Chapter 42 Aston
Aston
DECEMBER
Remember that scene in New Moon, when Bella spends three months in a chair, staring vacantly out the window, the camera slowly panning around her as a voice sings about how there’s a posssssibilityyyyy…
All because of a stupid boy.
Well, that basically sums up how I spent the last six weeks. Only instead of Lykke Li, it’s Air Supply providing the score for my epic heartbreak montage.
Picture it:
Slow, aimless day-to-day meandering.
Longing gazes at Vale’s retreating back as he rounds a corner—the only time I dare even glance his way; when I know he’s not likely to catch me.
A hand splayed on a window as I watch him walking across the lot toward the field house with his teammates.
Me wailing into an empty abandoned bathroom, the very same one I held a knife to his face and felt his hand encircle my neck for the first time.
Eden holding me as I blow snot all over his shirt. And by holding me, I mean I’ve been crawling into his bed almost every night to cry and scream into his pillow until he has no other choice but to wrap his arms around me, so I shut the fuck up and let me sleep, dammit!
And when I get sick of playing “Without You” on a loop, Foreigner’s “I Want To Know What Love Is” becomes my new anthem—my cry into the void—as I hit the rewind button on my carefully curated montage and start over.
Slow, aimless day-to-day meandering.
Longing gazes—
Oomph.
Crashing to my knees, my books go flying, spinning across the linoleum floor.
Okayyyy, so I might’ve left this part out of the montage. Can you blame me?
If you actually read the diary entries—side-eyeing some of you majorly—you already know it’s been a little…tense lately at school.
But the whole transformation from school freak to Grady Prep’s enemy numero uno wasn’t really meshing with the whole somber, slow-mo, heartbroken aesthetic I’ve been going for. The one where I walk through the halls like a ghost, suffering in angsty silence.
Truly, a killer on the loose couldn’t have come at a worse time.
Er, I mean, me getting accused of being said killer—falsely, might I stress—couldn’t have come at a—
You know what, that doesn’t sound much better either, now that I think about it.
Before I can so much as catch my breath from the jarring jolt to my knees, a waterfall of ice-cold liquid reeking sweetly of caramel cascades down my head.
I tense, my body solidifying. Mouth open in a frozen, silent gasp.
“Oops,” a grating feminine voice says, not sounding apologetic in the least. It’s one I recognize immediately. I don’t even have to look up to confirm.
Twisting my head, I come face to face to with Alicia Devereau standing over me, flanked by the other Alicias, her ever-faithful lapdogs, smirking smugly like the Regina George she is. “My bad,” she says. “Thought I was aiming for the trash.”
A new wave of laughter rolls through the bodies gathering closer, surrounding me. It’s joined by jeers and taunts and the same ol’ same ol’.
It’s been a month and a half since a Grady Prep student was brutally murdered. And the cops are nowhere closer to figuring out who the real killer is than they were when I was cleared. Meaning whoever it is, is still at large, much to the dismay of, well, just about everyone. Me included.
Not that I think it would even make much difference at this point if the real killer was caught. People are going to believe what they want. And what they want to believe is that I’m a cold-blooded murderer.
Sure, the murderer part is right. Technically.
But cold-blooded?
Ehhhh, debatable.
And by debatable, I mean HA! I wish. It would make things a lot easier if I didn’t have all these pesky little feelings nipping at my brain like hungry hungry hippos.
That’s what they should be worrying about. My feelings. That’s the real threat here. But nonono, let’s provoke the heartbroken, knife-wielding maniac from Ashwood who’s just one step away from snapping and massacring everyone and teaming up with the Crowley Slayer.
Speaking of knives…
I pat my ankle out of reflex, double checking that I’ve got my baby on standby in the event things escalate.
Will whipping out a blade help my case? No. Definitely not. I’m cuckoo, but I’m not stupid.
But what else is a boy like me to do, when ganged up on by Satan on Heels and her merry band of bimbos, all while a whole bunch of bystanders look on and cheer—stupid Seth being one of them—because they’d rather spur on the drama than prevent it?
Fortunately, this time around, things are quickly broken up by a piercing whistle and teachers barking for everyone to clear out and get to class.
Does Alicia, or for that matter, anyone get sent to the office for giving me shit?
Of course not.
Someone died.
Everybody’s still grieving.
As if I’m not going through my own crisis being the scapegoat for their trauma!
As if I’m not still grieving a devastating loss of my own!
Before Alicia saunters off, she spares me one last venomous look. One that promises she’s nowhere near done making my life the hell it’s been since Halloween. I bare my teeth at her in a maniacal grin and say as sweet as the coffee syrup wafting from my drenched hair, “I hope you’re next.”
Her face falls. Tightens. Reddens. And with a flip of her bleached blonde hair, she storms off. Snapping her fingers for her cronies to follow like the sheep they are.
“Bitch,” I mutter, because some girls really do be bitches.
