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She’s proof that Clay’s a fucking wimp.
My phone buzzes with another text, but I keep it face down, underneath my palm on my desk. I don’t care how much she wants me. I don’t care if she ‘took the first step’ and told her mom about us, or how many times she’s called in the last forty-eight hours.
And it’s fine if she can’t march her ass over here right now in front of everyone and pull me into her arms.
I just won’t trust her again for anything less.
My chest aches, still feeling how much I’d wanted to sink into a hole forever when Macon picked me up the other night. I deserve better than her.
“Hey.” Chloe smiles at me as she hugs her books and walks to the seat behind me.
“Hey.”
My phone vibrates underneath my hand, and I press the power button, turning it off completely.
“I’m trying this on.” And I feel my leather jacket that hangs on the back of my chair slide out from behind me. “It’s the best jacket,” Chloe says. “I want one. Can you buy them aged like this?”
I force a little laugh, like I’ve done all week, so Clay knows she didn’t beat me. “Yeah, that one was brought to maturation in charred oak barrels.”
She goes wide-eyed.
“I’m kidding.”
I guess I’m the only one here who knows how to make bourbon, thanks to Army.
“It’s actually just years of wear and tear,” I tell her. “Gotta put in the work.”
She hops up, standing next to me as she slips her arms into my jacket, and I don’t even mind that she doesn’t ask permission. I want Clay to see me have as many interactions that don’t include her as possible.
I look up at Chloe, her blonde hair just grazing the shoulders as she grips both sides of the zipper and models the distressed leather. Her skirt flares as she spins, and she could almost be Clay.
“It suits,” I say.
“Definitely hot,” Curtis Harbor coos to my left. “Even hotter if you didn’t have anything on underneath.”
“Ugh,” Chloe gags.
But then her eyes turn on me, and something passes behind her eyes, almost like she’s wondering herself if I’d like how that would look.
But I picture Clay, instead. Lying in my bed as I peel the jacket open and kiss her body underneath.
I clench my thighs.
“All right, point me to your supplier,” Chloe tells me, slipping out of the jacket. “I’m getting one.”
But I stop her. “Wear it,” I say, hoping Clay hears every damn word, and I don’t care how childish I seem. “You can wear it today, if you want.”
I hear a crunch, a gasp, and then Amy’s yelp, “Clay!”
“Shit,” someone growls, and I can’t hide my smile, recognizing Clay’s voice.
Oops. Someone just spilled their Starbucks.
“Are you sure?” Chloe asks me.
“It looks good.”
She puts the jacket back on and takes her seat, and it’s funny that I was jealous of Clay talking to her, and now I’m using her to make Clay jealous.
I hate it. I hate acting like this.
It’s over with Clay. Why do I want to make her suffer? Why does it feel so good for her to know that I could hook up with anyone today like she doesn’t matter?
But as Ms. Kirkpatrick starts class and the hour goes on, I can’t seem to forget she’s in the room. Behind me.
I have no doubt she’s been completely honest. I know her heart is mine.
But she ruined it. She made what happened between us dirty, and now, every memory of feeling her and holding her is covered in shit, because now I know I can’t trust her. I’ll always be waiting to be kicked to the curb again, because I’m only good enough when it’s on her terms. After hours. When no one’s around.
My mother let herself be slowly eaten alive by whatever went on in her head. The dark places. The despair. Clay hurt me hard. She won’t get a chance to kill me.
I leave the room when class is over, every step away from her down the hall, to the next class, and all the way to the end of the day feeling harder than the last, but eventually, I make it home.
I make it home without letting her corner me and convince me that we’re in love and she’ll tell her friends soon. Not today but soon.
No.
I turn my phone back on, a rolling storm of texts, missed calls, and voicemails buzzing and dinging, and I immediately go to Clay’s number, my thumb hovering over the Block option.
I haven’t read any of her texts today, but I’m dying to. I miss her. I want to know she’s dying for me.
I drop to my bed and lean back against the wall, my finger shaking over the screen. Finally, I tap it, blocking any more calls, and I erase the text thread, so I don’t look.
