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“I chose for you.”
She gently pushed off the wall and started walking, dragging her satchel slowly down the aisle of books as I followed on the other side of the bookcase.
“I have your paperback in my binder,” I told her. “Don’t you want it?”
She didn’t answer.
“Don’t you want to know which one I picked for you?”
She kept walking, but she was going so slowly. Like she wasn’t in her body.
“I picked something good.”
“There’s nothing in that selection that’s good, so just give me The Grapes of Wrath paperback, because things can always get worse, and that choice will really make this day complete.”
Seriously? How the hell did she guess which book I picked?
Dammit.
I knew she’d hate all the choices. The first week of school she went on some rant about the lack of diversity and relevant topics on our reading list and how the “classics” were only “classic” because novels written for a broader audience weren’t getting published in the old days. The whole system was rigged and damn the man, etc.
I just wanted her to smile. It would be one thing if I were the one making her miserable, but I had a feeling I wasn’t.
“Em, look at me a minute.”
She stopped, looking like the whole world sat on her shoulders. What the hell was wrong?
I knew if I asked, she wouldn’t tell me, though.
“Em?” I murmured.
Just look at me.
Still, she wouldn’t turn. She was right here but miles away, and my chest ached.
“I grabbed you a study guide, too.” I reached into my pocket and pulled out the folded packet. “Here.”
I reached through the books and handed her the guide. It only took her a moment to reach out and finally take it, but when she did, I let it go and grabbed her hand instead.
She sucked in a breath and tried to pull away.
But I whispered, “Look at me.”
She stopped resisting, but still refused to meet my eyes.
What was wrong with her? As far as my friends were concerned, there’d always been something wrong with her, but she looked…defeated. Like a broken vase barely held together with glue.
Emory Scott never looked like that.
She looked down, probably at our hands, and I didn’t tighten my hold or caress her fingers. I just held her.
“Look at me,” I whispered.
But she choked out a sob, turning her face away so I wouldn’t see. “Don’t,” she demanded. “Please, don’t be sweet. I…”
But all she did was shake her head, the words lost.
Rage boiled my blood, and I wanted to know what happened. Who hurt her? The sight of her crying was like a knife in my gut.
