33. Cassidy
THIRTY-THREE
CASSIDY
It’s late, and our foster mom, Marjorie, has already yelled up the stairs for lights-out. I doubt she’ll check on us again; she barely pays attention so long as we don’t break any obvious rules.
From my perch on the top bunk, I can see Bindi on her bed below. She’s lying on her side, back to me, headphones over her ears with music loud enough that I can faintly make out the tinny beat. She came straight up after dinner and barely said two words to me—not that I tried hard either.
I take a slow breath; it’s now or never.
I slide off the bunk as quietly as I can.
Bindi doesn’t stir; she likely doesn’t hear me over her music.
My heart bangs against my ribs as I step closer to her bed.
In the murky light, I can just make out the shape of her shoulder beneath the blanket and a stray strand of that red hair trailing across her pillow .
I reach out and gently tap her shoulder. “Bindi,” I whisper.
No response.
I grit my teeth and tap harder, gripping her shoulder this time. “Bindi, we need to talk.”
She startles, sucking in a breath as she yanks her headphones off.
A muffled Asking Alexandria song leaks out before she pauses her stolen MP3 player.
She sits up and blinks at me, eyes adjusting.
This close, I can see her clearly—the fine mole just above her left eyebrow, the slight smudge of eyeliner she will forget to wash off.
My chest constricts just drinking in the sight of her.
“What, Cass? It’s late,” she mumbles, rubbing her eyes.
I flick on the small lamp on the bedside table. Soft light floods a corner of the room, illuminating the peeling wallpaper and the water stain on the ceiling that looks like a lopsided heart. Bindi squints at the sudden brightness.
“We need to talk.”
She’s wearing one of my old T-shirts to bed, the neckline slipping off one shoulder, exposing a glimpse of her pale skin. The sight sends an involuntary wave of heat through me, but I push it aside.
“Then talk.” She brushes my hand off and crosses her arms. On her lap, I notice she’s clutching that plush elephant toy she’s had since she was a kid. She only holds Ellie like that when she’s upset or scared—usually after a nightmare. Seeing it now makes my anger falter for a second.
I realize I’m still silent, just standing there looming, so I clear my throat. “Why did you lie to me?”
“About what?”
“About the note.”
“I didn’t lie. I just . . . didn’t want to deal with your reaction.”
“My reaction?” A bitter laugh escapes me. “You mean this, right now? Well, maybe if you’d told me the truth, we wouldn’t be here.”
She swings her legs off the bed, sitting up to face me, her bare feet hitting the floor.
She’s got this bruise on her jaw from a fight last week.
Some girl grabbed her hair in the cafeteria and Bindi laid her out—I barely had time to pull her off.
She’s got fire, and I fucking hate how much it turns me on when she’s mad.
“I didn’t tell you because it was none of your business, Cass. It was just a note. Why are you freaking out?”
I let out a frustrated growl and rake a hand through my hair. “Because! You were passing notes with some guy and hiding it from me. How am I supposed to feel?”
Her eyes narrow. “I don’t think you should have an opinion? God, listen to yourself. You’re acting like a jealous boyfriend.”
The words hang between us. We both know what she’s implying. My face goes hot, and my fists clench at my sides.
When I don’t answer, she shakes her head, a disbelieving scoff on her lips. “He’s just a friend, Cassidy. Actually, not even—just a classmate. Nothing is going on. And even if it was, you don’t get to decide who I talk to. You’re my?—”
“Brother?” I cut in. “Yeah. You love throwing that one around when it’s convenient, huh?”
“You are my foster brother. That’s what you are.”
“Bullshit.” I step closer, looming over her as she sits on the bed.
She tilts her head up to maintain eye contact.
“And it’s not my business? Everything about you is my business.
Do I need to remind you what kind of people are out there?
How many creeps have we met in the system?
Not everyone who smiles at you is your friend, Bindi. ”
She stands abruptly, nearly bumping into me. We’re inches apart. I’ve got nearly a foot on her, and she has to crane her neck just to glare up at me. “Caleb’s not a creep. He’s never done a thing to me, unlike you right now. Do you even hear yourself?”
“Do you like him? You looked at him like you liked him.”
She sighs, scrubbing a hand through her hair. “Cass . . . what if I do like him, okay? He’s nice.”
That fucking stings.
I reach into my back pocket and pull out the note I took from her backpack. Another one, similar to the one he gave her earlier today. It’s folded and smells of her perfume.
“Then read it to me. Since you like him so much, read what you wrote.”