With a huff, I climb to a stand, grimacing at the chill prickling my scalp and neck. Ice cubes that hadn’t bounced off me melt around my collar. I suppose I could be grateful she didn’t throw the entire thing at me, cup and all. No, she simply removed the lid and dumped it over my head instead.
Aiming for the trash, my ass. Ugh!
The warning bell rings, and I debate whether or not English class can do without me today. Answers to my problems will certainly not be found in Lolita, our current read.
I mean, what kind of name is Humbert Humbert anyway?
And don’t even get me started on the long-winded inner monologuing. Like come on, get to the point. I don’t care about your feelings or the whys of it all, dude. Or how it all contributes to some greater understanding of the work.
Talk about a waste of words and time.
There’s also the whole headache and spacing-out thing I’ve got going on these days, which has made it hard to focus in class, much less consume tiny squiggles and decipher all their underlying meanings.
I’m also doing weekly sessions with my talk therapist on top of continuing to see Dr. B—something else I’m going to just skim over for now, but only because there hasn’t really been any life-changing epiphanies had, or breakthroughs made, or new information relevant to the tragedy that is my life revealed that would warrant me wasting your time.
Perhaps later it will come up.
All you need to know is that I’m riding the hot mess express these days. But, really, what else is new?
I go to reach down for one of my textbooks that I lost grip of, when someone beats me to it.
“Rough morning?”
Rolling my eyes, I push to a stand and turn toward Dr. Benson and take the book from his proffered hands. I brush the wet hair from my eyes and shrug. “What can I say? Drama just flocks to me.”
His lips thin.
“Anywho…class is a’waiting.” I grab my books from where I’d stacked them on the bench. Fortunately, they were far enough away that they managed to evade the worst of the coffee monsoon.
“Here,” he says, when I go to walk past him.
Pulling out a small notepad from his briefcase, he scribbles something down. “Get yourself cleaned up first. Give your teacher this so you don’t get written up.”
He rips the page off, and hands it to me.
I look down at it, brows arched. “Huh. That works. Thanks, I guess?”
He simply sighs. “I was actually going to come find you later to tell you… I have to cancel next week’s session. I’ll be out of—” He cuts himself off when I’ve already started walking away. “I’ll see you first thing Monday when we return!” he calls out after me, sounding as exasperated as ever.
Dude needs to get a grip.
Without turning around, I give him a wave.
Students brush past me in their haste to get to class. I turn down B hall, heading toward the bathroom, when I see a familiar figure walking this way from the opposite direction.
Vale…
Save for that short and sweet thank you note he left me for the birthday gift, he has stayed away. Just like he swore he would that day in my room.
And I’ve done my utmost best to respect his wishes, even as it slowly kills me.
A choice…
I gave him a choice, and he made it. And it wasn’t me. I need to accept that.
Since when? a voice pipes up, arguing.
A twinge of pain tugs at the corner of my eye, and I wince. I don’t know. I don’t know…
In the hallway, he’s yet to see me. His head’s down, and at his side his friend Casey jabbers on about something. Fletch is on his other side, arm slung around one of the Alicias. But they might as well be as part of the background as the rest of the students filing by, separating us.
I hold my breath as the distance between us grows smaller. Vale’s gaze is downcast, distant. He’s as part of the conversation with his friends as I am with the nameless faces surrounding me. We’re on our own frequencies. I just hope they cross, intersecting, even if it’s just for a moment.
Time slows down like we’re some regency era romance.
Where’s the weeping violin when we need it?
My heart is stuck, lodged somewhere in my throat, and I will myself to look away, to not make it so obvious that I’m ogling him. For his sake, not mine. If I have any chance of him glancing my way, I need to be the one to avert my gaze first.
But before I can muster up the strength to do just that, he lifts his head, his dark gaze cutting right to mine just as we pass each other. As if he knew exactly where to find me.
The bodies separating us might as well not exist. Because for one frozen dragged out moment in time, it’s just us, trapped in this shared connection. Our eyes held by some invisible force.
My mouth parts, an inhale rising my carriage. Lashes fluttering.
His brows dip broodingly. And fuck if I wouldn’t sacrifice a testicle to get a glimpse of what’s going on inside that handsome head of his.
I suck in my bottom lip, dragging my teeth over the flesh.
Fuck, I miss him.
Ache for him…
I also sort of wish I never met him. As kids, I mean. But only sometimes. Only when it hurts so bad, that it feels like I’ll either die or lose myself completely, once and for all, than be apart from him for ever a second more.
Only when I think about the what ifs…
What if we only met recently?
What if we were normal?
Just as we finally, finally pass each other, his gaze drops to my mouth, and I can feel how his eyes smolder, even from a few feet away. It’s a wonder I don’t burst into flames from the heat of it.
We don’t break the connection until we have no other choice.
Until we can no longer resist the gravity of a world that won’t stop spinning, not even for us.