I trail back up the stairs, hearing Army in his room playing Van Morrison for Dex, and spare a glance across the hall to Macon’s closed door. There’s no light coming from underneath, and for the first time, I realize he sleeps in the room where my mother killed herself. Every night he sleeps in there.
I enter my room, my gaze lingering on Clay sleeping soundly on the bed, but I don’t go to her. Heading to my desk, I pull open a drawer and take out the chain I wore tonight, slipping the key off of it. I turn around and lean back against the chair, watching her again. My insides cripple with the same fear as I look at her. This will all be for nothing.
But I’m going to have her for as long as I can.
I stare at it in my palm, the sharp copper glinting in the twinkle lights wrapped around my wrought-iron headboard.
When you’re in the eye of the storm, the only way out is through.
You win, Macon. I’ll protect the family.
MY HANDS TREMBLE, a light sweat covering my forehead as my heart thuds.
Just one more time...
I can’t stop hearing her whisper or feeling her mouth since I left her this morning. God, I’m exhausted. A fog sits in my head, and I can’t seem to get my eyes open all the way yet, but I’m floating. Blissfully floating.
As soon as I’d woken up, I’d rolled over and needed her. I didn’t want to leave Liv’s bed until I’d tasted every inch of her, and I couldn’t believe I’d had any energy left to go yet again after that, or that I’d gotten laid twice this morning and already wanted more.
I’m on fire, and I can’t wait to see her.
I dig my books out of my locker, taking deep breaths to calm myself down, but it’s not working.
“Clay,” someone says.
I turn my head, a couple guys shouting down the hall.
The new girl from my math class stands next to me, holding a folder and a book. Her blonde hair ends just above the shoulders, straightened with layers. She carries a Hermès backpack that even my mom probably wouldn’t treat herself to.
“Sorry, I don’t mean to ambush you,” she says, smiling, and I notice the subtle pink gloss that plumps her lips. “My name’s Chloe. We have calculus together.”
She holds out her hand, and she stands so close the hair on my arm touches the hair on hers. Awareness rises.
“Right.” I put my practice clothes in my duffel bag to take home and wash. “You’re from Texas. How are you liking it here?”
She shrugs, her navy-blue Marymount sweater vest not something we really wear anymore, but I like her retro style. “Still getting used to it.”
“Yeah, I know people in Texas are maniacal.”
“Maniacal?” she broaches. “About what?”
I pull out my pencil bag. “About being Texan.”
She smiles big and nods. “Can’t argue there. Texan first. American second.”
She doesn’t sound southern, though, so she’s definitely from the city. A bigger city than St. Carmen probably.
I close my locker and finally meet her eyes, seeing her watch me. I straighten, not sure if I’m imagining a signal or not. I look around for Liv.
“Anyway,” she finally goes on, “I just wanted to introduce myself. And see if you need a study partner? Maybe some help with derivatives and integration?”
A study partner? Are those still a thing since Google?
She laughs. “Okay, I need help with derivatives and integration.”
Ah. “Well, I’m no genius,” I add, “but two heads are better than one, I guess.”
But time with a new friend means time I won’t have with Liv, and I can’t do that right now.
I search my brain for an excuse to get out of it, but then I catch sight of Liv approaching behind Chloe.
She stops at my side, her hair in the two French braids I did this morning. She leans her shoulder into the lockers and pins Chloe with a look. “Excuse us.”
Her words are flat, commanding, and void of patience, and I bite back my smile even as a flush rises up to my cheeks.
Chloe’s eyes flash to me and then to Liv again, and I turn, spinning the dial on my locker. Awkward.
“See you around,” I hear her say, and when I turn around again, she’s gone.
Facing Liv, I give her a scolding look, but I’m sure she can see my amusement. “She was just saying hi.”
“She can wave.”
And that look and tone—possessive and jealous and all for me—sets me on fire again.
“Get in the bathroom, Clay,” she mumbles as she rubs an imaginary itch on her chin, trying to look covert in the school hallway.
Butterflies swarm my stomach, and slowly, I make my way past the special committees’ bulletin board and the couple making out. I push through the locker room door and head for the restroom.