Chapter 3 #2
I can’t believe that I’m glaring at him but that’s not the point.
The point is that there are more important things at stake here. Far more important things.
Far more.
So I bring my hands down to my sides. I even take in a deep breath and try to rein in my agitation.
“Why,” I begin with what I think is a calm tone, “did I just catch you kissing a girl at a bar who’s not my sister?”
At this, his eyes go darker, even darker than before.
I think they’ve surpassed the shade of navy blue now and landed somewhere in the spectrum of black, making them look like bottomless pools.
An abyss.
“Because you are where you’re not supposed to be,” he replies with a ticking jaw.
“What does that mean?” I ask, trying to not look at it.
The jaw.
Trying not to count how many times he moves it back and forth or how sleek it looks, how much more beautiful and sharper than before, now that he’s using it to display his annoyance.
“It means that this establishment that you find yourself in, either by accident or on purpose, is called a bar.”
“And?”
“And in case you didn’t know, no one under twenty-one is allowed in here. It’s the law, unfortunately. So if I were you, I’d get out.”
My spine goes up. “I’m not afraid of the law. I’m not going anywhere. Not until –”
“It also means,” he cuts me off, “that you shouldn’t even be out of your bed, let alone off campus.”
And then he freezes me with that dark gaze of his, pins me down like a bird, letting my wings flutter and flap furiously now that I’ve been captured.
“Lights out at nine-thirty. Those are the rules, remember? So either you’re breaking them, in your first week no less, or you’re sleepwalking. For your sake, I hope it’s the latter. Makes you look more sympathetic if you happen to get caught.”
It takes me a moment to understand his meaning.
I don’t know why because he couldn’t be clearer. There are no more ways in which to explain the meaning of his words.
But still.
It takes me a few seconds to fully grasp it.
Maybe because I myself had forgotten that I go to St. Mary’s now.
I myself had forgotten that I don’t live in his house anymore, and that I’m not free to go wherever I want.
Does he know why I was sent to St. Mary’s though?
I mean, not the real reason. No one knows the real reason, and no one will. But the other reasons, the stealing and the running away.
“Like I said, I’m not afraid of the law or the rules,” I say, averting my eyes from him.
“Obviously.”
I look back at him.
The way he says it confirms it all. The way he stares at me, with a knowing glint in his eyes, confirms it all too.
He knows. He knows what I did.
However I don’t know why it comes as a surprise. There are a lot of ways he could’ve found out. His mother might have told him, or my sister.
Besides, this isn’t the first time that I’ve been punished in front of him.
My bad behavior and my bad grades were the norm in the Carlisle family. There have been numerous occasions when Leah would lecture me about my lack of ambition, lack of good grades and extra-curricular activities, my lack of following the curfew, at the dinner table in front of the whole family.
Everyone knows that I’m not perfect.
That I’m the opposite of my sister and Arrow and Leah.
And even my mom, who was a college professor, when she was alive.
So it shouldn’t really embarrass me. Besides, this isn’t about me anyway.
This is about my sister, Sarah.
“Where’s my sister?” I ask, swallowing down all my selfish emotions. “Where’s Sarah?”
The mention of her name changes everything.
It changes the air, the light, the noises of the bar.
Sarah.
Like her name has so much power. Over him. Over me. Over the things around us.
“I’m guessing she’s back in LA,” he says in a soft voice.
But that’s the only thing soft about him.
The rest of him is hard.
His shoulders, the sleek, sculpted things, are rigid. His eyes are harsh.
So are his cheekbones.
And it’s so strange that I have my next question completely mapped out and planned.
It’s on the tip of my tongue, but then he chooses that moment to adjust the rim of his baseball cap and I notice something about his knuckles.
They’re swollen and cut up, the skin flayed and rolled into tiny curls, and the words on the cusp of escaping completely change. “What happened to your hand?”
My question sort of surprises him, I think. But only for a second. After that, his expression shutters.
That bruised fist of his becomes tight as he brings it down to his side.
“I punched a door,” he says in a low voice.
“What?”
“Repeatedly.”
“Why?”
“Because I was drunk and pissed off.”
“Because you were drunk and pissed off?”
“Yeah. Apparently, I’ve got anger issues.”
He’s lying.
He doesn’t drink. He doesn’t get pissed off. And he absolutely does not have anger issues.
“No, you don’t,” I tell him. “You don’t get drunk. You’re not even drinking right now and you’re in an establishment called a bar.”
“If I get a drink, will you leave me alone?”
“And you absolutely do not have anger issues either,” I say, ignoring him.
