all, because I really wish it didn’t, but the second I climb into bed and turn off my light, my mind begins wandering. Only this time it doesn’t wander very far, because I’m stuck on just one thing and one thing only. Why the hell hasn’t he apologized?

I half expected him to be waiting at my car when Breckin and I got back from ice cream, but he wasn’t. When I pulled into my driveway, I expected him to be there, ready to grovel and beg and provide me with even the smallest bit of an explanation, but he wasn’t here. I kept my phone hidden in my pocket (because Karen still doesn’t know I have it) and I checked it every chance I got, but the only text I received was from Six and I still haven’t even read it yet.

So now I’m in my bed, hugging my pillow, feeling incredibly guilty for not having the urge to egg his house and slash his tires and kick him in the balls. Because I know that’s what I wish I was feeling. I wish I was pissed and angry and unforgiving, because it would feel so much better than feeling disappointed over the realization that the Holder I had this weekend…wasn’t even Holder at all.

September 4th, 2012 6:15 a.m.

I open my eyes and don’t climb out of bed until the seventy-sixth star on my ceiling is counted. I throw the covers off and change into my running clothes. When I climb out of my bedroom window, I pause.

He’s standing on the sidewalk with his back to me. His hands are clasped on top of his head and I can see the muscles in his back contracting from labored breaths. He’s in the middle of a run and I’m not sure if he’s waiting on me or just happens to be taking a breather, so I remain stilled outside my window and wait, hoping he keeps running.

But he doesn’t.

After a couple of minutes, I finally work up the nerve to walk into the front yard. When he hears my footsteps, he turns around. I stop walking when we make eye contact and I stare back at him. I’m not glaring or frowning and I’m sure as hell not smiling. I’m just staring.

The look in his eyes is a new one and the only word I can use to describe it is regret. But he doesn’t speak, which means he doesn’t apologize, which means I don’t have time to try and figure him out right now. I just need to run.

I walk past him and step onto the sidewalk, then start running. After a few steps, I hear him begin running behind me, but I keep my eyes focused forward. He never falls into step beside me and I make it a point not to slow down because I want him to stay behind me. At some point I begin running faster and faster until I’m sprinting, but he keeps in pace with me, always just a few steps behind. When we get to the marker that I use as a guide to turn around, I make it a point not to look at him. I turn around and pass him and head back toward my house, and the entire second half of the run is the exact same as the first. Quiet.

We’re less than two blocks from reaching my house and I’m angry that he showed up at all today and even angrier that he still hasn’t apologized. I begin running faster and faster, more than likely faster than I’ve ever ran before, and he continues to match my speed step for step. This pisses me off even more, so when we turn on my street I somehow increase my speed and I’m running toward my house as fast as I possibly can and it’s still not fast enough, because he’s still there. My knees are buckling and I’m exerting myself so hard that I can’t even catch a breath, but I only have twenty more feet until I reach my window.

I only make it ten.

As soon as my shoes meet the grass, I collapse onto my hands and knees and take several deep breaths. Never once, even in my four-mile runs, have I ever felt this drained. I roll onto my back on the grass and it’s still wet with dew, but it feels good against my skin. My eyes are closed and I’m gasping so loud that I can barely hear Holder’s breaths over my own. But I do hear them and they’re close and I know he’s on the grass next to me. We both lie still, panting for breath, and it reminds me of just a few nights ago when we were in the same position on my bed recovering from what he did to me. I think he’s also reminded of this, because I barely feel his pinky when he reaches between us and wraps it around mine. Only this time when he does it, I don’t smile. I wince.

I pull my hand away and roll over, then stand up. I walk the ten feet back to my house and I climb inside my room, then close the window behind me.

Friday, September 28th, 2012 12:05 p.m.

It’s been almost four weeks now. He never showed up to run with me again and he never apologized. He doesn’t sit by me in class or in the cafeteria. He doesn’t send me insulting texts and he doesn’t show up on weekends as a different person. The only thing he does, at least I think he’s the one that does it, is remove the sticky notes from my locker. They’re always crumpled in a wad on the hallway floor at my feet.