Chapter 4
Honey (Flashback)
October, Senior Year
It takes several deep breaths at my locker before I can head down the hallway towards Sawyer.
I weave between the milling crowds of high schoolers inconspicuously, drawing exactly zero attention to myself.
It’s only when his group’s raucous laughter echoes against the lockers that my thighs tense and my mind attempts to talk me out of this.
One more year of keeping your head down and being invisible. Then you can get out of here.
That’s all I have to do. Just make it through.
I was strangely proud of how well I’d hidden my bruises for the last few years—long sleeves, turtlenecks, tights, a bracelet or watch around the odd mark on my wrist. And being the quiet choir girl has kept the majority of prying eyes averted from me unless I’m performing, but even then I’m amongst a group.
I thought I’d done well to hide my bruises. That was until I felt Sawyer’s searing gaze on those marks on my wrist the other week.
He’s never noticed me before, despite being in homeroom together.
But why would he? He’s exactly the kind of boy I actively try to avoid, always the centre of attention—get too close and you’ll be sucked into that storm.
Besides, he might be the most popular senior in our school—he is our champion quarterback, after all.
I don’t need any spotlights on me; I’m far more comfortable in the dimly lit corner. Where I won’t get burned.
Yet, here I am, merely a few footsteps away from his group, all hanging by Sawyer’s locker, of course. He has that gravitational pull that’s hard to ignore and has every head turning his way no matter where he is.
There’s Wyatt Hensley with his arm tucked tightly around his girlfriend, Holly Slade.
Duke Bennett hovers next to them quietly nodding along like usual, yet towering over them all, and beside him is Miles Wolfe—Wolfman, they always call him—practically howling with laughter as they all listen to Sawyer tell some elaborate story, his arms waving about the place.
I catch a few words and figure out it’s a story about one of his amateur bull-riding competitions.
His bright smile is infectious, the energy he exudes almost intoxicating as he talks.
I don’t have to wonder how he captivates the school so easily.
But I also wonder how no one else sees the depth of the shadows beneath his eyes—too dark for just a teenager who stayed up too late on his phone last night.
Even through the gaps between his friends’ shoulders I catch how he flinches when he lifts his arm to run a hand through his sandy blond hair, making the light glint off the golden strands.
No one seems to bat an eyelid at his subtle pain.
I have to quickly look away when his T-shirt rides up, revealing toned stomach muscles as he stretches. I’m not supposed to see things like that.
It’s then that I realise I’ve been standing behind the group and nobody has noticed me.
I don’t know why I’m surprised, I’m barely a pinprick in the sky amongst the stars of Willow Ridge High, and that’s usually what I want.
But today, it isn’t, and I’m not entirely sure how to make myself noticed.
The idea of trying to battle for Sawyer’s attention makes me cringe.
I’m not the kind of girl that gets his attention.
This was a stupid idea. I should never have come over here. Just because Sawyer helped me that one time doesn’t mean he wants to help me again. Even if he did say he would …
I’m probably better off staying away and avoiding getting distracted. I grab the straps of my backpack and go to turn—
‘Honey?’ Sawyer’s voice halts me, and the chatter around him dies down—the conductor of the corridor just lowered his baton.
My heart rate immediately picks up as the weight of multiple eyes lands on me, and not just the ones from his group. Because what’s Sawyer Nash doing talking to Honey Goldman?
I rub my hands together, trying to alleviate their sudden clamminess before I pivot on the spot back to Sawyer and his group.
I’m met with too many surprised eyes—those of Holly Slade especially, looking me up and down twice.
It makes me swallow thickly. I can’t seem to get enough air down, like I’m drowning under their scrutiny.
But when I latch onto Sawyer’s warm brown eyes regarding me with the kind of softness I almost thought no longer existed—the same he showed me a couple of weeks ago—breathing becomes a little easier.
I know my voice will be shaky before it even comes out. ‘Um, hi, Sawyer. May I—may I talk to you quickly, please?’
‘Sure thing,’ he replies, a dimple popping in his cheek as his crooked smile plays out.
He flashes that smirk around with reckless abandon, probably unaware of the effect it has.
