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I raise a single brow. "Wow. I didn't think you got cold. I mean, being such a frigid bitch and all, I thought you'd be used to it."
That one brings out the Paige I remember. The one that would hit someone for saying something like that to her. Man, she was ruthless and took no mercy, but something is different about her. Unfortunately for her, I don't care to figure out what it is.
Confident that she isn't going to follow me again, I turn back around and continue my trek back to campus.
"You're just going to walk away?"
I hold up a single middle finger. "You taught me how."
I storm back into the party, pushing people out of my way with a little more force than necessary. A dozen dirty looks are tossed my way, but I don't care. The only thing I can focus on is getting the hell out of here.
The second he sees me digging through the pile of coats in the corner, Carter comes rushing over. He tries to grab my arm, only for me to rip it away.
"Stop!" I shout. "You were wrong! You were fucking wrong, Carter!"
He shakes his head. "No, I swear I wasn't."
Looking at him in disbelief, I start to throw my jacket on. "You weren't? How can you even say that? He all but told me he wishes I was dead. I hurt him, Carter. He doesn't want to talk to me!"
"He needs to, though!" he argues back. "Just keep trying. He's bound to crack eventually."
Crack? He wants to talk about cracking? My entire life is hanging by a thread, and the last thing I need is to be dealing with Jace breaking my heart for sport every chance he gets. Sure, maybe I deserve a bit of it. After all, I must have hurt him more than I thought, if he's still holding this strong of a grudge, but there's only so much I can take.
"I can't. I'm sorry."
Just as I go to leave, Carter steps in front of me with a look of desperation in his eyes. "Please," he begs. "He really needs this."
Just the look on his face is enough to make my stomach churn, but I can't give him an answer right now. "I'll text you. I have to get out of here."
He nods and moves out of my way without another word.
THE WHOLE NIGHT IS spent tossing and turning. I can't count the number of times I have run everything through my mind. The good times, the bad, the argument we had tonight. It's all on a constant loop, and my brain just can't seem to shut off enough for me to get a wink of sleep.
By the time the sun comes up, I don't even try anymore. I throw on a pair of sweats and mentally thank God that it's Saturday, and I don't have to attempt to sit through a bunch of lectures. Not that I would be able to focus then either. I damn near walk into a wall because apparently, nothing seems to matter right now that isn't Jace.
I make my way downstairs to find my mom in the living room, folding laundry. It's an odd sight to see, if I'm honest. While I was growing up, we always had staff that would take care of the housework. The laundry. The dishes. The cooking. The cleaning. It was never something we needed to do ourselves. After my dad got sick, however, my parents decided it would be best to let all the staff go. For one, there are doctors and nurses that come in and out throughout the day, making sure he's as comfortable as possible. My dad was adamant about my mom not doing anything for him that would change their relationship as husband and wife. And for another, he didn't want an audience watching him die. He just wants to spend his final days with those most important around him. So, my mom folds the laundry.
"Do you even know how to do that?" I tease.
She looks up at me, as if she's surprised I'm awake, and then sticks her tongue out. "It's folding laundry, Paige, not sewing clothes from scratch."
I walk around the couch and take a seat across from her. I'm sure I don't have to help, but it doesn't hurt to get it done a little sooner. Maybe then she can spend some more time with Dad. Or maybe she uses this as a distraction, and Lord knows I could use one of those.
"How was the party last night?"
I shrug. "It was all right, I guess. How was Dad?"
Before I left, I almost decided not to go. My dad was having one of his coughing fits that just wouldn't stop, and my mom needed to call the doctor to get him to bring something over for it. Instead of staying home, though, my mom insisted that getting out of the house during that was the best thing for me, and I can't say I disagree.
"Oh, the doctor came over and fixed him right up," she answers, smiling—but it's not genuine.
I drop what's in my hands. "Mom, you don't need to do that."
"Do what?"
"Pretend everything is fine. I'm not a little girl anymore."
She sighs and reaches over to run a hand over my cheek. "I know you're not, baby. But you're still my little girl, and I worry about what all this is doing to your mental health."
