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“You said you’re twenty? Well, you don’t look it. You don’t look any older than me, and I’m barely seventeen.”
He closes his eyes, lets the smoke escape from his lips, and I find myself staring at them. He has a beautiful mouth, I think randomly, his upper lip lush and dimpled, giving him a slight pout.
It’s strangely sexy.
“Believe me,” he says, his pale lashes lifting again. “I’m much older than you. Old like the world.”
“What do you mean?”
“Nothing.”
I sigh. “Don’t go, Kash.”
“Stop worrying your pretty little head about me. I’m not worth it.” Turning on his heel, he heads back and disappears inside the apartment without another word.
The balcony door closes behind him.
“You are an ass,” I tell the closed door, anger heating my face. “You don’t get to patronize me like that.”
But of course he can’t hear me anymore.
When he’d held me and kissed me, I’d felt as if there was nothing separating us, as if our minds and souls had touched. As if he could see inside my head, and I could see inside his.
But this morning, I feel as if he’s drawn back, leaving a gulf between us wide and deep as the ocean.
I hate how my eyes burn.
Making my way back inside, I lie in my bed, unable to stop replaying what he said inside my head.
“Much older than you. Old like the world.”
“I’m not worth it.”
There was such sadness in his voice. Such defeat.
The anger seeps out of me. He was just being an asshole, I tell myself. He doesn’t want your concern, that much is clear.
He’s leaving, for God’s sake. He doesn’t want to stick around and take care of your little gang. Doesn’t want to bother anymore with childish fights and kids whose parents don’t give a shit about them.
And if only he knew…
He’s right to walk away from this mess. At least he won’t get to see me fall apart.
“School’s almost over,” Nate says the next day.
It’s a Sunday, so at least we get to stay home. Nate looks like death warmed over, and West doesn’t look much better. I bet he didn’t get any shut-eye all night.
I feel like something the cat chewed and then threw up, but I paste on a smile and put the soup I made on the nightstand. “You should eat something.”
Nate’s face lights up. “I sure could.”
That’s a good sign. He can’t be all that nauseous if he wants to eat. West helps him sit up and we place the soup in front of him.
“How do you get through this alone?” I mutter, placing the napkin I brought from my apartment by his hand. “Who takes care of you when you get migraines?”
“I don’t eat,” he says, too cheerfully, while a knot forms in my stomach. He slurps the soup like a starved man. “I just ride it out. Man, this is good. You’re a super cook, Syd.”
“Thanks.” My face heats. “Nate…”