Like the flutter in my stomach that I force myself to ignore.
I’d be lying if I said it wasn’t handsome, but I’d get in trouble if I let myself even consider such for long.
And I know better than to get swept away by a kind smile, no matter how much the person says they care about you.
I glance around the group still watching me and hope when I flick my gaze back to Sawyer slightly exaggeratively it’s enough to emphasise to him that I’d rather not have an audience right now, even if that’s where he thrives.
A pursing of my lips and knitting of my brows has his eyes widening, and suddenly he’s grabbing his bag from the floor.
‘Oh, right,’ he says, slinging his backpack over his shoulder. It takes a second for him to plaster that smirk back on his face, asking far too suggestively, ‘How about we go somewhere a lil’ more private?’
He shoots Wolfman a raised-brow look. Great, now all his friends likely think something is going on between us. That’s the last thing I need. Willow Ridge is a small enough town that high school gossip can spread further than just the school.
Still, I’m forgettable enough that hopefully they won’t remember this by next week.
‘Back in a bit, guys,’ Sawyer throws to his friends.
As he approaches me, he raises his arm so far, almost as if he’s going to settle it around my shoulder and my spine instinctively locks with fear.
But then he stops himself and drops it back to his side.
Our eyes catch, understanding exchanged in that short, silent glance, before Sawyer cocks his head and I follow him down the corridor.
The crowds of high schoolers loitering in the halls peter out the closer we get to the locker rooms where Sawyer leads us. Tucked around the back of the school, the space outside them is thankfully empty when we turn the corner, and my shoulders drop from where I’d held them so high.
Sawyer abruptly stops not far from the boys’ locker room door, meaning I only halt a few inches away from him by the time I realise.
With our sudden closeness, and the way he towers over me, leaning against the wall nonchalantly, it almost gives the impression that we’re just two teenagers trying to steal a hushed moment together—probably something he does all the time.
Yet, the reality is that I’m about to barter for more makeup to cover up the marks left by my violent father.
Not exactly how I imagined my high school years going.
I step back, not wanting to give the wrong impression to anyone and Sawyer’s smile withers away. ‘Thank you—for the concealer. Um, I know you said that if I ever needed anything I could come to you, and I—well, I was just wondering if you maybe …’
Ugh, I hate that I’m having to ask this, but the makeup worked so much better than the cheap concealer I found in my mom’s drawers.
The weight of my anxiety that someone might see my bruises is more manageable since I’ve been using it—a welcome reprieve, even if likely momentary.
And if I’m going to make it through this last year, I’ll do what I have to.
Sawyer’s warm eyes flick between mine. ‘Do you need more?’
I nod, dropping my gaze to the floor. Shame burns my cheeks. ‘It’s just that, it’s quite expensive and, well, I don’t really have any … money.’
I’m not Sawyer Nash, whose family own one of the biggest ranches in Willow Ridge. Besides, as my father says: why would you need an allowance when all you do is go to school, choir practice, and church?
‘Oh …’ Sawyer straightens, moving away from the wall.
Desperation takes over me as I plead my case. ‘And I’m not really supposed to wear makeup, either. If I said I needed to go to the drug store, it would raise questions and—’
‘Hey,’ Sawyer interrupts, eyes softening. ‘’S’okay. I get it.’
‘I can tutor you,’ I blurt out.
‘Sorry?’
‘I thought maybe if you could get me more of the concealer, I could repay you … by tutoring you.’ I wet my lips, and Sawyer’s eyes dip to them, hovering there for the briefest of seconds.
Then he shakes his head. ‘I don’t need tutoring.’
I regret how quickly my laugh comes out. I even slap my hand over my mouth with shock. Sawyer’s disapproving look that follows has me pushing out an apologetic smile, but it doesn’t seem to land as intended.
He furrows his brow. ‘What?’
I’m not usually one to gossip or pry into others’ business—my parents would definitely disapprove of that—but there are some perks to being a wallflower.
