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I wonder if his font will be a serif as well?
Harper said she would take care of the details.
"So you want it to be like this," Andrew exhales with irritation. "You honestly want to try to run from me? From us!”
He has the audacity to sound frustrated.
"I don't want it to be like anything. We're done." My eyes narrow. Okay, Grim Reaper, I could use you right about now. Heck, I'll take just the appearance of your sickle so I could at least have a weapon.
"You don't mean that," he scoffs.
I manage to muster a bitchy laugh, "Since you couldn't accept the word 'no' the last time I told you, I will say it again. We're done," I growl. My ball, my fist, and my nails dig into my palm; however, with my short, petite height and build, I look more like an upset toddler than a pissed-off woman. I can't even be mad about what Andrew did because my brother's death trumps it all.
I can’t be mad, devastated, or empty about what Andrew did!
Peter is all I can see and feel.
Grief.
The night of the party launched a series of events that have forever changed me. Only one other person knows what happened. He's standing next to me.
"You were just playing. You liked it. Girls play hard to get all the time. It's a kink." His voice is like a fisherman's net hanging in the air as it waits, hoping for a reply I will not give. "Listen, I get it; your brother died; you need time."
Time.
God, I hated that word. The only part of 'time' I needed was the countdown clock because I'd see my family again one day. I believed in heaven. I had to. I needed hope to keep me going.
I look at Andrew and shake my head. He's dressed like the perfect boyfriend attending a funeral—black suit, pressed white shirt, black tie, freshly shined shoes, his hair perfectly smoothed down, his playboy grin absent because he's playing the part of the devastated boyfriend.
Lord, he's the perfect deception, blonde hair, blue eyes, and all. He looks like an angel. I, like the rest of the world, was fooled at first. I saw the handsome mask. It took time for me to realize all Andrew’s emotions were fake, all except for the joy he found in relishing in other people's pain. Andrew is a monster, and unfortunately, that monster has his claws dug deep into my flesh.
"Listen, I know what you heard and saw was a lot."
"A lot," I scoff, my voice rising. "What about before your father came? What about then, Andrew? Was that too much for me to handle?"
He doesn't like that.
He cocks his head and looks down at me, so predator-like.
Why didn't I see that before?
The way he narrows his eyes feels like a vice grip on my lungs. He licks his lips and looks around again, but it's still just us. Everyone looks up to Andrew from afar; I thought it was because he was the golden boy, but now I know better. It's because he's dangerous. People don’t praise kings; they fear them because no honest king can keep his throne with merely the love of his people. It takes fear and control. Andrew has that in spades.
"I'll give you time," he announces, as though he's just declared world peace—as if I should applaud and bow down in gratitude. "But eventually, you'll return to me."
Does he really expect me to thank him?
The calculating look in his eyes prompts me to step back as if he's already mapped out everything far, far into the future.
"Don't run from me again!" Andrew growls in an angry whisper that sears my ears. He steps closer and swings his arm around me, hugging me, caging me to him. As if he were an arctic wind, I freeze and turn to ice. Last week, his touch was tolerated; I was still a daft, scared fool last week. That changed the night of the party. No one knows that; if anyone looks at us now, they'd think a boyfriend was comforting his girlfriend.
How sweet. How perfectly deceptive.
Do they see how his fingers bruise my flesh?
No, of course not. They can't peel their eyes away from his handsome face.
I hate that I can't move. I hate that my fear freezes me, turning me to ice instead of casting me into the pits of hell where fire might heat the soles of my feet, urging me to run.
