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Brooks nods slowly. “Bailey doesn’t give much credence to anyone’s relationship status. Or her own.”
“You’re speaking from experience,” I surmise.
He releases a long exhale. “Yeah. The one girl?” He nods toward the blonde. She’s paused to talk to some guy. “Her.”
“She cheated on you?”
“Yeah.” Brooks shakes his head, then takes a long pull from the can he’s holding. “With my best friend.”
“That’s brutal, man. I’m sorry.”
“Me too. You can’t buy loyalty. Shouldn’t take it for granted either.”
He aims a pointed look my way, and my molars grind together. There are lots of guys—at this school and on this planet—who would be better for Cassia. Who are richer and smarter and less likely to make stupid, drunken mistakes that result in waking up next to a naked stranger.
But none of them know her the way I do.
None of them love her the way I do.
Oftentimes, history gets a negative connotation. We avoid repeating it. Learn from it. Sometimes, we celebrate it.
But we rarely revel in it. Appreciate it. But so much of my past with Cassia—the first time we met, playing basketball in my driveway, the first time we kissed—is history. And there’s a weight and importance to that.
Something unique we share with each other and no one else.
Cassia appears beside me, holding a red cup.
Finn is right behind her, grinning widely. “Hey, Adams! Been looking for you.”
Panic spirals through me as I nod at him. Nowhere near meeting Finn’s enthusiasm.
I’m focused on her.
“Cassia, I need to talk to you.”
She’s not paying me any attention. Ignoring the urgency in my voice that’s lost in the commotion around us.
“Hey, Brooks,” she greets, smiling at him. “Finn just mentioned you were here.”
The blonde—Bailey—is looking this way.
Walking this way.
I can’t believe this is happening.
It’s one of those terrible moments where everything is happening in slow motion, but you can do nothing to stop it.
I’m still planning to tell Cassia about the drunken mistake that was last weekend. But Ihaven’t. I’ve put it off and allowed interruptions because I never foresaw this situation. I knew it would look bad—the longer I didn’t tell her.
The test results are supposed to come back next week, and I was waiting to lump it all into one sucky conversation.
To explain the entire situation at once.
Why I was in Pembrooke.
Why I was so upset that night.
What my choice is. Either I’m not a match and my mother will most likely die, or I am a match and I’ll have an impossible decision to make.