At my vehement answer, a surprising thing happens.
His lips twitch and I swear to God, my witchy heart jumps in my chest for making them.
“Well, then you should’ve been there,” he says in an amused voice.
His amusement is making my heart pound faster. “Been where?”
“When my coach signed me up for anger management therapy.”
“Your coach signed you up for anger management therapy?”
I know. I know I’m repeating most of his stuff. But honestly, I can’t keep up.
Because it’s the most bizarre thing I’ve heard in my entire life.
Arrow and anger management.
Arrow, punching a door. Arrow, kissing a strange girl at the bar.
What the fuck is happening?
“Yeah.” He nods, his amusement still in place. “Your glowing endorsement could’ve saved me.”
“Why did he sign you up for anger management therapy?” I ask, as if this question is the holy grail of all questions.
“Because I punched a door,” he deadpans. “Aren’t you paying attention?”
Before I can say anything to that, he leans toward me.
He not only leans but he sniffs me too.
I draw back a little. “What are you doing?”
Keeping himself hung over me, he rumbles, “Smelling you.”
“Why?”
“To see if you’re too drunk to have this conversation.”
I open and close my mouth for a few seconds. “I’m not drunk. I don’t drink.”
Well, not a lot.
I mean, I have had a few drinks here and there, mostly with people back in my old high school.
“Is that right?”
I raise my chin. “Yes.”
“Surprising. Given the fact that you don’t care about rules.” Then, “What about getting high?”
“W-What about it?”
“Do you like it?” He looks me up and down. “I’m sure a girl like you must enjoy something like that once in a while.”
I swallow at the look in his eyes, at the fact that he’s still looming over me. “No, okay? I don’t do drugs either.”
“So if you don’t do drugs, as you said, and you don’t drink, why the hell did you come here?”
To distract myself from dangerous thoughts. Of you…
“I came here to dance,” I snap.
He sweeps his eyes all over me, taking in my messy, curly hair, my painted lips, my sweater and my cargo pants, before standing up straight. “Well then, by all means, don’t let me keep you.”
Finally, I shake my head.
Enough.
Enough.
I frown at him and another surprising thing happens. A shocking thing.
He smirks at me. At me.
After eight years.
After eight fucking years, I finally get what I’ve been wishing for. His smirk.
And my stupid fucking heart can’t handle it. My stupid fucking heart swells and swells in my chest until it’s aching, and I know it’s a rather drastic reaction to a simple smirk, and people might call me crazy.
But they don’t know.
They’ve never been in my position. They don’t know what it feels like when a guy you’ve loved for eight years, who loves someone else, smirks at you, and his eyes shine because of it.
You lose your breath. You lose your sense. You lose all your goddamn goodness and almost tell him that you want him.
But somehow, I pull myself back.
Somehow, I dig my nails into my palms and remember that he’s Sarah’s boyfriend and I’m here for her.
And he’s lying.
He’s trying to distract me. That’s what it is, isn’t it?
He’s playing with me and he’s enjoying it.
So weird.
So glorious.
“You’re trying to distract me,” I accuse.
“It’s not my fault that you’re so easily distracted.”
“And you’re lying to me, aren’t you?” I squint my eyes at him, trying to control my heart. “You’re making this whole thing up. You didn’t punch a door.”
“Yeah? What did I punch then?”
“I don’t know. Whatever it was, it wasn’t a door.” I stab a finger at him. “You’re trying to distract me from the real question.”
“And what’s the real question?” he asks in a whispered, almost mocking voice.
“Where’s my sister?” I snap out.
His eyes bore into mine then. And maybe it’s the trick of dismal light or whatever, but his features glow, as if drawing attention to themselves.
Attention to how sharp and harsh they look.
How tight.
“Told you. She’s probably back in LA.”
“But that’s impossible. You’re injured and…” My eyes go wide and something makes me ask him, “You are injured, right?”
I look down at his feet.
He has a washed-out pair of blue jeans on. I stare at the spot where his knees are. As if I’ll be able to tell if he’s injured or not by staring at his jeans.
“I know that you tore your knee.” I glance up to find him still looking at me with heavy, intense eyes that are wreaking havoc on my breaths. “That’s why you came back, isn’t it? You’re not finishing out the season and you said you were going back home. I saw the press conference.”
“You saw it.”
I swallow, nodding. “Yeah. O-on TV.”
I grimace slightly.
That’s a lie, of course.
I saw it on a forbidden cell phone, but he doesn’t need to know that. Somehow though, he already does and his smirk comes back.
And my breaths run away.