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For a moment, I was thinking the worst.
Now that he’s revealed his secret, more pieces of the puzzle fall neatly into place. We have two classes together, English Lit and Pre-calculus. I’ve noticed that he struggles in our literature class. In the beginning of the year, when Ms. Pettijohn would call on him to read a passage out loud, a stubborn look would enter his eyes and he’d fold his brawny arms across his chest, refusing to do it. I’ve also caught glimpses of the homework heturns in. The handwriting is messy and there are always a slew of misspelled words littering the page.
Part of me wondered if he just didn’t care about academics.
Obviously, that’s not the case, and I feel bad for assuming the worst.
“You don’t have anything to be ashamed of.” The mortification I’d felt earlier drains away. It was stupid and fleeting. It doesn’t mean anything when compared to what Austin struggles with.
I don’t understand why he’s entrusting me with something so private, but I’m grateful. It only strengthens the tentative bond forming between us.
His lips tug down at the corners as a flinty look enters his eyes. “Don’t I?”
I shake my head, not wanting him to feel that way.
Especially where I’m concerned.
“Absolutely not.”
He draws in a breath before gradually releasing it back into the atmosphere. “For a long time, I thought I was slower than everyone else. Not as smart. I had a hard time learning to read. And when you have a twin—one who’s a brainiac and always did everything early—the comparisons suck. Even worse than that is when your classmates begin to realize that you can’t keep up and it takes you longer than everyone else to grasp the concepts. They start to look at you differently.”
“Yeah,” I murmur. “I know what that’s like but for different reasons. There’s nothing worse than feeling singled out for something that’s not within your control.”
Some of the tension filling his shoulders drains away. “I guess you would.”
“We have that in common.”
Giving in to the urge that thrums through me, I reach out, running my fingers over the chiseled lines of his face. With hisgaze fastened to mine, he sits perfectly still. When my fingers drift across his lips, his eyelids feather closed, and a tortured groan escapes from him.
“Do you ever think about me?” The way his voice deepens does funny things to my insides. “Because I think about you all the time.”
The truth of the matter is that Austin’s always there, lurking in my thoughts. No matter how much I try to shove them away, I can’t.
Instead of answering, I jerk my head into a nod.
Our gazes continue to cling.
“So tell me, Delilah…what are we going to do about this?”
It’s a good question.
One I don’t have an answer to.
DELILAH
Bright sunlight streams through the window as I crack open an eye and stare at the digital clock on the nightstand. It’s almost a surprise to discover that it’s after ten o’clock. I refocus on the numbers just to make sure, unable to remember the last time I slept this late.
Then again, when was the last time I went to bed after two o’clock in the morning? We sat in Austin’s sleek SUV and talked for what felt like hours before I realized just how late it was. Mom still wasn’t home by the time I fell asleep. The thought of what she’d been doing—and who she’d been up to it with—is enough to make me groan as I turn over and curl up into a tight ball under the covers. Even though I close my eyes and try to slip back into slumber, it doesn’t work. My mind is circling, trying to figure out when their affair started.
Unable to put off reality for another second, I toss aside the comforter and peel away my PJs before grabbing a cozy sweatshirt and jeans. Then, I throw my hair up into a ponytail.
As I open the door to the bedroom and step into the short hallway, I hear Mom puttering around in the kitchen. A large stone settles in the pit of my belly as I force myself into the sun-filled space. Mom and I have always had an open and honestrelationship. It’s been the two of us for so long. We rely on each other for everything. It’s difficult to imagine that she’s been keeping secrets from me.
Especially something of this magnitude.
I’ve come up with a hundred alternative scenarios for why she’d be hugging and kissing Mr. Pembroke in the copy room before discarding each one.
Her gaze locks on mine as she lifts the steaming mug to her lips and blows on it. “Morning, honey. Sleep well?”
