“Oh, isn’t that so thoughtful? Zoey, look,” she says excitedly, as if I don’t have eyes or ears, and I must be missing this, because Carter Mahoney is in my kitchen bringing me feel-better soup, and I don’t look happy to see him. “Wasn’t that so nice? What a sweet boy.”
Carter smiles at me, and I glare back at him.
It is so outrageous that he is here; I have no idea how to respond to his presence in my house, let alone in front of my mother. Swallowing, I put down the serving spoon with some effort. My hands are trembling and my insides feel hollow, like they’ve been scooped right out of me. I can’t find my voice. That must have been scooped out, too. I want to demand he get the hell out of my house, but my mother has stars in her eyes, and I don’t know what to do.
Carter doesn’t wait for an invitation to approach me. Now that my mom is adequately impressed, he comes right over, puts the soup on the counter, and wraps a strong arm around me. Ignoring the way my body stiffens when he touches me, he pulls me in for an uncomfortable hug. “How ya feeling, babe?”
Babe?
I am not his babe.
What the actual fuck is he doing?
I look beyond his stupid broad shoulder and see my mom. Her eyes are wide, her cheeks flushed with pleasure, and I can practically see visions of wealthy, secretly psychopathic grandbabies dancing in her eyes.
Glaring up at Carter, I try to keep my voice steady. “What are you doin’ at my house?”
“Told ya, I wanted to bring you soup. You also missed history today and we have a test tomorrow. I made you a copy of my notes.”
He pulls back and fishes a piece of notebook paper out of his gym bag.
“Sorry I couldn’t come earlier; I just got out of practice.”
Ha, practice. Nice touch, psychopath.
His brown eyes glitter with pleasure as he hands me the folded up sheet of notebook paper. My brain tells me I should, but I can’t even bring myself to say an insincere ‘thanks’ for my mom’s sake.
“How thoughtful! Do you want to stay for dinner?” my mom asks eagerly.
“No. No, he can’t stay.”
Carter’s tone is apologetic. “Yeah, I’ve gotta get home and help my dad with some yard work.”
“Aren’t you sweet? I wish I had a son like you,” my mom gushes.
Ugh, vomit! If only she knew.
Carter laughs, saying lightly, “Hey, maybe someday.”
Oh, my God, that’s enough of this. I don’t understand what he’s playing at, but it’s time for this game to come to an end.
I feel bad when my gaze drifts back to my mom, and for all my confused anger, she is bursting with joy. Of course she’s charmed by him, and even more by his family’s wealth and reputation, no doubt. After I made our whole family look bad by telling on Jake Parsons, now the star quarterback is showing up to check on me and calling me babe.
To her, Carter Mahoney must look like my redemption wrapped up in an already-appealing package.
I can’t even believe this shit.
At least I’m feeling things, I guess. I’ve been completely numb since he left me alone in that classroom yesterday, but now I’m feeling anger. So much anger, my skin is hot with it.
“Anyway, I hope you’re feeling better soon, princess,” he tells me, making me cringe with his use of the nickname he dropped when he was degrading me in that empty classroom. “I want to take you to Porter’s downtown this weekend.”
What the hell is he talking about?
“Porter’s?” my mom asks, before I can respond. “Oh, I’ve heard that’s a really nice restaurant.”
Carter looks back at her and nods, his smile charming. “My sister and her husband actually own the place, so it’s nice to stop in and see family, plus get good food. Win-win.”
Can she seriously not see how full of shit he is? Apparently not, but then why would she? What normal, properly functioning human being would do what Carter is currently doing? None of them. Zero.
Carter looks back at me, like he’s serious. I can’t believe he is serious, but the mocking vibe of a private joke only he gets to enjoy has passed, and his facial cues seem to indicate the forthcoming invitation is sincere. “What do you say? Saturday night?”
I know this word doesn’t mean much to him, but I toss it out anyway. “No.”
“Sunday, then,” he counters, his tone slightly less friendly.
I shake my head. “No, thank you. I’m busy all weekend.” And forever, if going somewhere alone with him is the alternative. What the hell is he thinking? I’m so baffled by his presence in my house, by the soup, by this bizarre dinner invitation… My head is spinning. What kind of game is he playing?