I’ve been wanting to share this with you for forever! If you want to make sure you don’t miss my next release, you can preorder it here! But I wanted to give you a taste of what’s to come and thank you for being here after such a long wait. The Love That Broke Us has angsty, groveling sweetness all in a hockey player wrapper. I can’t wait for you to meet Lilah and Mason!
Chapter 1
Lilah - Before
SEPTEMBER - SENIOR YEAR
Two months was all it had taken for me to fall for him. And in two weeks, he’d made me long to once again be the invisible scholarship girl who barely registered on anyone’s radar.
Mason Shaw. The hockey god who I’d realized loved to torture ants for fun. And lucky me, I was ants.
He’d be home soon, if he wasn’t there already.
“As much as I hate him and his team, even though they can’t help but get their asses kicked by us year after year, he’s got a crazy nice house.” Rye, my best friend since first grade, pressed back into his seat so I could lean out the driver’s side window to punch in the estate’s gate security code. “Sucks you’re living in enemy territory.”
He had no idea.
I pretended to not understand, but I was keenly aware. “I’ve been going to Hawthorne Prep since sophomore year.”
Rye stared at the ten-foot gate as it swung open. “I’m talking about living behind these walls with Mason Shaw.”
I suppressed a flinch at his name being said out loud. “We barely even see each other.”
“Good, but it’s finally senior year, and you moved a million miles away.” Rye shook his head, lips tight with disappointment.
Over the summer, my dad and I had moved into the gardener’s cottage tucked behind Willowcrest—Mason’s fifteen-thousand-square-foot tristate darling magazine-featured house with extensive gardens.
“What exactly did you think I had planned for my senior year? My high school existence has been wildly different than yours, Mr. Double State Hockey Championships.”
“What about all those big-brain nerds and their ‘study sessions’?” He shot me a smirk along with one-handed air quotes.
I rolled my eyes. “I must’ve missed those invitations. Taking the bus four hours every day to get to school didn’t leave a lot of time for unimportant things like shirtless study sessions.”
“Good, at least that means I don’t have to beat the crap out of any guys at your school.”
“Keep it on the ice. And what would you care if I were having shirtless study sessions?” Please don’t let Mason be home. I hugged my knees—tucked up in Rye’s sweatshirt—a little tighter, pretending it was the cranked AC that got to me, not those blade-sharp Mason memories. A pungent hit of Biofreeze mixed with sweat-stink wafted up from the green fabric.
What would all the girls who swooned at Rye’s six-two frame, sandy-blond hair, and mossy green eyes think of his supposed “hotness” if their nasal cavities were melted like mine?
“I’ve got to protect my rep as best friend by giving any guys getting near you a hard time.”
If he got tangled up in my not-so-cold war with Mason, he’d put his college hockey prospects in jeopardy, and that wasn’t part of The Plan.
A shiver rushed down my spine as I thought of all those nights with Mason over the summer.
“Don’t worry. No suitors have dropped a handkerchief on my doorstep to ask for a promenade,” I said with a terrible Southern belle accent. “Why are you worried about that anyway? Focus on being a big important hockey player.”
“I don’t feel so big or important when I’m busting my ass at practice day and night. My whole summer got swallowed up by travel team insanity. And if we don’t win the championship again, they might burn my beast Roxy down to her tires.” He patted the steering wheel. “Don’t worry, I won’t let anything bad happen to you.”
“Your adoring fans would never.”
He cough-scoffed. “Every time I miss a pass, ten guys who’ve never been on skates want to tell me what I should’ve done. They will turn on me, but I’m used to it now. Get my scholarship, play my ass off, go pro, collect bags of cash, and bail—hopefully without too many concussions and most of my teeth.” He listed his meticulous plan finger by finger.
“You’ve got it all figured out.”
“Learned it from you.” He tried to noogie me.
I jerked away and glared.
“You need to worry less,” he said. “No one’s trying to put you in dentures. Loosen the hell up and have some fun this year.”
As far as he knew, I was stressed about my crazy class schedule, winning the Windsor Award, and surviving college application purgatory.
“How do you know I don’t have fun? We haven’t even been in school together since sixth grade. I’m a fun-freaking-factory.”
“So fun, you only have time to come to one of my games this season.”
“One is better than none. I hate watching you get beat up on the ice and skate off bleeding.”
“I’m the one kicking ass and making people bleed. If you came to more than one game, you’d know that.” He stressed the “one” like this was the most offensive thing I’d ever done in our friendship.
“You’re such a whiny baby. The stands are filled with hundreds of screaming Verona fans. Not like it even registers when I show up.”
He shot me a smug grin. “Who gets the first post-game hug?”
“Only because you’re extra sweaty and bear hug me and smear your dirty-sock-smelling self all over me.”
“Giving you a taste of the athlete’s life.”
“More like athlete’s foot.”
Apple blossom trees lined the herringbone brick driveway that swept around the tiered fountain to the grand staircase leading to the double doors of Willowcrest.
Strange that they hadn’t used willow trees to line the driveway, given the name of the house, but rich people did what rich people do—whatever they wanted. Now more than ever, that truth was stitched into my brain.
The only car under the shaded overhang was Mason’s stepmom’s navy-blue Range Rover. A little relief swept over me. Mason was out or had parked in the garage, so we wouldn’t run into him. As long as we got to my house quickly.
Rye parked Roxy in a designated staff parking spot off the circular driveway.
“I’ll carry in all your crap.”
“It’s not crap, jerk. That’s half a semester’s worth of textbook money back there.”
He climbed out, picked up one of the bins of uniforms from the trunk, and marched it to my house before I dislodged my backpack from the back seat.
He bumped me aside. “You need to start lifting weights, Lilah, or you’re not going to be able to carry all those big-brain med school books.”
The driving bass of a car sound system broke through the moment like a clap of thunder.
Mason. Coming home.
My stomach dropped, twisting and knotting. Run.
“Grab the rest later. Let’s go.”
I grabbed Rye’s arm, trying to look calm while my insides were going ping-pong somersault crazy.
Rye glanced at the black Bentley Bentayga barreling toward us. “You running away from them?”
A noise escaped my throat that was more cat-versus-hairball than nonchalance. “No, not running.”
His eyebrows dipped, lasering in on the car. “Is he giving you shit because we’re friends?”
Creeping vines of unease unfurled in my stomach. “Let’s go. Stop trying to dodge studying. Chemistry time,” I said, trying to keep a frantic clip out of my tone.
He grabbed my backpack, hiked it onto his shoulder, and yanked another tub of uniforms out. At least his hands were full, which meant no throwing fists.
But why was Rye so slow? Molasses poured faster than he closed his door.
