5. Junior Year
Junior Year
LANEY
AGE SEVENTEEN
" T hanks for letting me stay for dinner," Noah says as my mother serves him a bowl of white chicken chili. It's August. Most would consider chili a fall dish, but Mother insists it's a year-round dish when you live in Texas.
"Noah, do you mind passing the cornbread?" Mr. Hale asks from his seat across the table.
"Yes, sir," Noah replies, passing him the bowl as I take a big bite of my muffin so I don't smile. I can't help it. This dinner is awkward, and I tend to laugh at the most inappropriate times.
"So, Laney, your mother tells me you plan on attending the University of Oklahoma after graduation," Mr. Hale starts up the small talk.
"I haven't made any official plans yet, but it's fairly close and has the top psychology program in the state."
"Have you considered Penn? The University of Oklahoma might have the best program in Oklahoma, but it's Oklahoma," Noah chimes in.
"Penn, as in the University of Pennsylvania? Uh, that would be a no. I don't need to study psychology at an Ivy League school."
"Why not? Never sell yourself short, Laney. You have the grades, and I could help you find scholarships," Noah offers.
It's kind, but... "Are you sure you're not just saying that because it's where you plan on going?" I shoot him a knowing side-eye.
"I mean, I might have ulterior motives, but posturing aside, it is a better school."
"It's also halfway across the country," I point out. It's not that I'm against going away for school, but I also don't want to leave my mom.
"Are you saying if you go to the University of Oklahoma, you plan on making the two-hour commute home twice daily?" Mr. Hale asks before taking a swig of his beer.
Now I regret asking Noah to help me with my school project.
At the time, his coming here sounded better than me going to his place.
Don't get me wrong, his house is great, but every time I've been there, I feel like his parents are interviewing me, and when they're not quizzing me, being alone with Noah isn't any better.
I don't want to lead him on. I like Noah but not the way he likes me.
Being at my house, I set the tone. However, right now, I'd take the minor discomforts of his house over being put on the spot in front of my mom about leaving.
"I wouldn't make Laney drive to me. That doesn't make any sense. If she wants to go away for school, I'll go with her."
My eyebrows raise, and I nearly choke on a piece of chicken, but before anything else is said, the kitchen's back door opens, and in strolls London.
His eyes dart around the table, taking account of who's all here before lingering on me as he walks to the table and pulls out an empty chair like this is a typical Friday night, and he hasn't been gone all summer.
"Thanks for inviting me, Ms. Hart," London says as my mother gets another place setting.
My eyes may as well pop out of my head. I'm sure they're about the size of saucers.
Once again, London disappeared all summer without so much as a goodbye.
We spent one afternoon that turned into night, inseparable, lying behind the shed in his backyard, getting to know each other on a deeper level.
I'd never felt more connected to someone in those few hours than I had him.
We laughed, he held me in his arms, we talked about anything and everything, and I thought we were something, and then he was gone.
"You invited him?" I question my mom when she sets a bowl in front of him.
London's dark gaze locks with mine, and the usual butterflies I get every time his eyes land on mine are mere flutters because right now, I'm pissed. He left without a word, no contact all summer, and apparently, my mother knew he was coming home today but not me.
"Is that a problem?" London raises a brow, his eyes floating to Noah at my left before returning to me.
My eyes narrow on his. He thinks I'm with Noah. Good. If he's even the least bit jealous, then he deserves it. He can sulk in that feeling for a while, and it still wouldn't equate to how I felt being ghosted all summer.
"Not at all," I reply, tacking on a smile for added indifference.
He's taller, tanned from a summer I know nothing about, and apparently perfectly content with acting like he didn't put a crack in my heart.
He smiles at my mother as she passes him a bowl of shredded cheese, charming her with dimpled cheeks and manners.
Mr. Hale starts carrying on about football without missing a beat, as if London's three-month disappearance was nothing more than a weekend trip.
I watch him doctor his chili as he nods along to his father's season predictions.
A ringing fills my ears, and the room blurs.