Her eyes land on the paper. “No.”
“You said it’s nothing, right? Then read it.” I shove it toward her.
“If you want to know so bad, you read it.”
My throat closes.
She knows I can’t. But I open up the note hastily.
The words blur on the page like always—like they’re crawling, squirming across the lines just to mock me. I stare at them, rage knotting in my chest. My jaw aches from how hard I’m clenching it.
She fucking knows I can’t.
I don’t care what was in that note. I care that it wasn’t me she was writing to.
Her face softens immediately, regret flashing in her eyes. “Cass, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that.” She reaches a hand toward me, but I jerk back.
“Cassidy . . .”
“Why him?” I rasp, stepping forward. She stumbles back onto the bed, sitting again, and I follow, sinking to my knees on the floor in front of her.
We’re face to face now. My hands find her knees, not holding them, just resting there as I kneel.
The position feels desperate, begging. “Why are you wanting to talk to him and shutting me out? Did I . . . did I do something? Are you mad because of Marjorie? Talk to me, please. ”
I hate how vulnerable I sound, but I don’t care anymore. I need her to say something, anything, to pull the knife out of my heart.
Bindi’s eyes search mine, her lips parted. In the silence, I can hear both of us breathing. She smells faintly of baby-powder laundry soap, mixed with a hint of the peppermint gum she likes to chew before bed.
“You didn’t do anything. I just . . . I needed some space, Cass. You’ve been so intense lately, and I’m dealing with my own crap, okay? The possibility of moving again, new school, new home—I’m freaked out. I didn’t mean to take it out on you.”
My hands squeeze slightly on her knees. “We’ll run,” I blurt, impulsive. “If they try to separate us, we’ll just run away. I won’t let them take you from me, Bindi. I swear it.”
Her eyes widen. “Don’t say that. You know running only makes it worse. Remember when we ran to Franklin’s? They found us and brought us right back here. We got lucky they even let us stay together after that stunt.”
I do remember—two states away, hitchhiking with thirty bucks and a stolen jacket between us.
We were twelve and eleven and stupidly hopeful we could find my older cousin, who I thought might take us in.
Instead, we got picked up by cops and shipped back to the system.
But I’d do it all again if it meant keeping her with me.
“I don’t care. We’re older now; we could make it. I’d get a job, take care of you. I promised I would.”
“That’s a fantasy, Cass. It’ll never work out. Sometimes you just have to deal.”
It frustrates me that she dismisses my willingness to fight for us as something na?ve or brutish. It’s all I know how to do—fight and run, fight and run. That’s how I’ve survived.
I remember the note clutched in my fist. Right. We’re skirting the real issue. I didn’t come here to talk about running away .
I rise up slightly, leaning closer. She instinctively leans back, propping herself on her elbows on the mattress. Her legs are still on either side of me where I’m kneeling.
“Tell me the truth about the note. Please.”
Bindi closes her eyes and lets out a slow breath. “It was nothing important. We got lumped together on a group project, so we were discussing it. See? I drew the anatomy of a frog. These are definitions to add to the poster board.”
I sink back on my heels, my hands leaving her. In the motion, my bruised knuckles brush against her bare calf, and she flinches at the contact. Whether it’s from pain or something else, I’m not sure. I see her gaze drop to my hand, taking in the swollen redness across my knuckles.
Her eyes fly back to my face. “Oh my God . . . Cassidy, what did you do?”
I open my mouth, but then quickly close it. There’s no point lying to her; she can always tell. I glance down, unable to meet her eyes.
“Did you . . . did you hurt him? Caleb? Because of that note? Tell me you didn’t.”
“He needed to know not to mess with you. I didn’t know what was in the note, Bindi. I thought?—”
“You thought you’d beat it out of him?” she snaps, pulling her legs up onto the bed away from me, as if recoiling from a wild animal. She sits up fully, staring at me in shock and anger. “Jesus Christ, Cass. He didn’t do anything!”
“Well, how was I supposed to know that!? I thought he was going to take you from me!”
She presses her palms to her forehead. “This is insane. You’re insane.”
The word insane reverberates through me.
Insane. Unstable. Just like your father.
The hot flush of defensiveness surges. “I did it for you!” I shout in a harsh whisper, mindful enough of the quiet house.
My hands grab her wrists. “Everything I do is for you, don’t you get that? You’re all I have, Bindi. ”
She tries to yank her hands free. “Let go of me,” she snarls under her breath.
“No. Not until you understand.” My voice cracks.