My gaze darted to the path we needed to disappear down.
I was a rabbit, and predators were racing across the meadow toward us.
The squeal of tires got closer.
“Rye, hurry up.”
He walked toward me as if every leaf, every stone, every step had never been more fascinating.
On my own, running away was easy. But with Rye here, my confusing mess of a life was seconds from becoming a roadkill carcass.
Cords in Rye’s neck tensed, and a mottled redness crept up his jaw. His gaze locked on Galen’s car as it parked beside the Rover with Mason and the rest of Havoc inside.
From the first time I saw Mason Shaw, there were a lot of words I associated with him. Rich, gorgeous, athletic, cocky. Now there was only one word I associated with him. Run.
Run from that crackling feeling in my chest. Run from the barbed looks. Run from the memories of the weeks he made me believe I was the girl he wanted.
The doors to the Bentley swung open, and music spilled out, vibrating the air and ground, sending nauseous waves to my stomach.
A Mount-Everest-sized ball of dread lodged in my throat. “Rye, we’re going.” I tugged on his arm and got not an inch of movement.
“The more you try to get me to leave, the more I know something’s off.” He planted his feet. Stone-faced, with barely contained anger, he turned toward the new arrivals.
“You’re right.” I licked my lips and wrapped both hands around his arm, which bunched under my touch. “Something is off. Kelsey and Eliza are going to be home right after we study, so I need to sort through the groceries my dad got and figure out dinner. Come on.” I widened my smile, the corners of my mouth close to splitting.
Mason stared down at Rye’s Verona High sweatshirt I was wearing, and his jaw ticked.
“Didn’t Alena tell you not to dump trash in our driveway, Little Byrd?” Mason’s nickname for me spiked my heart rate, but not in the fluttery, nerve-cited way.
He smiled at me like a devil come to collect an IOU on my soul.
The rest of Havoc lingered. Calder stared like he was biting back a snarl, offended by my presence, but I’d never seen him look any different.
Galen’s blinding flawlessness might’ve given off vampire if he weren’t standing in broad daylight. Not a sparkle or wisp of smoke in sight. He was a different kind of scary to Calder as he leaned against the large square brick post at the bottom of the steps that led to the front door. He toyed with a coin, the light catching it as he moved it between his fingers.
Erik jumped from the Bentley running board to the bottom step of the house in full golden-retriever mode, shaggy brown hair flopping into his eyes. Oblivious to the choking tension in the air, he earned a displeased look from Galen. And a sharper glare from Calder.
“Rye parked in the designated staff spot,” I said, peering at Mason. Before our first night in the pool house, I’d stopped myself from even staring at him for too long. Might as well have stared straight into the sun. And I couldn’t look now.
Mason’s familiar frosty smile widened, one I couldn’t have imagined existed during the summer. Lucky me, winter had come early.
Mason’s gaze swung to Rye. “Who let you onto our side of town?”
Rye’s exhale might as well have been steam.
I positioned myself in front of Rye. And forced my gaze to hold Mason’s.
His eyes clashed with mine. Unpolished sapphires, rough and striking, like my presence betrayed the pristine perfection of his life.
“Rye will be gone in a couple of hours.” I kept my voice firm and steady. Show no fear. If I did, Rye would definitely throw punches first and ask questions later.
Mason’s eyes stayed locked on Rye. “What if I told you to be gone now?”
I looked up at Rye, eyes pleading. “We can park down the block.”
A muscle in Rye’s jaw ticked, and his gaze darted down to mine. “Fuck no. We’re not going anywhere,” he said through gritted teeth.
Mason folded his fist-clenched arms across his chest and called out, “Giving up so easily?”
Panic churned my stomach. One bucket of bile coming up.
“Not even putting up a fight,” he taunted.
“I don’t want to fight with you, Mason.” I put a hand on Rye’s chest. “Please. Can we go?”
Rye’s heart thumped wildly under my palm.
“Run away. Run away, Little Byrd.” Mason’s arctic-cold laugh tiptoed down my spine.
“You don’t have permission to tell her a fucking thing.”
I flinched at the bite in Rye’s tone.
“Seeing as this is my house, I’d have to disagree with you.” Mason lounged against the hood of the Bentley, looking every bit a magazine ad for something lethal.
I held onto Rye’s arm with both hands. “Should I go see if Alena has an issue with Rye parking here? I can check with her or your dad.”
Mason’s jaw ticked, and he turned toward the rest of the guys. “Let’s go.”
Rye stepped in Mason’s direction, dragging me with him. “Stop pretending you’re some badass when a call to Stepmommy and Daddy turns you into a little bitch.”
Mason’s muscles bunched like a lion catching a scent before feeding time at the zoo. His gaze skated from me to Rye, acidic smile back in place. “We don’t have to wait for the game. Lilah can help you pick up every single one of your fucking teeth right now.” His voice was a low, menacing growl, and rage burned in his eyes.
I shrank away from his anger, and a tremble shot through me at how teeth-baringly wrathful he was.
“Keep it on the ice.”
“Not worth it.”
“Don’t be stupid.”
The merry trio all piped up in an overlapping cascade of intervention, and they moved to put themselves between us. Galen pressed a hand into Mason’s chest.
Calder glanced over his shoulder at us, almost bored, like he wasn’t in the way of a charging bull. “Bye, Lilah.”
Mason’s eyes narrowed, and his jaw worked. “Yeah, see you at school, Little Byrd.”
I sucked in a breath.
Rye’s muscles contracted, coiling snake-strike tight. He tossed down the bin of uniforms.
I leapt onto him, wrapping my arms and legs around him, and squeezed as tightly as I could.
“Don’t do this,” I whisper-shouted, through gritted teeth.
His nostrils flared, and he looked down at me, as if he was only now noticing I was clinging to him like a koala.
“He’s trying to provoke you and get in your head. Your coach will bench you for the season. Please, Rye.”
I was a barnacle on a cruise ship of a person as Rye slowly backed away, taking me with him, as if me squeezing him so tightly my muscles ached was an everyday thing.
He locked his arms around my back and walked the path wrapping around the side of the house. His face was fully flushed, and his gaze kept darting to whatever was going on behind me, but right now I only had one goal: get him out of here.
When we hit the stone path leading to my front door, he looked down at me. “You can let go now,” he said through clenched teeth.
“Not until we’re in the house.”
“Lilah.” The warning tone in his voice was less tight.
“Rye,” I shot back in the same tone. “Hurry up, if I’m getting too heavy.”
He rolled his eyes and released a tight huff.
I sagged, muscles no longer on five-alarm-fire alert, but didn’t let go. There was no way I’d be fast enough to get between them if Rye dropped me and went after Mason.
