“My date,” I come clean. I don’t offer that I’d intended to break it off with Elijah. I want Spencer to come out with what he’s thinking. To voice that accusation behind his scowl.
Spencer breathes in deeply. Is he counting? Calming himself from whatever rage and pettiness and jealousy resides in him? He closes his eyes and pinches his forehead in one hand, like he’s quelling a headache.
“Are you fucking him?”
There it is. The accusation. I’d expected it, and still, it makes the back of my eyes sting and my throat block up.
He’d almost accused me of the same, the first time we’d had sex, when he saw that open box of condoms. I’d given him no reason, no cause, for doubt. For the past several weeks, it had been him. Him and only him. I would never, never, do that to him. Inflict that sort of pain on anyone. If he knew me at all, he’d know that. But he doesn’t.
He doesn’t know me. And I don’t know him.
“How dare you,” I bite out.
“Maybe I’m not enough,” he grinds his teeth. “Maybe he’s not enough. Maybe you’ve got a line of assholes waiting, and you’ve got a calendar for each goddamn one so you don’t get it mixed up which one is fucking you that day—”
I slap him. Right across the face, I swing my palm and hit with a resounding smack!
“The only asshole I’m seeing is you,” I say, my words sharp and trembling. “But not anymore.”
He doesn’t even realize his hypocrisy. Storming in here, insulting me in such a way, meanwhile next week, he plans to, to—
I shove him out of my way. He moves easily, hand on the cheek that’s red with my handprint. “Princess—”
“No,” I whirl on him. “You don’t call me that. You don’t call me anything. We—this—it’s done.”
This is not worth it. I deserve better than this. Than jealousy and accusations and not being trusted. I want love. I knew from the start I would never find it with him.
And because I can’t resist one last remark, before I yank open the door, I say, “Have fun scoring as much pussy as you can in South Beach.”
I return to my spot beside Rylie. Paste on a smile at some joke from Levi, sinking in my chair as my exhaustion comes crawling back. Spencer doesn’t appear again for the rest of the night.
20
Spencer
The note on the counter reads:
Grayson—
Run these over to Kennedy ASAP! Her flight leaves at noon today.
—Natalie
P.S. Tell her HAPPY BIRTHDAY!
Natalie’s message includes several more footnotes under the first. Reminders for Gray like Eat something and Theo left his gym keys on the counter. No slacking off! Under her nearly illegible scrawl, Levi’s added a note of his own—Don’t spend all of break jerking it in your room, Gray.
I fold the note and place it back on the container of brownies, littered with rainbow sprinkles. Pick up the bottle of champagne and raise an eyebrow when I look over at Rowe’s closed bedroom door. I check the time on the kitchen microwave. He must not have seen Natalie’s note. Not like I had first thing when I’d come downstairs a few minutes ago.
Grayson and I are the only ones left in the house. Rowe’s at home for the week, since his trip to some nerd camp fell through at the last minute. Hart and Stone, as they’d said, had hit the road an hour ago. I’d laid in bed until I heard them leave, not taking any chances of bumping into them in the bathroom, even though I’d heard the shower turn off long ago. Mason and Morris left before them, at the ass crack of dawn. Mason spent the night on our couch, since Morris, who had also booked an early morning flight to his dad’s, was her ride to the airport.
When did she even have time to bake? I set my duffle bag next to the counter. While I work on making myself something to eat, my gaze slants over to Gray’s closed door. Then the clock. To the items on the counter. Back to the clock.
Natalie’s sense of timing sucks ass. Even if the flight’s at noon, Kennedy’s not like Mason, running to catch her departure minutes before the stewardess closes the door. Kennedy plans that shit out. Arrives at the terminal well before the recommended airline schedule. She’ll want to account for gate changes, weather delays, and whatever other fuck-ups might occur along the way.
If her plane leaves at noon, she probably left already.
And Rowe… Fucking nerd hasn’t left his room yet.
Turning off the stove burner, I stomp over and rap my knuckles on the door. No one answers. I don’t try again, just open the door. And there’s Gray, sitting at his desk in the dark with only the brightness of his laptop screen to keep him company. He types away, in whatever zone geniuses go to when they get a boner for computer code, and it’s all the confirmation I need that he hasn’t seen the note.
I say his name. When he doesn’t respond, I shout it. He jumps, spinning in his chair.
“You leaving?” he asks when he sees me standing in the doorway.
“You eat?”
Removing his glasses, he rubs his eyes and then squints at his computer screen. “Maybe. What time is it?”
Maybe. Who the fuck doesn’t remember if they ate breakfast? I roll my eyes, go back to the kitchen, plate the eggs I’d fried, and return to his room to shove it in his hands.
“No fork?” he calls after me, and I slam his door behind me, putting a reminder in my phone to order him a pizza tonight. After a second, I make multiple reminders, every other night for the next week, to order more. Enough pizza so that when I come back, I won’t find a wasted away pile of bones in that computer chair.
Then I pocket my keys and call up the rideshare app
