The thoughts churn in my head as acid rises up my throat, and by the time the bell rings, I snatch up my backpack and run to the bathroom, barely making it into a stall before vomit rises up my throat.
There’s hardly anything to barf up—I haven’t really eaten in a day and a half—but that doesn’t stop my body from trying. A cold sweat covers my skin as I heave and shake, and when I finally press up to stand, my knees are wobbly. But I feel a little better somehow. The emptiness helps.
I get through my next two classes in a blur and plead period pain in gym class, sitting off on the sidelines as the other kids run laps around the indoor track. At lunch, I don’t even bother heading to the cafeteria. My body feels weak and lethargic, but even the thought of eating makes my stomach twinge again.
Instead, I head outside and make my way under the bleachers, ducking low to settle into my favorite spot. The late October air is chilly, and I didn’t even bother with a jacket, but I don’t really care right now. I close my eyes, breathing deep and trying to settle my heart, to keep each beat from hurting so much.
It’s not really working, so I slip off my backpack and dig into the bottom of one of the side pockets, pulling out the little plastic baggie I have stored there. I roll a joint and light it, and the first drag hits me hard. My system is so wrung out and empty it feels like I have no defenses or barriers anymore.
Resting the joint in the crook of the scaffolding beside me, I reach into my bag again for my phone. My fingers shake, and for some reason, tears burn my eyes again as I tap out a text message.
ME: Hey Dummy. I miss you. Just wanted to tell you that
She’s probably in class right now, so I don’t expect an answer. But a moment later, her response pops up.
HUNTER: Fuuuuck I miss you too. How’s Fox Hill?
I start to type a half dozen different responses and delete them all. Finally, I write the closest thing to the truth I can say.
ME: I think I hate it here
HUNTER: Noooo! why? I thought ur mom’s new job was great?
ME: It is. I’m glad for her. I just… miss Bayard. And you.
HUNTER: Yah :( Same girl
HUNTER: But hey! It’s only one year and then college! We should apply to some of the same schools. Just so we have the option. We can be roomies lolol
Her response draws a half-smile to my lips, although it slips away quickly. I pick up the joint and take another hit as I type out a response, wishing I could tell her what’s really going on with me, half-tempted to just ignore Lincoln’s warnings and threats and spill my guts about everything.
ME: Yeah I like that idea
One of the metal bars of the bleachers clangs softly, and my gaze pops up, prepared to find one of the school admins glaring down at me.
But it’s just Dax and Chase.
They look different, and I’m not sure if it’s a change in their actual appearance or just a change in the way I see them.
As if I can see more of them now, somehow—can see through the layers of bullshit they wear on the outside, down to what’s beneath.
Neither of them are smiling, and Dax’s gaze lands on my phone as his eyes narrow.
“I’m not fucking texting the cops, if that’s what you’re wondering,” I say dully.
I glance down at the screen to see that Hunter has replied to my previous message, but I tell her I have to get to class and that I love her and miss her and will text her again later. Then I hold it out toward Dax for a second to show him before slipping it back into my bag.
He grunts and shrugs. “I never said you were. Who’s Hunter?”
“My best friend back home.”
“You miss him?”
“Her. And yes.”
His features relax slightly at my correction, and I have a sudden memory of his lips brushing over the bare skin of my shoulder. Of his body curving around mine, strong and protective and masculine. I clear my throat and run a hand through my hair, looking away.
Chase ducks beneath the bleachers, crawling forward to sit across from me. He takes the joint without asking and sucks a deep drag from it as his twin joins us.
We sit in silence for a few minutes, passing the joint silently around our tiny circle.
The weed helps—I refuse to let myself think it might be Chase and Dax’s presence that’s calming me down—and by the time I stub out the butt, I feel like I might actually be able to keep some food down. I even feel a little hungry.
“What do you want?” I ask, my gaze flicking between the twins. If experience with the kings of Linwood has taught me anything, it’s that they always want something.
“Are you okay?” Chase asks instead of answering my question. His angular features are serious, his brows slightly drawn together. “You were in rough shape the other night.”
I don’t want to think or talk about Saturday night, don’t want to acknowledge that I kissed him, don’t want to have them tell me again to keep my mouth shut.
“Yeah.”
He and Dax share a look, their too-similar faces communicating something without words. Then Chase reaches across the small space between us to rest a hand on my knee. “You don’t have to lie to us, Harlow. We were there.”
The warm weight of his palm feels good. My body tortures me with lies about what that touch means, about what any of this means—tries to convince me these two boys could be good for me. That they might save me somehow.
But that can’t be true.
They can’t be my destruction and my salvation at the