The gardener’s cottage behind the giant colonial was fairy-tale perfect, even more beautiful than what I’d dreamed of living in when I was little. All that was missing was a thatched roof.
But now the house felt like a goldfish bowl with a lip-licking cat looming overhead, occasionally dipping a razor-sharp claw inside just for fun.
Two bedrooms, well-maintained and cozy, but still a never-ending struggle to keep clean, no matter how much sweeping and mopping I did. It didn’t help that there were four people living here when it was only meant for two. Walking in should have felt like a warm embrace, but most of the time, it felt like I’d been invited to a party where I didn’t know anyone and couldn’t find a place to sit.
Once we made it to the wide stone steps leading to the front door, Rye dropped his arms and shook me until I fell to the hard surface.
I yelped, my butt and tailbone throbbing. “Ow, jerk! That hurt…”
His face went stony, eyes locked onto mine. “Next time, don’t get between me and Mason.”
“Someone had to get between you two jackholes. And there’d better not be a next time. What if you get hurt?”
He ran his thumb over the knuckles of his clenched fist. “Who says I’d be the one getting hurt?”
“Fine, what happens if you get benched for fighting? Or you break his leg and his dad sues you?”
His lips thinned and jaw ticked. He knew I was right. “Jackholes?” He held out his hand to me and shook his head. “You know you’re old enough to curse.”
I glared but took his hand.
Rye yanked me off the ground.
“He’s the reason you’ve been having such a hard time this year.” It wasn’t a question. An anvil-sized statement.
“No, what? Who said I’ve been having a hard time?” I opened the front door and stepped inside. The door was unlocked—behind the Willowcrest walls, we were safe enough. At least from anyone outside of them.
Rye followed me with the uniforms he’d brought back here before Mason showed up.
Bits of soil and roots had been tracked through the house. Plants covered almost every flat surface that could hold one. I dropped my head back and let my bag fall to the floor. More cleaning.
Rye leaned against the wall to yank his shoes off and set them on the tray I’d put beside the door. “Still can’t get him to take his shoes off when he comes inside?”
“How could you tell?” I grabbed the vacuum and cleaned up the trail, knowing I’d need to mop later or the bottoms of my socks would be pitch-black by bedtime. The brown trunk covered in international locale stickers I’d never gotten to visit was my dresser, storage, and coffee table. I added a few more dents with my unfocused vacuuming.
“Don’t use cleaning to distract from what I said. Mason’s been giving you shit at school.”
I let the white noise of the vacuum buy me a little more time. A few hand waves and smiles. “Everything’s fine.” Totally convincing, Lilah.
He tugged the plug from the wall and folded his arms across his chest.
I snatched the cord from him. “My schedule is crazy. College essays are eating my brain. I find out if I’m invited to apply for the Windsor Award this week. Mason Shaw isn’t in my top five list of things I’m worrying about.” I took a breath, smothering my anger and annoyance. Why couldn’t Rye let it go? I bumped my shoulder into his, trying to calm him. “Petty high school stuff isn’t worth it. All I want to do is finish the year and start the next part of The Plan.”
His shoulders lowered, and he released a noisy exhale. “The Plan, huh?”
“Exactly. Mason Shaw isn’t in The Plan, so I’m not worrying about him.” I tried to keep my voice light, unaffected.
A new orchid sat on top of my notebook set on the chestnut side table that served as my makeshift desk, right behind my makeshift bed, aka the blue-and-white plaid sleeper sofa. I rubbed the bright, healthy leaves.
Dad. He wasn’t ever around, but at least he’d been thinking of me—or he’d been distracted and not realized my notebook had been there. I preferred to think it was the first one. It couldn’t have been easy to be stuck with a twelve-year-old he’d met a handful of times, still mourning her mom. He’d done his best over the past few years.
I lifted the plant and winced at the dirty ring of water that had soaked into my notebook cover. The flower went on the windowsill with its little plant buddies.
Rye wrapped the vacuum cord around his arm. “Graduation isn’t for nine more months.”
“Not too long.” Please let it fly by. Let this year speed by in a blink, and then I can forget all about Mason.
Rye stared at me, but I kept moving, got two waters, and offered him one. With a little twitch of his eye and his jaw clenched, he took the bottle from me. “Come on, let’s see how much chem is going to fuck with my eligibility.”
Relief washed over me, and I chugged down half my water but knew he wouldn’t let this drop for good. In the kitchen, cabinets and drawers were open, crumbs lay scattered across the counters, and plates sat in the sink. And the fridge was still empty. My grocery list sat untouched on the two-seater kitchen table.
He picked up a sponge, wiping at the mess with disgust. “I see the wicked stepsisters are living up to their names?”
“Half-sisters. And they’re not wicked.” I grabbed the plates and cups and loaded them into the dishwasher. “They’ve had a lot of big changes. They’re not used to cleaning up after themselves.”
He pulled his tablet and books out of his bag and dropped them on the table. “And that makes it your problem because….”
“Because I have to live here too.” Their mom hadn’t died, but she had decided that taking care of them after marrying her new husband was too demanding. Too chaotic and disruptive to her newlywed life. And after I’d helped with their Hawthorne Prep applications and they’d gotten in, the decision had been made that the commute would be easier if they stayed here during the week and went home on the weekends.
“How was it they got you to give up your room again?” He nodded at me with a tight look on his face.
Technically, the beautiful, sunny bedroom with its own bathroom had never been mine. Dad and I had only moved a few of our things into the house when their mom announced she’d be going on an extended honeymoon, so they’d be living full-time with our Dad—in the two-bedroom gardener’s cottage. They’d gotten the room because they needed more space with their own bathroom. The attempt to contain enough eyeshadow palettes to paint the whole house had been a spectacular fail, evidenced by the fact that my toothbrush sat on the mantle above the fireplace in the living room since there was no space on the hallway bathroom counter.
I flipped open my notebook. “There’s two of them. It made sense for them to be in there and me out here. It’s only for a year.”
“They’re assholes.”
“They’re family. Two-thirds of what I’ve got left. You’ve got like twenty in a four-block radius of your house.”
“All I’m saying is, they suck.”
“They don’t. A new stepdad, new school, moving, squeezing into this house. They’re still adjusting. Plus, they have a lot more stuff than me. After their summer trip to Europe, they’ve both mellowed out.” Did all the sights they got to see look like they did in movies? Had they eaten pain au chocolat at the Yves Saint Laurent museum, or explored the Fashion and Textile Museum in London?
I shook away the daydreams. Be grateful, Lilah. “Let’s do this. Payment, please.” I moved my fingers in a greedy gimme motion.