This can't be happening. There's no way London Hale is sitting across from me, chatting easily with his father about football like we're nothing more than childhood friends who occasionally share the same air.
Riley Heron was never technically his girlfriend, and after hearing his reasons for entertaining any sort of relationship with her, I understood it.
It may have been ill-thought-out, but I got it.
But I thought I was different. I thought I meant more to him—he told me as much, his voice breaking with what I thought was sincerity.
He has to know he hurt me. He has to feel something when he looks at me, even if it's just guilt.
The table chatter continues, spoons scraping bowls, ice cubes clinking in sweet tea with every sip, everyone around me oblivious to the storm brewing inside me.
I push my chair back from the table, the legs screeching against the hardwood floor like they're screaming for me, and every head turns.
London's gaze finally meets mine fully, and I see something flicker there for a second.
Recognition. Regret, maybe. But it's gone before I can be sure it was ever there.
"Excuse me," I say, my voice steadier than I feel. "I need some air."
"Can we talk?" London says, hot on my heels, following me into the yard.
I stop dead in my tracks, and before I can think it through, my fist is in his stomach. He makes a guttural, muffled oof as he inhales sharply. "Okay, so you're mad."
"I'm not mad," I respond quickly. Technically, I'm pissed, but not for the reasons he probably believes. The difference between this summer and the past two summers is that I know where he was this time.
"Then what was the right hook for?" he questions as he straightens.
"Leaving and not thinking I could handle it." His eyes flare in surprise before realization sets in, and then there's sadness. "Don't look at me like that. Unless the night before you left meant nothing, you should have told me."
"Laney…" He steps toward me, but I take one back.
If I let him get close, I know I'll crumble.
My walls will fail me because it's him, and even when I'm blinding mad, seeing him already has me mixed up, wanting to forgive and forget, but I can't. He hurt me.
"It's not what you think. I was going to?—"
I shake my head. "Don't lie. When exactly were you planning on telling me? This was your third summer going to see her. Were you going to tell me next summer or just disappear again?"
He puts his hands in his pockets. "I won't be going back to visit her next summer."
"Why not?"
"Because I graduate this year, and I can decide for myself, and I don't care to know the woman who walked out on her two-year-old son and husband to start a new family with someone else."
My heart splinters, and it takes great willpower not to close the distance between us and hug him, but I don't. He might be hurting, but so am I, and I don't understand why he wouldn't just tell me.
"My mother is a gold digger who married a wealthy man, and suddenly, she wants to make things right between us.
She walked out of my life. She sent zero birthday cards…
no visits…hell, she couldn't even pick up the phone.
She was dead to me, and then three years ago, out of the blue, she called my father and wanted a relationship.
" He angrily rubs his chin. "He didn't even ask me if I wanted to go.
What I wanted didn't matter. He packed my bag, and I was shipped to Florida.
" His eyes come back to mine. "I've been playing happy family in a million-dollar beach house that belongs to my mother's new husband for the past three summers, hating every second, wishing I could come home. But this summer was the hardest."
"Why?"
"Because all I wanted to do was spend it with you."
Now, the stupid organ inside my chest is galloping, and the butterflies have returned in full force, and I have to mentally remind myself not to let him off the hook.
I might be young, but I know a young heart is easily fooled by a devilishly handsome guy and the right words.
It's actions that speak the loudest. I know what I want. The question is, does he ?
"I'm not asking why you wanted to come home. I'm asking, why didn't you tell me where you were going all this time? That's what people in relationships do, London. They tell each other things."
He tries again to step closer, his hand barely brushing my arm, and I shrug it off, taking another step back. "Are you trying to torture me?"
"You're doing that to yourself. They make these things called phones. You could have picked one up at any time if missing me was truly unbearable while you floated around in your pretentious beachside pool all summer."
He runs his hands through his dark hair. "I didn't not tell you to hurt you. I didn't tell you because I wanted to keep you," he says, vexed.
"That doesn't even make sense, London. You visiting your mother the past three summers has nothing to do with me."