Chapter 31 – Thomas
Chapter Thirty-One
Thomas
“Yes,” she says. “I’m fine.”
I want to put my hands out to touch her, but I know I haven’t earned the right or any of her trust enough for her to allow that. I’ve been foolish and reckless with her. I can’t blame her for not having an iota of trust in me.
“You look…”
“It’s that smell,” she snaps. “It’s what you did to me. It’s just—
“I really hurt you that bad?”
“Yes, you idiot. Don’t you have any idea what it feels like to be trapped? To be violated like that?”
I hate the look on her face when I answer.
“I do. Actually.”
“Wait. What?”
“Breakfast,” I mutter. “We have to off road a bit.”
“I didn’t see a road.”
“Some trees might be destroyed in the removal of this vehicle… hang tight…”
Clover screams the entire way out of the woods until we get to the road. Am I that horrible of a driver? Once we bounce onto the main road, she shrieks and smacks my forearm.
“ARE YOU CRAZY?”
I thought we had already established the fact that I was… I swerve into my proper lane and Clover grabs onto my bicep, gripping very tightly until the vehicle stabilizes. She doesn’t stop glaring at me, even when she releases her lobster grip on my forearm.
“That was horrible.”
“Fun. Horribly fun.”
She rolls her eyes.
“There aren’t even good restaurants around here.”
“We’re driving two towns over.”
“Will I survive that?” She grumbles as I swerve to avoid hitting a woman and her dog.
“It appears that you have every intention of curtailing your survival by entering one dangerous situation after another.”
“I was handling things,” Clover huffs.
Still, that person could have hurt her. I hate the thought of anyone laying their hands on her. I grip the steering wheel with rage at this unknown assailant. I have to stay focused on solutions rather than outrage.
“Does that mean you need to come up with another plan?”
“No. I need to look for anyone with a slash mark on their arms,” Clover says. “I got ‘em. The night wasn’t a complete failure.”
I like that she doesn’t give up.
“Great. I’ll help.”
“Whatever. I didn’t need you standing outside my window.”
Yes she did, but she doesn’t know that yet. I don’t want to keep the real reason for my presence from her.
“I got another email from… you know who.”
“Ew. They aren’t Voldemort. We can say their name.”
“Spicy freak,” I mutter. “Has to be a girl.”
I wanted to wait until we got to breakfast to confess the email to her, but Clover has a way of dragging words out of me — more words than any other person. I really do prefer grunts and short answers. Saves time. Saves effort.
“Maybe it’s time we suck it up and go to the dean or something.”
“We could try.”
Clover and I glance at each other. I sense we’re thinking the same thing, that going to the dean will only make this person flip out worse.
Still, they’re not all powerful. If Clover can get them to run into the dance studio…
we could set another trap. Perhaps it’s time to finally involve someone else.
“It has to be a student,” Clover says. “That means they’re bound by school rules. A dean could find out who it is.”
“If they take us seriously.”
“Yeah.”
I pull up to my secret breakfast spot — a small restaurant frequented so much by Crispin Barclay that he ended up buying it.
I love this place. Violet took me here once when I visited for the weekend.
Unfortunately, that was the weekend I tried to hint to her about mum and dad’s divorce. Not all memories here are fond…
“This place looks cute,” Clover says.
I want to put my arm around her, make a new memory here with her that would blot out the memories of my parents fighting and screaming, or Violet holding back tears to keep very British as she found out our family was falling apart.
“Great breakfast,” I offer Clover a simple response instead — one that keeps my family drama far out of it.
“This isn’t a date, by the way,” she says sternly. “Keep that in mind.”
“Sorted.”
A date. I would never take a girl like Clover on a breakfast date. She deserves way more adventure than that.
We only talk about school during breakfast. No blackmail, no stalker stuff. Just classes and sports. When we’re nearly done with our food — we both got enormous stacks of pancakes with eggs and bacon — I ask her about the dance team. Clover rolls her pretty, very large eyes.
“It’s much better now that we don’t have annoying boys dragging their machines back and forth daily.”
Annoying boys. Hm. Girls always say that when they’re into you.
“I’ve watched you dance. You look pretty.”
“Stop calling me pretty, Thomas.”
“Why?” It’s true. Just because she isn’t one of the thin, blond girls on the tennis team doesn’t mean she isn’t pretty. Only Kit cares what other guys think about the girl they want. It doesn’t matter what other men think about the beautiful girl I like. If I like her, other opinions don’t matter.
“I spent my entire life online,” she says.
“I know I’m not pretty. My own mom wants to get me plastic surgery for my birthday.
I’m average. Maybe a little below average.
I don’t have a flat stomach like Sylvia or perfect curves like Kola.
Guys don’t like women with dread locks and look at my nose.
It’s a big old black nose that my mom wants to chop down until I look like Madison Beer. ”
I stop because I know I should say the right thing to her. How could she say such horrible things about herself?
“So you think these things because of your mum? Because of comments?”
“Because of my life,” Clover snaps. “Guys only want to sleep with me because I put myself out there. Not because of my looks. My friends are just good people who don’t care about looks and my mom… She just knows I’ll have an easier life if I look better.”
“That’s rubbish.”
“Don’t tell me my opinion is rubbish,” Clover snaps.
“But it is rubbish,” I insist. “Guys want to sleep with you, because you’re beautiful, smart, and you’re a dancer with a great body. Your friends would love you even if you looked like a Venus Fly Trap and as for your mum… She should have told you how fucking beautiful you were. Every day.”
Clover’s face tightens with disapproval and she shakes her head.
“Whatever.”
“For the record, your dread locks are fucking cool.”
Her eyes meet mine with surprise and I shrug. I’m not lying. I like them. I wish I could put my fingers in them and feel the texture of the very thick strands, but I know she would only chop my hands off if I dared. It’s just breakfast and we’re not friends. It’s just a one off.
“Thanks,” she says, her shoulders relaxing a bit. “That’s… weirdly… nice.”
Perhaps it’s a bit embarrassing too.
“That person threatened you again,” I tell her. “I don’t want you alone today. I’m serious.”
“Then we’ll go to the dean together after this. We played their little game but… now it’s done. We get the administration involved and we’ll be fine.”
“We don’t have to pretend to be friends after that,” I respond stupidly.
“Good point,” she says. “I guess this is our last breakfast together.”
“First and last.”
“Yup,” Clover says.
I tell myself that she sounds sad, but she’s probably relieved to be rid of me. Once we go to the dean, I’ll let her go.
I’ll make myself this time… I promise.
* * *