He lifted his backpack and yanked it open, revealing the bounty inside. “As requested.” Swiss Cake Rolls—which were only properly eaten by biting off the chocolate coating and then unrolling the cake—and a variety of other cupcakes filled with a vanilla “cream” that would remain edible after a nuclear blast but tasted like chemical heaven. Was any of this healthy? Absolutely not. Would I devour an entire box without blinking? In a heartbeat. But I paced myself. This little stash needed to last.
An hour later, sitting at the dining room table nook, I set my pencil down and stretched my back. A few snack wrappers littered the table, but there wasn’t a crumb in sight. “You got eleven out of fifteen right!”
“Thank god.” Rye sagged against the chair. “If I bombed again, I was going to jump out this window.”
“The house is only one story, drama queen.”
“I know. I’m not ready to give up the hockey signing bonus dream yet.”
“If you go over the flash cards I made you, you’ll definitely be ready. Verona High doesn’t give extra credit to their state champions hockey players?” I said with a deepened voice, puffed up chest and swinging my arms back and forth.
He moved his hand in a talking-head motion. “Something about wanting to prepare us not only athletically, but academically, for college. Blah blah blah.”
“With these grades, you could get into Rutgers without the sports scholarship.”
“But then I wouldn’t get all that sweet, sweet pro money.”
“Money isn’t everything.”
He looked at me with a pointed stare. Then we burst out laughing. Okay, it kind of was when you didn’t have it. Rye was on his path for the same reason I was. The stability and security of a healthy bank account couldn’t be underestimated.
“Once I go pro, you know I’m buying you anything you want.” He picked up his notebook, folded it in half, and bopped me on the head with it.
I shoved his hands away and rubbed at the spot on my head. “No, you’re not. You’ll be smart with your money, invest, and not go crazy with buying stupid stuff.”
Rye had family to worry about. His mom, two younger brothers. They were the ones he needed to spend his money on once he’d finally achieved his dream. “Consider it an interest payment for tutoring me for free. It’ll show up one day, and you won’t get a say. A sleek black car with a giant bow on top or your name on a new apartment.”
“And I’d kick your butt.”
“What’s the point of all this blood, sweat, and five a.m. rink time over a decade if I can’t use my money for the people I care about?”
“Family comes first. I swear, I would never speak to you again if you did something stupid like that.”
He shoved his notebook into his backpack, bending the cover and half the pages. “You know you’re too nice.”
I squeezed my lips together, unable to watch the notebook mangling. “Someone’s got to be.”
“What happened to that dinner you needed to plan for?”
My stomach rebelled a little, fueled only by sugar, fat, and carbs. “I’ll get to it.” The abandoned grocery list stared back at me. Back when it had been just me and Dad, I picked up what we needed, but groceries for four people were a lot harder to manage, especially with how quickly the twins went through food. No car and no buses to the closest grocery store meant relying on Dad’s sieve-like memory.
“I don’t really want to think about eating anything right now.”
“Your dad forgot to pick up groceries, didn’t he?” He jerked his head toward the organized list sitting on the edge of the counter.
“He’s busy. He’ll grab it tomorrow. Plus, we’ve still got plenty until then.” I closed my notebook, pushed my chair back. A little pebble tossed into a pond of guilt sent ripples through my stomach. Don’t look, Rye.
“So if I open those cabinets, there won’t be some peanut butter, cereal, and packs of ramen in there.”
I slid my notebook into my backpack. I’d finished the last pack of ramen yesterday.
“I’ll bring more when I come next time,” he said. “My mom’s been dying to cook for you.”
“She doesn’t have to do that.”
“It’ll be my installment payment for tutoring. How about some chicken alfredo?”
My mouth watered at the mention of his mom’s chicken alfredo. Thank god he hadn’t said spaghetti and meatballs. I’d never be able to eat them again after wearing a full tray of it in the dining hall last week, which ruined one of my only two white button-down shirts. After three washes, I’d given up and had to scramble for a secondhand one, burning through some of my precious cash.
But the parmesan-heavy, creamy goodness with expertly grilled chicken? I’d never wanted to curl up into a bowl of pasta more than when I was at his house. I could smell it already.
Smiling, I held out my hand toward him. “Deal.”
Rye ran out, got the deserted uniforms from the driveway, and set them inside the door. They looked untouched. A ripple of relief went through me. One less thing to worry about.
“If Mason’s still giving you shit at school because of me, tell me and I’ll handle it.”
Since what Mason was doing had nothing to do with Rye and seemingly everything to do with me, I didn’t feel like I was lying. “There’s nothing for you to handle. Seriously, I’m fine.”
He looked at me with an assessing gaze before he broke out into a grin.
I backed up. “Rye, don’t.”
Instead of waving goodbye like a normal person, Rye picked me up and squeezed me, spinning me around. The day he’d discovered he could do that back when we were thirteen had been an annoying day for our friendship. There was no evading that goodbye, no matter how hard I tried. I’d learned not to fight it, or he’d find another embarrassing way to say goodbye. Probably a headlock and a wet willy.
From my single step to the stone path leading to the parking area, the main house towered, always casting a shadow.
Nine months until the High School Plan finished and the Med School Plan began. Somehow, that pushed away some of my hopelessness. In the kitchen, I’d cobble together some semblance of a meal for my dad and the twins.
Dad survived on sunlight and topsoil. Maybe that was why he loved plants so much.
The orangey-red glow of the sky lit up the last blooms of the garden with an ethereal haze. Everything was lush green and a rainbow of colors, each given everything they needed to thrive. What must it be like to be cared for and looked after so meticulously? To have someone aware of every tiny change in your mood and willing to put in the effort to get you back to feeling your best? I’d never find out. I was just trying to survive high school.
Leaning against the lamppost in the small alcove circled by purple and pink flowers, I closed my eyes and breathed deeply. Floral scents enveloped me. Birds chattered, singing their pre-dusk songs on the way to the rest of their nighttime routine, twirling through the sky.
A familiar, probing weight settled over me. I snapped open my eyes and peered at the imposing house. Beautiful from the outside, but the inside was filled with barbed wire and landmines in human form.
Of course, Mason stepped out of the shadows. He leaned forward on the balcony, overlooking the sprawling backyard gardens. The cords of his muscles strained, veins in his arms prominent as he rested them on the railing. Music drifted from the open doors of his bedroom. I tried to pretend he wasn’t there.
The rest of Havoc laughed and shouted, their voices traveling the gap between us not only in distance, but in money, reputation, and popularity.
The Havoc moniker had stuck to the four of them when they made first line as sophomores, a first in Hawthorne Prep history. They’d won every regular season game while racking up double-digit penalties—according to Rye. Mayhem and destruction on the ice. That’s how Havoc was born.
