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“I—why are you—why would—Harley, I don’t understand…” He’s stuttering, voice cracking. His honey gaze is glassy, searching my face.
A Jeep Wrangler pulls up in the corner of my vision, a flash of red to the rescue. I back away from him.
“It’s over,” I say quickly. “I don’t want to hear from you.” My voice is rasping the words.
He starts to panic, looking at the Jeep, then back at me. “Harley, don’t—let’s talk. I’ll take my brothers back, and we can go to the silos.”
He’s begging me. His hands that have been clenched in fists at his sides rise up, roughly mussing through his short blond hair. His muscles flex, his face desperate, teeth biting into his lip.
“Please don’t leave like this.” He’s walking after me, and I turn to open the door to Kenna’s Jeep, stepping up into it. “Harley…please…” His voice trails off.
He’s standing, shoulders back, in the middle of the road as a huge black truck approaches, horn blaring at him. He doesn’t even notice, eyes staring into my soul.
“Go, Kenna, please,” I beg her.
She starts to protest, mouth open in shock, “Maybe you should—”
“No! Drive, please. I don’t do breakups,” I insist, my face pleading with her to leave.
She looks out at Adam, her wide green eyes clearly filled with guilt.
“Okay…” she mumbles, shifting into park and turning the Jeep around.
He becomes a blip in the rearview, and I lie back on the plush seat, telling myself it’s better this way.
He needs someone his family will accept. Someone who’s still a sweet, innocent virgin like him. Someone with clear skin that isn’t peppered with memories of the dark days in her past.
If there’s anything I learned from running away from my foster home, it’s that I’d rather be alone than surrounded by people who hate me.
24
Adam
It’s a muggy Monday morning, and the only reason I forced myself to get out of bed is the hope that I’ll see her in our eight a.m. class.
I arrive early and sit up front, where we usually sit beside each other, passing notes.
My night was restless, miserable, and lonely, just like the last few nights have been. When did holding her become necessary for me to go to sleep?
My thoughts have been tormented with her memory, her smell, the way her skin and lips felt under mine.
Students are trudging into class, most dressed in hoodies to ward off the unusually chilly air. October mornings in Texas are unpredictable. I peek around to watch the entrance, shamelessly searching for marked skin and lake-blue eyes.
As the class fills, my stomach sinks a little with each head that appears.
Then, I see her, hair a messy tangle on her shoulders. She’s wearing a faded black hoodie that swallows her petite frame. Her eyes look hollow, face makeup-free and exhausted.
Is she having trouble sleeping like I am?
She’s still the most beautiful girl in the room. My arms ache to feel her in them. I need her warmth like I need the air in my lungs.
But she doesn’t even look at me. Her eyes stay lowered as she slithers into the room. She takes a seat on the back row as the professor steps up to the podium.
The organ in my chest is cracked open, numbing me with the pain of rejection. This must be what heartbreak is. It’s devastating, raw agony.
I had this stupid hope that when she came in, she’d sit by me. Maybe even bless my eyes with a smile. Then, she’d lean toward me and whisper some joke about how I stare at her too much, and I’d blush. There would be no point in denying it because she’d be right—I love to look at her.
She’s training her eyes straight ahead as if I never existed. I force myself to turn back to the front as the old professor in suspenders starts his lecture. My head drops down, and I write. I write everything I wanted to tell her that I couldn’t form into words with my mouth. My pen knows what my heart wants and exactly how to say it.