So, I admit, ‘I—I overheard your conversation with Coach Phillips after homeroom … If you don’t get your grades up quickly, you’ll be off the team. ’
Sawyer angles his jaw, a mix of both a smile and snarl coasting across his face. Somehow I’ve rendered him speechless, which isn’t easy to do. I know plenty of teachers who would agree.
Returning to lean against the wall, Sawyer crosses his arms, his biceps more prominent suddenly. Those dimples start to surface again through his dark blond stubble as a reluctant smile breaks out.
‘Alright, Blue, you got me.’ The nickname throws me a little—he called me that the other week too and I don’t know why—but his grin stretches further, a flutter picking up in my stomach again. I’m not used to being the centre of anyone’s attention, let alone Sawyer Nash’s.
He perks a brow tauntingly. ‘Who says I care, anyway? I’m dropping all sport as soon as I graduate.
Got a job with a travelling rodeo lined up and gonna be a champion bull rider.
’ Sawyer lifts his chin, chestnut eyes glistening with dreams—the kind people like us need to keep us going.
I just haven’t figured out mine yet beyond getting through senior year.
‘Aren’t all your friends on the team, though? And do you really want to risk your chance at being prom king next year? Sawyer Nash, kicked off the football team doesn’t quite have the same ring to it as Sawyer Nash, champion quarterback.’
‘Wow.’ Sawyer laughs, all hearty and rumbling, his shoulders bouncing, just as surprised as I am at what came out of my mouth.
The joy that hits me at the sound and sight of him catches me completely off guard.
A faint wave of ease sweeps through me at his smile, my limbs loosening in his more relaxed energy.
Enough to make me drop my hands from where I’d had them tightly gripping my backpack straps, as if anticipating the need to run away.
I bite down on my smile, mirth climbing into my chest as my giggle still manages to escape. Sawyer’s eyes flash as they take me in, his chest lifting a little quicker with each breath.
‘Having my ego torn apart by quiet little Honey Goldman was not on my bingo card for senior year.’
The word little hits me unexpectedly. I’m average height and curvier than most girls. But, maybe to someone as tall and broad as Sawyer, little seems a suitable word. I’m pretty certain he shot up to six feet during freshman year.
‘I’m sorry.’ Heat pricks my cheeks, but we’re still grinning at each other, and part of me never wants it to stop. I can’t remember the last time I’ve smiled to the point of my face aching. Everything in my life is normally so serious.
‘It’s fine.’ Sawyer relaxes further against the wall. ‘How would it work, anyway?’
‘Um …’ I tuck a lock of my hair behind my ear. ‘We could do an hour after school each week—I normally stay in the library for a bit anyway when I don’t have choir. We can fit it in between football too. Maybe we start with math?’
‘Okay.’ His head bobs side to side, weighing up the proposal. ‘I am terrible at math. But as far as I see it, if I can count eight seconds for bull riding, that’s all I need.’
My eyes roll of their own accord, making me tense straight after, anticipating the usual bad reaction if I ever show a slither of attitude. I don’t know how that slipped through. Yet Sawyer keeps beaming at me, eyes almost brightening more at my clearly unimpressed response, strangely.
‘You know I would’ve given you the concealer for free, right?’ he says as he pushes off the wall, readying to go. ‘Not a problem for me, though—means I get to spend an hour after school with a pretty girl.’
I ignore the way my heart does a little flip at the wink he punctuates his sentence with—because I should not be letting myself get distracted by a boy. Not one that screams trouble like Sawyer.
Instead, I push out, ‘Please don’t let your friends think something is going on between us. I really don’t need that kind of … attention.’
Sawyer angles his head at me, the fluorescent hallway lights shining against his sharp jawline and golden hair. ‘Don’t worry, Blue. I’ll tell ’em Coach asked you to help me out. No funny business, I promise.’
I can’t help asking, ‘Why do you call me that?’
‘What?’
‘Blue?’
His smile drops into something gentler, a glance to the floor following before he meets my gaze again.
‘It’s those baby blues of yours. Can’t get them out of my head.
’ He runs a hand through his hair, then straightens up his shoulders.
‘Anyway, Wednesdays work best for me. You bring the homework, and I’ll bring the makeup. ’