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“I don’t know—maybe another couple months?”
“That long?”
“It’s a fuck ton of work! And I’m mostly doing it myself.”
I don’t think I need to point out that while I’ve almost completed the dining room, ballroom, and library and made headway on the two upstairs bedrooms, Jude hasn’t finished one measly barn. But maybe I should if he’s going to get snippy.
But he doesn’t give me any more shit—he’s probably too tired.
“Whatever,” Jude says. “Goodnight.”
I listen to him climb the stairs, and then I pull out my laptop.
I’ve been working on his college applications.
It feels a little sneaky or boundary crossing in some way, but all I want to do is show him that he’ll be accepted. I’m starting to think it’s nerves keeping him away—his fear of failure or embarrassment if he gets rejected. An acceptance letter could be exactly what he needs to get excited.
I spend an hour filling out his info until my eyelids get heavy. Then I push the laptop aside, pleased that I completed two more.
Jude doesn’t have to go to any of these schools, but it’s good to have options.
I haul my own exhausted ass up the stairs so I can catch a few hours’ sleep, just in case Tom actually does manage to make it to my house by noon.
Assuming he’s coming at all after that send-off from Dane.
* * *
Tom arrivesat a shockingly prompt hour, probably because Emma is driving. She honks the horn, grinning and waving when I come out into the yard.
“I brought you muffins!” she calls.
“What kind?”
“Blueberry!”
I guess she and Jude are still in a fight.
Grinning right back, I grab the bag of muffins and devour one before Tom has even stepped out of the truck.
He looks around nervously, like he thinks Dane might be lurking in the bushes.
“Sorry about last night,” I say, trying to break the ice.
“He’s the one who should be sorry!” Emma interrupts. “Leaving you alone with that psychopath.”
She gives her cousin a dirty glare.
Tom is unnecessarily shamefaced.
“She’s okay,” he says, defensively, like they both thought there was a good chance I ended the night in a body bag.
“Dane’s not like that,” I tell them, wondering how in the hell I can clarify this mess.
Emma shakes her head, giving me a sympathetic look. “Remi, sweetie, you don’t know what he’s like. You’ve been here a month. We’ve known him our entire lives. He’s always been fucking weird, and that brother of his is almost just as bad—you saw what he did to Tom!”
Tom actually does have some pretty impressive bruises on his neck. I would not want to fuck with Atlas—or Dane, either, if I’m being honest.
God, I wish my only friends in this place would get along.