I looked away.
Even in a T-shirt and jeans, he was the guy girls tripped over in the hallways when he walked by. They were already preening, competing to be the one he’d give his #11 jersey to once the season started. Most of those girls would shove their friends into traffic to live this close to him or get one of his half smiles or eye-raking gazes. I’d do a house swap with them anytime.
From his tower, he hadn’t been surveying the horticulture and wildlife.
His molten gaze locked onto me like he was standing beside me, trailing a scorching finger over my skin.
The thread of connection between us tangled. Every raw, painful twist tugged at me.
Then he was gone. I could feel it, and before I crossed the threshold back to my house, I chanced a glance under the pretense of tucking my hair behind my ear. An empty spot where he had been, the balcony door closed and curtains drawn.
How taut was the bowstring with me in his crosshairs? I could only hope I bored him soon. The cat batting the toy had to get bored if you played dead long enough, right?
I ignored the looks, ignored it all because Mason had made it painfully clear that our paths crossing would never end well for me. Tomorrow would be another day and one step closer to breathing without the crushing memories, although I couldn’t imagine a time when they wouldn’t still haunt me.
Chapter 2
Mason
I lingered at the curtain, not dropping my hand until Lilah walked back inside.
“For someone who doesn’t want her spying on you, you’re burning a hole through that glass.” Calder didn’t even look away from the screen where his car smashed through a convenience store’s glass window. The thrum of music from the speakers drowned out the noise of his gameplay.
“Fuck you.”
One-handed, he reached for his belt buckle. “If you’re sucking.”
I launched a mini foam puck at him.
It hit his ear with a satisfying snap. He barely flinched, but his car careening off a bridge and into a rushing river took the edge off my annoyance. “Dick.”
During sophomore year, Lilah spent most classes intensely scribbling, typing notes, or folding paper into origami shapes. I could tell what classrooms she’d been in from her creations in the trash. Breadcrumbs in the forest, signaling her path through the school.
She’d been almost easy to ignore—almost.
Lilah’s little additions to her Hawthorne Prep uniform. Small stars near the lapels on her shirt or her blazer, almost unnoticeable—almost.
The way her eyebrows furrowed whenever she intensely focused from her first-row seat in class. How she ate her KitKats by biting off all the chocolate from the outside and then peeling them apart layer by layer. The way she always slotted her notebooks into her backpack in the same order. The way her lips—
I knocked the thought from my mind. At Hawthorne Prep, hockey was king and dictated the social hierarchy.
Annoyingly, my eyes always searched for Lilah in any room but never found her at the pep rallies or hockey games. She wasn’t there, vying for a jersey or puck while screaming from the stands with her face painted.
Then, like a vision, two months ago, she appeared outside my window. Wearing dark green shorts, a white tank, and black flip-flops, Lilah Byrd was in my backyard. She disappeared, then reappeared with her dad, lugging a beat-to-hell trunk into the gardener’s cottage.
Lilah’s dad was the new gardener, replacing the most recent of the ones my stepmother, Alena, seemed to fire monthly. Suburban life with a couple of kids didn’t have the same highs as walking runways and showing up on magazine covers all over the world, and she continued to think life wasn’t worth living if she, the house, and gardens weren’t photo-ready every second of every season.
But it brought Lilah to me.
The first night Lilah found me after one of my dad’s extra practice sessions, I should’ve told her to get the fuck away from me. That decision haunted me, just like every one of her smiles, laughs, and touches were seared into my mind.
I let my guard down over the summer, let myself feel things I’d never allowed in before, all for the girl with the shy smile and stars on her lapels. A gut-punch of realization: we’d never even kissed, but she’d left my insides a bloody, mangled mess.
My weakness risked the whole season.
“Winning is the only thing that matters.” My father, Lukyan Petrov, the four-Cup hockey great, squeezed my shoulder. “Your brother has learned this lesson well.”
Bair stood on the other side of our father, getting congratulated on his national championship win by another three-time Cup winner I’d idolized as a kid.
With his black hair and green eyes, no one ever questioned Bair’s relationship to our father. Only after a DNA test when I was seven had our father finally acknowledged me.
“The pleasure of a woman’s company has its place, but it can never compare to the significance of a legacy.” Our father gripped both our shoulders then, his fingers stabbing into my muscles. “But I fear Mason has been weak and doesn’t understand yet,” he said to Bair. Then he dropped his hand and held out a phone to me, a paused video already cued up.
“He’s still young,” Bair said with an unplaceable tone. Taunting? Gloating? Irritated? Was he half as annoyed by my presence as I was his? Impossible. He’d never had to fight for our father’s attention.
The first time my father came to one of my peewee hockey games, I’d missed a pass, and he’d stared at me as if he’d never experienced a greater disappointment. I didn’t miss another pass that season. I worked harder. Laser-focused, precision on ice, I skated drills until I collapsed.
I gripped the phone to study and dissect whatever flaw he wanted erased. I would live and breathe his lesson.
His words when he drove me and my little sister, Zoë, through the Willowcrest front gates echoed in my head. “I did not have to do this.” He didn’t have to take us in, but he had. And I needed to prove the choice hadn’t been a mistake.
Only after ten long seconds, when the next clip began, did the images on screen register. This wasn’t gameplay. This was Willowcrest security footage from the discreetly placed cameras Alena hadn’t wanted ruining the aesthetic of the grounds. Our driveway. Our pool. Our gardener’s house. This was instructional.
Lilah was on the screen. Confusion rocketed through me as she ran to Ryker Ferris in shorts that hugged her every curve.
All Lilah’s chatter about her best friend “Rye” blasted through me.
She never mentioned him playing hockey and nearly breaking Erik’s arm last season.
Never said a word about his team winning the last three state championships over Hawthorne Prep.
Never told me he’d be driving his shitbox car to my house seconds after I left for the weekend.
Ryker picked her up and tossed her over his shoulder. Flames sandblasted the back of my skull. His hands gripped the backs of her legs, practically cupping her ass.
All of that had been enough to make me want to shred the sky, but then they disappeared into the house. Was he touching her like I’d been dreaming about at night? I’d never wanted to pressure her, had taken things slowly, and right now she was probably being pounded by the guy who’d fucking stolen the state championship from me three damn times.
They reemerged from the house half an hour later, Lilah in a bikini. In the next clip, they disappeared into the pool house, then came back out, laughing.
Had she pointed out where on the floor she’d found me writhing in pain the first night she’d stayed with me out there? Told him how I’d gritted my teeth, unable to stop shaking like a bitch, avoiding the main house so Zoë didn’t hear me?
