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I put some foundation on this morning before leaving the house. Lots and lots of foundation. It helped somewhat, but some of the darkest bruises were still pretty visible.
Marcus shakes his head, letting his hand drop by his side. “What the hell were you thinking, Jade?”
I was thinking that I wanted to forget.
It didn’t matter how I would accomplish it, or who’d end up hurt in the process. I needed this pain to go away.
“I’m sorry for dragging you into this, Marcus. I should have never done it.”
“Hell to the no. If I hadn’t been there, who’d have dragged your bloody ass back home? But that was some pretty messed up shit you pulled.”
“I’m sorry,” I whisper, and I really mean it. The last thing I wanted was to worry my friends. That was the whole point of me keeping it a secret in the first place. Not that it did me much good.
“Well, I’m glad you’re in one piece. Just don’t do it again.”
“No more pit fights. I promise.”
“Good.”
His phone chimes, drawing his attention. He pulls it out, checking the screen, before sliding it into his pocket once again. “I have to go. James is waiting for me.”
“Say hi to him for me.”
“Will do. I’ll see you soon?”
“You know it.”
“Try not to get into any more trouble!” He calls over his shoulder as he starts walking in the opposite direction.
With a shake of my head, I continue toward the cafeteria. The place is filled with students, so I get in line to wait. I pull out my phone, scrolling through my social media, when a hand falls on my shoulder, startling me.
“Have you called your doctor?”
I turn around and glare at my brother. “Hey, Nixon. It’s so good to see you too,” I mutter dryly. “I’m fine. How are you?”
“Don’t be sassy with me, Smalls. Did you, or did you not, call your doctor?”
Huffing, I move down the line and grab a turkey sandwich, and put it on my tray, although I’ve already lost my appetite. “I’ve called my doctor.”
“And?” he prompts as we continue down the line.
“And,” I drawl, looking pointedly around us. “I don’t want to talk about it. Not here.”
I’d prefer not to talk about it at all, but I don’t think that will go over well.
The frown between his brows deepens. “You know you won’t be able to hide it forever. If it’s…”
“There is no if, Nixon,” I interrupt him before he can finish. “Only when. Can’t I have at least that under my control? Can’t I at least choose when and how I’m going to tell people?” He had already forced my hand once, and I didn’t want it to happen again. It was hard enough to have my friends look at me like I might die at any moment.
He shifts his tray into one hand and rubs his jaw, my eyes falling to the scrapes on his knuckles. “Because that went so well with me.”
He’s right, of course. I knew when Nixon found us that he would have killed Prescott. For being with me. For lying to him. Telling him—tellingthem—I have cancer was rash and reckless, but it did the trick.
None of this was Prescott’s fault.
Being with him was as much my choice as it was his, and I wouldn’t change a damn thing about it.
Not a damn thing.
