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There’s a beat of silence. We all turn to look at Luke. He’s looking at the pieces of paper spread out on the quilt, his face grey.
“Luke?” I prompt. “You alright, mate?”
He swallows and stands, leaving the room.
***
THIRTY-SEVEN
***
LAYLA
The door clicks shut behind him, and I close my eyes. This was exactly what I was afraid of.“He blames himself.”
“Why?” Zack says, picking up a croissant and taking a huge bite. “He wasn’t there.”
“Because he still thinks I’m just some kid he should’ve taken care of,” I spit. If I’m honest, the overprotective teacher act is getting really old.
“He’s right,” Josh says flatly, stroking my shoulder. “He should’ve.”
I push him off and slide out of bed, grabbing a hair tie off my dresser. “Do you honestly think he wouldn’t have helped me if he’d known what was going on? It’s not his fault he didn’t know.”I yank my hair up into a ponytail.
“He was there,” Josh insists. “He should’ve been paying closer attention. He sat in a room with you for hours every week, he should’ve noticed something was up.”
I shake my head, gritting my teeth. “It was ten years ago. He needs to get over it.” Anger glows inside me. “Why the Hell would he just walk out? It’s not my fault Donny was a prick. I don’t deserve to be avoided. I didn’t do anything wrong.” Shoving my feet into my slippers, I stomp to the bedroom door. “Screw this. We’re sorting this out right now.”
Zack goes to stand, but Josh grabs a handful of his shirt and yanks him back down onto the bed as I slam out of the room.
When I step into the lounge, Luke is standing by my window, looking down into the city. Every line of his body is tense, and my anger dies down a bit. This must be eating him up inside.
He swallows when he hears me come in, turning his head but not looking at me. “Layla—”
“It’s not your fault,” I say firmly.
“It is my fault, sweetheart.” His voice is resigned. “It was.”
“You couldn’t have known—”
“I was your teacher,” he interrupts me. “It was my job to protect my students. I had responsibility over you. And I failed you.”
“You had your own stuff going on,” I point out. “You were getting divorced, for God’s sake, of course you were preoccupied.”
He laughs, but the sound is hollow. “Are you joking? In what world is an adult divorcing his wife on par with a child getting bullied and harassed to within an inch of her life? I…” A shudder passes through his broad shoulders. “You were sitting in my class for hours every week, and I never even suspected.”
“Right,” I say slowly. “Because you were a teacher, not a mind reader. You can’t know something you’re not told.”
He’s quiet for a moment, dipping his head. I think he hasn’t heard me, and open my mouth to repeat myself — then freeze when I see his white-knuckled grip on my windowsill. I stare. Luke is always so controlled. So in-charge of his own emotions. I’ve never seen him white-knuckle angry.
“Except I was told,” he says eventually. “Wasn’t I?”
I blink. “What?”
He turns on me, and his expression is so intense I fight the urge to take a step back. His mouth is hard. His eyes are burning with self-hatred. “You said you went to all of your teachers. All of them. Did you ever come to me?”
I don’t say anything, but I’ve never been a very good liar. He can see the answer on my face.
He closes his eyes. “You did.” He rubs his forehead. “Tell me what happened.”
