She writes him letters now?
I flung up, ramrod straight, grabbing the letter. Self-control, my ass. This wasn’t a goddamn chocolate cake. The letter was already sealed, so I had to work with what I had. I angled the envelope toward the rays of sun drifting in the window, as far away from me as possible, reading the text through the somewhat transparent, thin paper. I couldn’t make out much, but here’s what I did read clearly:
“…and I want you to know that, of course, I love you.”
Of course, she loved him.
Of course.
She loved him, and if I wasn’t careful, I was going to hate her.
Something came to me then. A switch flipped in my brain. Luna and I were never going to be even as long as I was still holding my bullshit V-card for her. We weren’t equal.
FUCKING JOSH was always hovering over our head, just like Poppy.
Only difference was, I knew I would drop everything and be with her. I couldn’t say the same about Luna—especially with this fucking love letter to another guy in my hand…
Fury crackled in my veins, so hot it burned past my skin. My jaw locked, and I felt my teeth grinding. She loved him. I’d drunk her pussy juice like it was the nectar of the gods, and she pined for him, still.
As a friend.
As a lover.
Who the fuck cared?
Were they going to bump uglies as soon as she returned to Boon? There’s no way she would wait for me. She hadn’t before…
I merely passed her time until she got on a flight back home.
She must feel high and mighty, too, since she wasn’t exclusive with FUCKING JOSH and wasn’t technically cheating. I was. I was a goddamn cheater, something I’d hated with a passion.
No matter how pissed I was, this time I wasn’t going to be a pussy about it. I didn’t bail. I didn’t throw a fit. I just placed the envelope right where it belonged, pulled my sweatpants on, and waited for the stupid-ass shirt.
When Luna came back, I thanked her for the tea, the shirt, the soup, and the Advil. I kissed her nose, smiled, and got the hell out.
I was going to kill Luna with kindness.
And dance all over the grave of our friendship.
I spent the rest of my week either with Rosie or in the treehouse, working on Rosie’s project. Guilt gnawed at my gut for not telling Knight about what I was doing with his mom, about how she thought she wasn’t going to survive much longer.
There were better, nicer places to be than in the treehouse. But I went there because sometimes, in the afternoons, Knight would show up with a six pack of Bud Light. Although I could talk now, he still hadn’t asked for my words and was content with silence. I’d drink a beer. He’d drink five. He’d stare into the woods. I’d write and erase. Delete and rip papers from my notebook, working on his project unbeknownst to him.
He didn’t ask me what I was doing.
I didn’t ask him about Poppy.
I also didn’t ask if we could do the things we’d done in my room again, even though it was pretty much all I could think of, other than my Rosie project.
I could practically envision Daria hitting me with her straightener for spending time with him, for letting him into my panties while he had a girlfriend. Hell, I hadn’t even let him kiss me when he didn’t have one.
The one thing I did tell him, breaking the silence once, was that I was flying back to Boon at the end of the week.
“Bummer.” He burped, throwing an empty beer bottle through the window and watching as it dunked right into the front basket of my bike. He’d smirked to himself. “Have fun there with FUCKING JOSH.”
It was like we’d never shared that moment in my bed. That intimacy. I tried to remind myself what I’d been told about him by his own mother—what I knew about him firsthand: Knight didn’t show vulnerability. He was so deeply wounded by being constantly on the verge of being an orphan that he stuck his chin out and hid the pain.
When he felt threatened, he pushed people away. But he needed me.
“How long are you going to punish me, Knight?” My eyes blurred with the fresh tears that clung to my lower lashes. “How much longer are we going to dance this twisted tango?”
He bent his head down, plucking a fresh beer from the pack. He’d been drinking so much lately, I could hardly tell when he was sober.
“I don’t know, Moonshine.” He’d cracked the beer open, downing it in one chilling gulp. “I hope we find out soon.”
“Did Uncle Dean ever hurt you?” I asked Rosie the next day, furiously writing in my notebook.