He kept grabbing at her. Tossing her in the pool. Touching her. Each time, bombs of betrayal detonated in my skull. Then they walked back across the grass to her house, and that was it. For all I knew, he was still there, between her thighs, her fingers raking through his hair as she called his name. I barely held it together, wanting to shatter the phone. Not wanting to believe what played out in front of me in 4K.
It would’ve been crushing to watch this on my own, but in a Vegas hotel suite, beside my father, hockey greats, and my half-brother, who never seemed to drop a pass or fuck up…they all knew I’d been sucked into a honey trap. The chemical burn of betrayal was so scalding, I expected my skin to blister.
So, no, I wasn’t interested in playing nice with Lilah Byrd.
I’d excused myself from that dinner and locked myself in my suite bedroom with the excuse of gameplay research. Inside, the gnarled, twisting knots of anguish gouged their way through my chest. Her deception swelled inside my skull like truckloads of cement hardening around my brain.
She’d been fucking with me all summer. I replayed all our conversations, examining them from a new angle.
All my confessions.
My doubts about the state championship and how I didn’t want to let everyone down.
Calder favoring his right after an injury last season.
Erik never pressed hard enough when it came to forechecking, and the arm her boyfriend had nearly broken still gave him trouble sometimes.
Galen’s glove-side save struggles.
I’d served my teammates up on the altar of her sweet smile and gentle touches.
I yanked my tablet from my bag and queued up the library of gameplay videos my father had compiled. I’d zero in on Ryker’s weaknesses and brutally attack every. Single. One until I won.
At nearly dawn, another Verona High video played after the final buzzer sounded while I replayed Lilah’s cruel mind game. How long had it taken her to report back everything I said? Hours? Days? Or did she wait for their reunion right in my backyard to spill every detail I’d told her?
In the video, Ryker dropped his stick, shot out of the team box, and made a beeline for the crowd of celebrating fans. I’d been about to turn it off when I caught the curls of her dark brown hair.
I shot up straight in my chair. Ryker completely enveloped her. Lilah disappeared beneath his arms as they were all over each other. Play dissection was impossible now. I dug up every Verona High game for the past three seasons and skipped to the ends for a Lilah sighting.
She only appeared at one game per season since freshman year, even before she transferred, and it was never the Hawthorne Prep game. She’d been smarter than that. She’d been walking the Hawthorne Prep halls while sleeping with the enemy. Detonations of anger exploded in my chest. This wasn’t a one-time or short-term thing. They’d been together for years.
She’d been careful not to draw attention to herself, but it felt like something she’d have gloated about. Her boyfriend, the state champ. It might’ve even gotten her a few party invites. She could’ve worn his green jersey—a color that had been de facto banned by the entire student body. But she continued her unassuming, quiet ways.
An enemy with her cute origami, shy peeks and little embroidered stars. Our biggest rival’s spy, and she wandered around our hallways, wearing the Hawthorne Hawks colors while secretly fucking a Verona Viper.
Humiliation roiled in my stomach like I’d skated drills for hours. I’d have preferred that. At least that pain would have a purpose.
The idea painted itself in my mind. Lilah Byrd wanted to play games. She’d fucked me over, smiled in my face and whispered sweet promises of what our senior year would be. All while laughing with her boyfriend the second my back was turned. No, she wasn’t getting away with this.
Calder tossed down the controller, shoved up from the couch and picked up his beer. “Thinking of launching yourself off the balcony to fight Ferris?”
“I don’t care about him.”
Calder reached for the curtain with his permanent clenched-jaw expression. “Then what’s little Lilah got going on today?”
I grabbed his arm. “You want them to think we’re up here thinking about her—about him?”
He tilted his head and squinted. “But you were.”
I flung his arm away from me. “I wasn’t.”
He stared at me with an almost-smile but backed away from the curtain. “You know I’ve got a hell of a lot more riding on this season than you do. We’re winning this shit.” His eyes filled with steely determination.
“A hell of a lot more? How many commitment letters have you gotten already?” The contracts we signed would secure a spot with our college of choice. There was only one I cared about—Rhode Island. But the rest of the guys had more choices.
He cracked his neck. “Michigan, Boston, Minnesota, Colorado and Yale.”
“Yale? And you haven’t signed already?”
He leveled his gaze at me. “Do I scream Yale material?”
Erik walked into the room carrying an XL Gino’s pizza with grease seeping through the box and a container of wings.
Calder folded his arms across his chest. “What happened to more beer?”
“I got hungry, so I ordered this. They always get it to me fast.” Erik hefted up the food and walked to my desk. “And I thought you guys might be hungry.”
“And then you bypassed the basement where all the alcohol is stashed and came back up here empty-handed?” I was being a dick. But Lilah had been in her house with Ryker alone for ninety-seven minutes.
“Food isn’t empty-handed.” Erik inhaled an entire slice, crust and all, in three seconds before dropping into one of the armchairs in the living room off my bedroom.
My bedroom that was five times bigger than any of the shitty studios, motel rooms, or even cars we’d lived in with my mom.
Before my dad showed up, some nights I slept in the rink manager’s office, at least until Zoë was born. Our mom had been clean when she was pregnant, but that didn’t last longer than it took the ink to dry on Zoë’s birth certificate with a blank for the father’s name.
From then on, every other cent my mom got disappeared, and so did she. But Zoë and I had rink pizza or chicken fingers to keep us going.
Once my father watched me skate, he fully funded my hockey.
Hockey had always been the one constant—my salvation.
Even if social services hadn’t taken me and Zoë from my mom when I was ten, my father would’ve come for me once I’d proven myself. So I dedicated every minute on the ice to destroying my opponents.
Making him proud was a survival instinct.
The deal was easy to accept without my father even saying a word. He’d take care of Zoë and me and pay for whatever help Mom needed.
All I had to do was listen to his guidance, follow his rules—and win. So simple.
And a dark, twisted part of me was relieved each time Mom relapsed and had to go back to rehab. Because her loving drugs more than she’d ever love us meant we stayed with my father. Even I could admit it was fucked up.
But I’d screwed up the deal this summer. I’d gotten distracted by Lilah. It wouldn’t happen again.
Galen walked in and tossed the case of beer onto my couch. “You’re welcome.”
Erik bounded over to it.
Calder planted a hand on the center of his chest and gave him a sharp head shake. “Can’t open those until the first game of the season.”
“Sounds like a you problem.” Galen sat on the leather chair beside the touch, opened a water and slid his coin out of his pocket. He passed the shiny silver disk over the backs of his fingers. “What were you two fighting about before Erik showed up?” He used his water bottle like an accusing pointer.
