Chapter Eighteen #2
I give her a smug look, my mouth twitching at her damn sarcasm, and I shrug.
She tosses the burnt toast into the trash and reaches for more bread. Her movements are quick, already moving past the disaster.
I can’t imagine life without this. Mornings when she’s burning toast and cursing at the smoke alarms. Pushing up her glasses while waving brooms at the ceiling.
The thought hits me harder than I expect because I know exactly where I belong: a rundown trailer, a life that has never had room for things that feel this easy.
This is Bells—this house, this life. It’s not mine to keep.
Bells comes over to the table and holds out the second batch of burnt toast.
“Want some?” she asks.
I shake my head. “I’m good.”
She shrugs and takes a bite regardless. The crunch is loud in the quiet kitchen. She doesn’t flinch at the taste, just chews and swallows as if charcoal is a perfectly acceptable breakfast.
“Is everything okay?” she asks after a moment.
I keep my eyes on the coffee mug between my hands.
“Everything’s fine,” I say, the lie tasting worse than her burnt toast probably does.
She looks at me and I can feel it without glancing up. That steady blue gaze cuts through every wall I try to put up. And I know she can see it’s a damn lie.
I push my chair back and stand up.
“We should go,” I say. “Don’t want to be late.”
I don’t wait for her response. I just turn and head down the hallway toward my room, leaving her standing there at the table with half-eaten toast in her hand.
I quietly close the door behind me with a click.
I grab my worn backpack from the floor and start shoving things into it. The necessities—deodorant, hair product, the charger for my phone, and a spare shirt I left crumpled on the chair. My hands move on autopilot, grabbing what I need and leaving the rest.
I look around the room before I leave. The bed remains unmade from this morning.
Sheets are tangled, pillows shoved against the headboard.
I still see her there—the way she looked with her hair spread across that, how her breath caught when I touched her, and the way she said my name when she came apart beneath me.
She taught me that sex isn’t just a release, but something more—something shared between two people that means more than just getting off.
It’s something that truly matters. And the thought of going back to that cold, shitty trailer and the life I had before hurts more than leaving here does.
Because for me, these last two weeks have been everything.
The best two weeks of my life. But for Lola, they have been the worst.
I sling the bag over my shoulder and exit the room without looking back. I step into the hallway and wait for her at the door.
She is busy at the counter, stuffing things into her bag. An apple. A granola bar. The water bottle she always forgets and then complains about being thirsty halfway through the day.
“So I was thinking we could actually study tonight,” she says, zipping up one pocket of her bag and moving to the next. “You have that English test coming up in a week and we keep saying we’re going to prep for it but every time we try—”
She pauses, glancing at me. A faint blush spreads across her cheeks, because every time we attempted, it resulted in sex.
“Anyway,” she continues, shoving a notebook into the bag. “We should actually study. For real this time.”
I nod where I should and make the correct sounds of agreement.
Bells is back. That little bit of sunshine she carries around in her pocket is coming back to life.
I can see it in the way she moves. The way she talks.
The easy energy that was missing. And now that she has made up with Aubrey, it will not be long before the three of them—Sam, Aubrey, and Lola—are back to how they used to be.
And me? I’ll be back where I belong.
She keeps talking about needing to return a library book.
I lean against the doorframe and watch her.
“Ready?” she asks, slinging her bag over her shoulder.
“Yeah,” I say, with a nod. “Let’s go.”
We head to school.
The drive is quiet. Lola tries to fill the silence with conversation, mentioning something about the history assignment that’s due next week. She explains how she’s barely halfway through it and still needs to finish the research part before she can start writing.
“Maybe I should have done it at the hospital instead of just sitting there,” she says with a small laugh. “It would have at least been productive, right?”
“Yeah,” I say. Nothing else. Nothing more.
She goes quiet and I can sense her watching me from the driver’s seat. That confused, hurt look beginning to show on her face.
I don’t look back. I just stare out the window and let the silence sit between us.
She tries again a few minutes later. Something about a movie she wants to see this weekend. Some romantic comedy that sounds like absolute garbage.
“Cool,” I say.
Just that one word dropped between us with all the warmth of a brick wall.
By the time we pull into the parking lot, the tension between us is thick enough to choke on.
I get out before she even turns off the engine. The door slams louder than it needs to. The sound echoes across the parking lot.
I don’t wait for her. I don’t look back to see if she’s following or still sitting there trying to figure out what just happened. I sling my bag over my shoulder and walk ahead, cutting through the rows of cars with my head down and my jaw clenched. The mask slides back into place.
Some freshman kid steps into my path, too busy looking at his phone to pay attention to where he’s going.
“Fucking move, dipshit,” I snap.
His eyes widen behind his glasses as he scrambles out of the way, almost tripping over his own feet.
I don’t slow down. I keep walking toward the side of the building where the smokers gather before the first class of the day, where people know better than to ask questions or make small talk.
I pull the joint out of my pocket and light it. The first drag burns my throat and settles in my lungs. It’s familiar. Grounding. The smoke rises in front of me, drifting toward the gray morning sky.
This is who the fuck I am.
Not the guy who holds her in the kitchen while she wraps her arms around my waist. Not the guy who memorizes the way she smells, the sound of her laugh, or how she fits perfectly under my chin.
This… Standing behind a dumpster, smoking weed before class. Telling kids to get the fuck out of my way without a second thought.
This life is mine, and the sooner I return to it, the better.