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It’s the same baseball hat he set on my head like a crown every time he spotted me waiting at the fence before his games. He’d jog to me, beaming—just the way he smiles now.
His boy-next-door grin has me opening wider when I need to be shutting him down.
“Never used to see you without a hat.” He scratches his beard, right over the dimple it can’t hide.
I started wearing hats to hide my shaved head.
Kept wearing them because I wanted to wear Reese.
My scent glands pinch the sides of my throat.
What if I just…let out the truth?
Blood leeches from my face, leaving my cheeks numb.
Yeah.
Brilliant.
Then I can witness the dream that is Reese Meadows retching on my shoes, red-eyed-glaring to ask why the hell I smell like unwashed pubes.
I’ve seen the same reaction hundreds of times.
The wrinkled nose. The twisted lips. The face-pinch that turns a stranger into an instant enemy.
I have to draw lines, stop leading him on, and for the love of the freaking game—stop letting my real self peek out, all pathetic.
“It was a phase.” I shove the hat back before the broken-in fabric can kiss my fingertips.
Reese refuses the trade, forcing the hat into my hands.
“It’s yours,” he rasps in a different flavor—stubborn instead of hurt.
I have to be stubborn too. “Reese—”
“Gotta pack.” He steals my best move, slamming the door before I can uncap a marker, let alone draw a line. His voice comes through muffled. “You skipped dinner and breakfast. Come out soon or Jin’ll go Martha on your ass for lunch.”
After he’s gone, I bang my forehead against the wood.
Get a grip, Sol.
I kill the water I’ve been wasting and grab the syringe case from the backpack I never should’ve left in the guys’ hands.
I thought dealing with Meadows Pack would be easier without perfume.
That was ultra-wrong.
I need all the vodka lemon.
Any shield to stop them from treating me like the old Solomon.
Almost needing the pain, I load a cartridge and jab my throat.
Vodka-lemonade-citrus-kitchen-cleaner.
Barf.
Yellow spots pop behind my eyes.
