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He watches Arsen, a strained look in his eyes. “He likes you.”
I study him a moment and then decide. “That surprises you?”
As if he’s unsure my statement is true, his brows pinch.
“He doesn’t sign,” I ease, and Ransom looks to me. “Does that mean he can speak but doesn’t?”
“As long as I’ve known him, I’ve never heard him say a word,” he shares. “He saw some shit as a kid, things his dad did to his own mom. When someone finally called social services, his dad told him if he spoke a word, he’d find him and do worse. He told anyway and later, they gave him back to his dad, and the asshole made good on his promise. He couldn’t speak after, and once he got better, he decided he didn’t want to.” He shrugs.
My muscles clench and I look to Arsen. “He doesn’t need words. He speaks in his own way.”
“He’s fluent with you. Normally he just... stares or glares around other people, avoids as much as he can. Not with you.” A small frown mars his forehead. “He motions, and you understand, without annoyance or pause or frustration. People aren’t like that with him.”
“People like Scott.” I remember that day in cooking class.
When he doesn’t speak, I look his way, and his eyes are already on me.
“You’re not like them,” he says suddenly, a thick sense of certainty in his tone, and while I hold his gaze a moment, I’m forced to look away.
Sure, they’re superficial rich kids in every sense of the word, preparing to live the lives their parents laid out for them, but am I not doing the same?
At least they’re enjoying themselves as they wait, rather than watching the clock and wishing to get it over with already, like me.
Maybe I should be more like them than I already am.
Fact is, I am ‘like them.’
A low sigh leaves me, and the corner of my lip pulls into a tight smile. “You’re wrong.”
“But you don’t want me to be.” His arm stretches out behind me, allowing him to lean closer, my shoulder nearly touching his chest now, his lips almost meeting mine. His breath is warm and minty, rich with a scent I can’t place but screams him. “Tell me I’m wrong about that...”
If I tell you you’re right, that means you see what you shouldn’t and understand what no one else does, but that can’t possibly be true. I’ve never failed at hiding and I can’t afford to start now.
“I didn’t drink and drive,” unexpectedly flies from my mouth.
His brows crash in the center, and he slowly pushes himself upright.
Shit. Okay, I guess we’re doing this now.
“That night, Scott poured me a drink when I walked in, and yeah, I tasted it, but by letting it wet my lips. I didn’t take a single drink. He told me to bring it home, and for whatever reason, I entertained him, and did as he asked.” I did go there to clear my head, but it didn’t work. “I was speeding, and it was dark and foggy.” I shrug. “When I crashed—”
“The drink spilled all over you,” he whispers, his muscles settling, easing, but why?
He nods to himself, and slowly, he lowers his body into the pool, disappears under the water and joins Arsen at the opposite end.
I stare after him.
I knew he was angry over the alcohol after the crash, and had I not put it together then, he made it clear yesterday, but the relief that lightened his blue eyes just now was intense, it was as if that little fact somehow mattered.
“You only have the one sister?”
At his sudden question, I look to Beretta, but he too watches Ransom from where he lies on the lounger behind me.
“Yeah, why?”
He nods and kicks off his slides. “Yeah, he only had the one, too.”
My brows snap together, and he finally looks to me, raising one of his, and it clicks.
Ransom had a sister.
He has a brother, but he had a sister...
A drunk driver.
I open my mouth to ask what happened, but he shakes his head and cannonballs into the water.
I sit back, watching as three young men act like little boys, knowing when they step out, they’ll go back to their worlds, and I’ll be here in mine.
Since they were children, they have fought for each other.
What it must be like to have someone in your corner.
I’m simply a charm dangling from a solid gold necklace, one appraised by my very own mother and traded by her just the same.
But it’s for the best.
It fits my plan and helps my family, writes my future.
I won’t have to think, plan, or prep.
I don’t have to open myself up to false hope and broken promises.
To heartache and pain.
I simply have to be.
A low sigh leaves me, and I nod to myself.