“We weren’t.” Calder and I answered at the same time.
Galen’s sixth sense was a freaky curious thing. He could block a puck out of nowhere or anticipate a backward pass or fake -out better than any other goalie I’d ever played with.
Calder tossed his empty beer into the trash. “No fighting.”
I relaxed a little. At least we didn’t need to bring up my spying to the rest of the guys.
“Only me asking about the deal with Lilah,” he said.
Erik and Galen made noises of understanding.
A shot of irritation surged through my veins, but I stifled it. “There is no deal.”
No one needed to know Lilah had gotten under my skin.
If I’d been more focused, our groundkeeper’s house wouldn’t still call to me like a siren, inviting disaster.
No needling inside my chest at how Lilah had played me.
No panic that I’d exposed the guys’ weaknesses to our biggest enemy.
No fucks given about Ryker’s hands all over her.
But the only way any of that would make sense to them was if I let them know about the pathetic moments I’d had with her icing my shoulder after practice, bandaging up my knee or lying with my head in her lap while she read that vampire book.
Galen sat back in his chair. “What is the deal? You’ve had a hate-boner for her from the second senior year started. The dining hall thing was fucked.”
Every time she sat down at lunch, the people sitting at neighboring tables had gotten up and walked away. Was it my fault people had so little backbone that a mention of her rival school affiliation and how Havoc wouldn’t look kindly on those who associated with her was interpreted strictly?
Galen paused his coin play. “She always seemed nice. Quiet, but nice.”
A heated spike of annoyance stabbed through my head.
“She smells good,” Erik added.
I rounded on Erik, who looked up from his makeshift plate using the torn pizza box.
He jolted at my glare, set down the crust of an already-devoured slice of pizza, and leaned over to pick up another while avoiding my eyes.
“I sat behind her in Spanish last year,” he mumbled and shoved more food into his mouth.
Galen’s shrewd gaze probed and prodded. “You’ve already got all the girls ganging up on her. Will you maroon her on a deserted island next? Doesn’t seem worth it for a girl who barely registers on the social radar.”
The way many of the Hawthorne hockey devotees had taken it upon themselves to become an extension of my feelings about Lilah had been exactly what I was going for. Although there had been a prickle of aggravation at the spaghetti “incident” in the dining hall. I’d caught up with the sophomore lacrosse player after Lilah ran out of the room. He sported a busted lip that week, played it off as a practice injury.
After that, Lilah stopped coming to the dining hall. Did she pack her lunch now?
There was a deep down part of me that reared up, not wanting to hurt her, but I bodychecked those feelings right where they belonged and reminded myself that she’d been laughing at me with our enemy. The fucks I had to give evaporated.
A wrong turn a couple days ago in the third-floor hallway gave me another lucky break. I’d found out where the Little Byrd was hiding. It was stupid I hadn’t thought of it after she’d shown me her little book of dress sketches.
“I don’t want some Verona Viper spy coming in here and getting into our heads.”
Calder tilted his head to the side. “She’s been here since sophomore year.”
“And they’ve won since sophomore year.”
“Didn’t they also win our freshman year,” Erik stopped eating for a second to add.
“Doesn’t matter.”
Galen rolled his coin, looking more bored than usual. “Is she crawling in the locker room vents, reporting back to the Vipers about us?”
Erik looked up from his plate of food, face squashed in confusion. “She got into your head?” Off the ice, always three seconds late.
“No. She didn’t.” She had. Sliced her way into my brain, and seeing her every day only made it worse. At school. At home. There was no escape. If she weren’t steps away from me most of my waking and even sleeping hours, I could try to forget about the summer and chalk it up to one of the concussions I’d racked up playing hockey, but she was always there. A reminder of my stupidity and her deception.
“Then why—”
“She’s already got Ryker Ferris invading my house. I’ve got to see her every day at school. I don’t have to be nice to her.”
“Icing her out of most social interactions and goading people into dumping food on her is just ‘not nice’?” Galen made a noncommittal sound, the coin moving at a maddening pace across one hand while he swiped on his phone with the other. He swore it was for stickhandling dexterity. Right now, it made me want to rip his damn hands off.
I glared at the three of them. “Fuck you. I get to deal with her the way I want to deal with her.”
“Not the least bit odd.” Calder grabbed the last of my non-shaken beers from the small glass-front fridge beside the subwoofer. “Was she all over you this summer?”
This time, I grabbed a real puck and launched it at Calder. “Enough talking about Lilah.”
He ducked, and the sickening pop of the puck against the TV was followed by a spiderweb of destroyed pixels across the screen. Scathing anger rushed through me—though at myself or at Calder, I wasn’t sure.
“Mason!” Zoë raced into the room, hockey stick still in hand.
“Temper, temper. That’s my thing.” Calder, wagging his finger at me, tucked his bottle behind his back, then ruffled the hair of the out-of-breath ten-year-old grinning at us. “Yo, Zoë. Your big bro’s in a shitty mood.”
I stabbed a finger in his direction. “Don’t curse around my sister.”
Zoë laughed and ran to me. I gave her a one-armed hug and glared at the rest of them. “Get the fuck out of my house.”
“No, don’t leave. I wanted to play GTA with you guys.”
Galen stood abruptly, pocketed his coin, and slid his phone back into his pocket. “I’ve got somewhere to be, so we’ll leave Mason to sulk all on his own. No GTA for at least eight more years, Zoë.”
“But you’ll be so old by then.” Zoë stared at him with genuine concern, probably imagining that our hips would crumble into dust by the time she was eighteen and we were twenty-six.
Erik picked up his shredded pizza box and wings. “Right, Zo? We’ll be ancient.”
“Leave the food,” I said, knowing I was being a dick.
“But—but I ordered it.”
“And you drank all my beer.”
Erik’s shoulder slumped. “Just mean, man. Your brother’s so mean, Zoë. Don’t turn into him when you get older.” He fist-bumped Zoë and stared longingly at the food, but left it, probably guessing—correctly—I’d make him wear it if he tried to take it with him.
Once they left, I turned off the music.
“Next time, don’t let them leave before I get back.” Zoë rested her stick against my couch. “Ballet and hockey practice take up so much time,” she whined.
“I thought you liked both of them.”
“I do, but Galen said he’d teach me to roll the coin.”
“You don’t want to hang out with them.” I sat on the arm of the couch. “How was practice?”
She shrugged. “It was fine. I scored three goals. Mama Lena was so happy.” She winced. “But I missed two. Don’t tell Dyadya, okay?” Her worried look hit me hard. The name for my father sounded like Dad, and most people who didn’t speak Russian probably thought that’s what she called him, but he’d settled on “uncle.” Still fuzzier than what I called him, which was usually “sir.”
