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“Too bad.” She clicks her tongue and stands, still naked as she strolls over to the adjoining bathroom and shuts the door.
I put on my shoes as fast as I possibly can.
Open the bedroom door and slip into the hallway, well aware it looks like I’m doing a walk of shame. Trash—empty red cups and crumpled beer cans and a condom wrapper—litters the hallway as I walk through the silent house.
Every creak makes me flinch.
I get downstairs without seeing anyone.
But there’s a familiar face standing in the living room, straightening up the mess.
The house is even more of a disaster down here.
“Wasn’t expecting to see you here,” I say.
Brooks raises one eyebrow as he glances over. My memory of last night is hazy enough, I can’t even recall if he was at the party. He must have been, I guess, if he’s helping clean up.
There’s a black trash bag at his feet, half-filled with garbage he’s collected. “I go here, remember?”
I rub the back of my neck. “And you live here?”
“In thesororityhouse?” He raises one eyebrow, then shakes his head. “No, I live down the block. Just came over to help clean up.”
“Big of you.”
He studies me. “Finn wasn’t sure where you ended up last night.”
“Yeah, I crashed. Crazy night.”
“Crashed here?” he asks, glancing at the stairs I just descended.
“I should get going.”
I pass Brooks, headed in the direction I think the front door is.
“She deserves better than you.”
My steps slow until I glance back at him. “You don’t know anything. About her. About me. And it’s none of your fucking business.”
God, I’m sick of saying that.
Maybe I don’t deserve Cassia. But Iwanther.Needher.Loveher.
“I know she deserves better than a guy who spends the night at a sorority house.”
Brooks has balls, I’ll give him that. Most guys would be shrinking under the glare I’m aiming his way. He’s wearing the same superior expression Harrison used to always aim my way.
I know I fuck up more than my fair share and that this is a particularly terrible example.
But Brooks doesn’t know me. He doesn’t know anything about my mom or why I ended up here. He doesn’t know Cassia, and he sure didn’t write down his feelings for her in a ragged notebook for years or comfort her when Lily died.
Instead of saying any of that, I head for the front door, slamming it shut behind me.
Wishing this was how I left—that I’d left—last night.
CHAPTERSIXTEEN
CASSIA
