It was my literal birthright to go through life not giving a shit, worried about nothing, fucking invincible to the concerns of other men. Well, that was until Harlow shot into my atmosphere and obliterated my entire godforsaken existence.
I bound down the stairs, my arms swinging at my sides like I’m running the bleachers at practice. I reach the bottom floor, and I’m out the door in less than three seconds flat. Cold air slaps me in the face. I forgot my jacket upstairs, but I don’t hesitate. I am a train, and I’ve got no mother-fucking brakes left.
Who am I anymore? What would my brothers say if they saw me now, cold, angry, and gutless because of her? I can imagine.
Chase would roll his eyes and tell me to fuck her out of my system. Archie would crack a joke about starting a search party for my missing balls. Everett would tell them both to shut up though, because he knows I am weak. He knows I’d have already fucked her away if I could.
But I can’t.
There are other distractions though and maybe if I distract myself long enough, she will disappear like the specter she is.
Some freshman who looks like he just rolled out of bed nearly collides with me as I barrel toward my dorm.
I mean to say, “Watch where you are going, asshole,” but all that escapes my lips is a growl that makes the kid cower and scamper like Molly the Mouse. Speaking of the girl who started it all, who committed the ultimate sin, she locks eyes with me as she crosses the quad.
She doesn’t look afraid. Hell, she doesn’t even look mildly anxious at seeing me. She just looks sort of sad, like she pities me, and that pisses me off even more.
Screw you too, Mols.
I didn’t get my Hell delivered in a tidy, rule-enforced hand basket. Mine crashed into me with hair like white lightning and eyes of ocean waves.
And it hit me like a fucking hurricane.
— Harlow —
Molly’s voice washes over me like a gentle tide coming into shore.
“Harlow, are you okay?”
I sit on the floor of our room, surrounded by my notes as tears dry on my cheeks.
Why did I stop crying? When did I start?
I tell myself that the loss of...of whatever I had with Ian Beckett is not the end of the world, but then why does it feel like it?
I’d rather feel anything else right now than the pain that splinters apart inside my gut like twine drawn too taut. If given a choice, I would welcome the darkness willingly. I’d give myself to it and let it take over until I lay hyperventilating in a ball on the floor, my nails digging into my scalp.
But the darkness never saved me from the pain before, and it’s not going to start now. Pain, fear, anguish, whatever is stronger always wins out, and this wound feels damn near fatal.
I am bleeding, only you can’t see the gaping hole in my chest or the blood pooling on the floor.
I am drowning, only I can’t taste the saltwater flooding my throat or feel its burn inside my nostrils.
My wounds are invisible, but they are still there. I am a victim of a broken heart, love and friendship and rivalry colliding and splitting apart my universe.
Molly rests a hand on my shoulder. When did she arrive? I lift my gaze from the floor, finding kindness in her big brown eyes.
She takes in the two cups, the kettle, and the bottle of peppermint schnapps, then she shakes her head like she’s ruling out the possibilities and crossing off a list inside her head.
“Is this about Ian?” she asks, her words soft and gentle like her touch. When I sit there staring at the carpet as I sniffle, she adds, “I saw him leaving the dorm. He looked miserable. What happened between you two?”
I swallow the knot binding my throat and croak out my words. “I told him it wasn’t going to work out.”
“Why?” she asks, her question thick and slow. She looks at me like it’s not some traitorous thing to do, like I’m not stabbing her in the back and leaving the knife there, embedded, just by having this conversation with her.
Her cheeks flush with embarrassment. I should say something, but I think my words are on the floor along with what’s left of my heart.
“I don’t get it, Harlow,” she says, her gaze flitting to the floor. “I thought you liked him. He definitely likes you. I’ve never seen Ian look at anyone the way he looks at you.”
“How does he look at me?” I manage after a long moment, though I shouldn’t ask. I do though. I deserve the pain.
Molly’s eyes gloss over as she gazes out the window. “Like he just can’t help but look. When you walk into a room, he stops whatever he is doing and just stares at you. He ignores his friends, he ignores Aurora, he ignores Headmistress DuMonte, he ignores everything.”
Her words punch me dead-center of my chest and push the breath from my lungs. Fresh tears spring to my eyes.
“Did he do something?” Molly asks quietly, fingering a thread on the carpet. “Like, did you have a fight or something?”
“No.” I shake my head. “He didn’t do anything.”
“Why don’t you give him a chance then? He’s not a bad guy. Yeah, his friends suck, and yeah, he’s a total asshat sometimes, but he’s not a bad guy.”
I look at her, the words refusing to leave my mouth. Her eyes widen for a moment.
“This is about me, isn’t it?” she breathes.
I swallow. She shouldn’t look guilty. I am the guilty one, not her. “I can’t hurt you, Molly. You’ve been through enough.”
She sits down beside me with a sigh. “We used to be friends,” she says, “before all of this happened.”
Her image swims, and I blink away the tears.
“Don’t do this to yourself, Harlow.” She shakes her head slowly,