Alena and my father might not have been her birth parents, but they were the only ones she remembered.
Alena had even taught Zoë Russian. I’d picked up enough to know when my father was angry or annoyed, but not enough to have a full conversation.
“I won’t tell him.” He usually treated Zoë’s hockey as more of a fun party trick than the exacting precision skill he expected from me or Bair. “We’ll do accuracy drills this weekend.”
She bounced on her heels with a wide grin, then turned her head. “Do you think I’ll get to be Havoc like you?”
I laughed. “You’ll be a lot smarter on the ice than we are, Zo. No ejections for you.” I tickled her.
“Zoë, I told you straight to the shower.” Alena’s voice bounced through the hallway. “Your sweat is stinking up the whole house.”
“Night, Mason.” Zoë flung her arms around me and kissed my cheek before she took off to her room.
“Night, Zoë.”
This was a life I’d never have been able to give her. She’d had a childhood because of my father and Alena. Any of her faded memories from the first three years of empty stomachs, evictions, and sleeping in our car had been replaced by this house, her room, the mountains of clothes and attention from Alena. Not being lugged along with me to practice or at home with mom, who may or may not have been nodding off while trying to heat up canned spaghetti.
As the accidental kid my father had with a bottle service waitress, I’d gotten lucky. Doing everything my father needed me to do wasn’t only for me, but for Zoë too. I’d do it all a thousand times over for the same outcome.
Maybe that was why I couldn’t hold back when it came to Lilah. I needed my father to know I understood and wouldn’t let him down. Only it wasn’t just that.
Head leaned back against the cushions, I scrubbed my hands down my face. During the season, my brain and body were so exhausted that I could shut down without unwanted thoughts creeping in. I longed for that escape now. I closed my eyes and tried not to think about her, but a high-stick hit of a memory crashed into my brain.
“Looking forward to senior year?” Lilah set the book down.
I trailed my finger along her arm. I’d been enjoying hearing her read the book she’d been talking about nonstop. It wasn’t half bad, but even better was that it gave me an excuse to spend a couple hours every night with her.
She shivered, goosebumps sweeping across her skin.
I clenched my other hand, wanting to touch more than her arm. To taste her. To make her shiver for completely different reasons, but this was Lilah. I didn’t want to ruin this.
All my usual ideas of what to do in the dark with a beautiful girl sputtered and died the second her hands touched me. She had wrapped her fingers around my arm and helped me slide down the cabinet to the floor, and then grabbed an ice pack. I’d wanted to lash out at her, but she’d stared at me with those big brown eyes shining with concern, and I couldn’t remember my own name. The pain seemed to disappear under the too-gentle brush of her fingertips.
So no, as much as I might’ve wanted more, I stopped myself. Restraint might kill me, but I never wanted to pressure her. When it happened, it would be on her terms—even if I wanted to drop down on top of her and kiss her until she was breathless.
She looked up at me with a trace of a smile. “Mason?”
“Sorry, what did you say?”
“You’ve got a lot of pressure heading into this year. Are you excited about it or freaked out?”
All I’d been thinking of was the immense pressure tightening around my neck for the championship and getting my offer letter to Rhode Island, but suddenly, next year didn’t feel so heavy. With Lilah’s fingers interlaced with mine, none of it felt like too much.
“This year will be better than I could’ve imagined.” Because you’ll be there. “Let me take over reading.”
“You don’t have to pretend to like it just because of me.” She peeked up at me in that sweet, innocent way that made me want to ruin her and never touch her again all at once.
“We can’t stop now. I need to know whether she finds her sister.”
She smiled, the kind of smile that could stop a first line on their skates, and rose off my lap so we could switch places.
I squeezed my eyes shut against the onslaught of memories and glared at my traitorous dick, which hadn’t gotten the message that she was a liar. Lilah trailing her fingers across my cheek while I read to her. Liar. The way she stared down at me while she was probably laughing inside. So convincing. She could sell the Girlfriend Experience to any guy out there. Hell, maybe she was.
I slammed the locker closed on my heart.
Lilah couldn’t last much longer, and all I wanted was to see her crack. To see her feel half of what I’d felt after she humiliated me. I didn’t care what it took. She couldn’t keep that brave front up forever.
She didn’t get to ignore me. Looking past me with those autumn-breeze eyes and lips so soft…
I squeezed my eyes closed.
Tomorrow, I’d step it up. I wasn’t letting Lilah get away with this. Hawthorne Prep hockey season started in two months, and I wanted two things from her before then.
Her tears, like the ones she’d seen me fight back, and for her to know her misery this year was all because of me.
***
A bell chimed for the start of the next period. I swung by the dining hall after leaving the guidance office and grabbed some food, fueling up to be ready for the next shiny new class on the printed schedule the counselor had handed over.
Calder sat at our table by the door and shot a leg out to stop me from leaving. “Where are you going?”
“Nowhere.”
He looked up, eyes narrowing almost imperceptibly.
“Where’s he going?” Erik slid his two plates piled high with sliced beef, vegetables, and noodles onto the table. “The Michelin-star treatment,” the Hawthorne Prep brochure called it. Somehow, they’d bribed a two-star restaurant to cater to the monied progeny of the tristate area’s power players. Prestige certainly didn’t matter without the money to back it up. I would be sure I was never without both ever again.
Galen set his tray down. “Yeah, where are we going?”
I flipped them the bird. “That’s where I’m going.”
Calder patted down his pockets. “And here, I forgot my lube.”
Erik laughed into his plate of stir fry.
Galen sighed, shook his head and went back to his phone. “Don’t get into trouble.”
“Not my fault if it finds me.” I backed out of the dining hall.
In this case, trouble had found me. It had reached inside my chest with soul-splitting eyes, making me feel things I’d never wanted to feel, and then driven nails straight into my heart.
This wasn’t me starting trouble. This was me ridding myself of the distraction that was Lilah Byrd.
I walked to the room with Textile Lab etched on the glass nameplate beside the door. This part of the building was foreign territory. Not exactly my style, but I’d make an exception to give Lilah’s life a little more hell.
I opened the door, and when she looked up from whoever she was laughing with, her smile died on her lips. Her stomach plummet was almost loud enough to hear. Yes, this was the perfect plan. Just like all the ones Lilah used to talk about. And I was more sure than ever that my head would be Lilah-free in a matter of weeks, if not days.
“Hey, Little Byrd, didn’t think I’d find your hiding spot?”
If you’re ready for some high angst and sweet groveling, preorder The Love That Broke Us coming on September 10th. I’m so excited for you to finally get to meet Lilah and Mason!