28. Sawyer
28
Can you get your heart broken a second time, by the same person, without even admitting to your feelings for her?
That’s how it feels.
I’m fucking broken.
The pack I’m to meet tomorrow is called the D’ Angelo pack. They fit the bill: rich, old money, steady jobs, a big house in the suburbs. Cookie-cutter packs that my parents deem acceptable for me, and above all, for themselves.
And I feel fucking sick.
I feel like trashing my café and leaving town.
I reach for a new pack of coffee, and my hand brushes over the glossy cover of the book I bought for her. The book she left.
My jaw clenches.
Give it up, Sawyer. Give up on these teenage crushes you have.
I bet the D’ Angelo pack is going to be smashing. Amazing. You’ll love them. They’ll love you. It will be like in the movies. Stars in your eyes, your hands all over one another. Boom, you fall in love, and that’s it.
No more worrying. No more broken hearts.
No more angry parents, threatening to take away my dreams, no more concerned, overbearing older brother micromanaging my life.
I don’t need the McGraw Pack. And I don’t need Brinlee. It’s all in my head, I decide. I’m creating this obsession where there’s nothing. They obviously don’t feel that pull. So even if it’s real for me, it’s one-sided and doomed to fail.
I can’t… function. I’m torn up.
Run away.
Hide.
Ignore.
Keep working.
Keep hoping.
Yeah, I’m torn in two.
Something’s really off. I feel like rocking in a corner, ignoring either possibility. Or is that hiding anyway?
That’s the state of things when the McGraw Pack walk inside.
“Sawyer.” It’s Archer who leads the way between tables to reach me. Only two tables are occupied, the customers turning to stare as the pack moves through the café. “There you are.”
I manage a glare—where did he think I’d be?—but it’s weak, I guess, because he grins.
“Hiya, Say.” Roman sits on a stool. “How is it hanging?”
Bad, I want to say. Miserable. I’m cleaning the bar for the thousandth time, which I suppose is my version of rocking in a corner. What do you want from me? What are you doing here?
But I say nothing.
Kyrian looms behind the bar, all tattoos and narrow eyes, placing a hand on Roman’s shoulder. “You okay?”
“Peachy,” I finally say, the bitterness in my voice betraying me.
“What’s wrong?” Archer asks, leaning against the bar.
“Nothing.”
“Are you ready, then?”
“What for?”
“To go see Brinlee, of course.”
I give a short laugh. “No. She doesn’t want to see me.”
“Bullshit.”
“I met her at the library. She pretended not to know me.”
“We’re not dealing with Brinlee your friend right now.” Archer drums his fingers on the bar, his expression thoughtful. “She’s reverted to the Baby Doll persona. Don’t you see? That’s where we need to find her and confront her. And help her.”
“You’re not making any sense,” I grumble. “Why would she prefer that? What makes you think she wants to see us at all?”
“Gut feeling. She’s hiding. Hiding a secret that made her take that job. We’re going to the source of her pain, to prod that wound.”
“She’ll hate us,” I say.
“But at least she’ll let us help.”
“I doubt that.”
He thumps his fist on the bar. “Don’t be a party pooper, Sawyer, and jump in the car. We will convince her, one way or another.”
“To accept our help?”
“To accept us. Our presence. Our interest. Are you in or not?”
Fuck, I shouldn’t be. I’m meeting the last pack tomorrow and then… then I need to make up my mind and choose one. This pack, so affectionate, so interested in saving Brinlee, hasn’t invited me to join them. Not as a pack.
So there’s my answer.
I have no choice.
And yet I climb into the car with them because I can’t help myself. They’re like a drug, and I want more, for as long as I can get it.
At least, I have her book to give her. I bought it for her. If she doesn’t want it, she can just throw it away, or—I wince at the thought of a book thrown into the trash—give it to someone who will appreciate it.
“Let’s go.”
This isn’t hiding, at least, I tell myself, trying to ignore the fact that I let them haul me along, letting inertia work for me. Instead of choosing a path, I let them choose it for me.
It nettles me. Bothers me.
And yet being with them is a relief. The need to be around them, as much as the need to see her, feels as vital as breathing. I couldn’t have stayed back if I tried.
We roll through the streets and I’m sitting in the back with Kyrian. He’s staring right ahead, but sometimes I catch him watching me.
“What’s that?” he asks when I take the book from under my jacket to place it in my lap.
“Book,” I say shortly. “You know. Pages bound together. Words printed on them. That kind of thing.”
He rolls his eyes. “Why d’you have a book with you?”
“It belongs to Brinlee. She forgot it at the café.”
“She likes books, huh?” It’s as if he’s talking to himself. “And so do you.”
“Doesn’t everyone with half a brain?” I snark.
He flinches, a tiny jerk. He opens his mouth to reply.
“He hates them,” Roman says cheerfully from the front of the car. “Archer and I like reading, but not Kyrian.”
“Yeah,” I mutter, “that’s the impression I got. But why?”
Kyrian’s mouth closes, then opens again, a fair imitation of a fish. Finally, he repeats, “Why?”
“Yeah, why don’t you like books?”
“Not everyone has to like books,” he grumbles, looking away, his square jaw set.
“Sure, but those who don’t like books are wrong.” I smirk. “What is it about them that you don’t like?”
“They’re a waste of time,” he says, and that gets all my hackles up.
“Really, now? You don’t like stories?”
“I… like stories,” he says, his voice strangely gruff, “that’s not…”
“Not what?”
“Not your fucking business.”
“Really? You guys come calling, drag me off to watch Brinlee work a job she may hate while we sit there, and you have the gall to tell me that?—”
“Who gives you the right to judge me,” Kyrian seethes, his gaze back on me, his jaw tight, “to tell me?—”
“Hey,” I return, “you’re one to talk, you’re the one who knocked on my door and told me I lost track of time?—”
“That wasn’t criticism, that was concern!”
“And I am concerned you don’t seem to know boundaries?—”
“Kids! Stop it!” Roman twists about in his seat, glaring at us. “Stop fighting. Ky, don’t be a rude asshole.”
Kyrian’s jaw clamps even tighter than before.
He’s such a contradiction. I don’t get him. Hot and cold, concerned and indifferent. He hates books, but he loves stories.
Whatever.
Coming with them was a mistake. Has to be. Wanting to be with them, too. But we’re already arriving at the club, and again I’m not dressed for such a place. Once more Archer waves his invisible rich top alpha card, and we’re waved inside.
How stupid am I? Brinlee will hate my guts.