CHAPTER 4
Lila - February
U p until this point, my life has been pretty drama-free.
A heated argument here and there used to be the most stress I put myself through socially or romantically. Then, in the blink of an eye, I turned into the worst person ever. And I don’t even feel sorry for myself because it’s a well-deserved title.
The past two months have taught me that it only takes one impulsive, reckless decision to bring you down completely.
Oliver found out about the slashed tire that same day, minutes before he also found his toothbrush in the toilet, saw his ruined phone charger, smelled the putrid fish, and everything else. He let me know as much in an angry text I wasn’t able to read without shaking.
Oliver: You think vandalizing private property is fucking funny, Lila? My dad’s lawyer will be in touch.
But days and weeks went by, and he never sued, which my best friend, Mariah, had a very logical explanation for.
“He won’t sue you when he owes you two thousand dollars in rent,” she said when I showed her his text. She’s the only person who knows about the tire incident, aside from Reed.
Dr. Abner . Aside from Dr. Abner.
“In fact, I think you should sue him . Fuck that leech.”
But my guilty conscience didn’t allow me to, so I discarded the idea quickly. Now that I’m back living with my parents, it’s not like I need the money anyway. I’ll just write some extra articles to make up for it and forget about Oliver forever.
Only, three weeks after I broke up with Oliver and Tiregate went down, guilt made me cave, and I sent him one single text. He is and will always be a liar and a cheater, but that doesn’t mean I can’t take responsibility for how poorly I behaved.
Me: You’re still an asshole, but I’m sorry about everything. It was uncalled for. I should’ve handled it differently.
Oliver: Whatever.
And there was that.
My feelings for him vanished the second I caught him kissing that girl, and they haven’t come back for a single second. I may be a terrible person for crossing the line of damaging private property, but I still respect myself enough not to go back to him.
Plus, I have better things to do—namely, find a new internship before graduation in December.
Now, ten weeks after ruining Oliver’s tire—a fun fact my parents still don’t know about—I summon my fakest smile and pretend I’m not dying inside.
It’s a talent, if I really think about it. An art, even.
Because when all I want to do is go home, bury myself under a thick blanket, and cry for hours until my neighbors inevitably call the police because “Who the hell is being murdered next door and can they tone it down a bit,” convincing the world that I’m a mentally stable girl capable of having a conversation becomes a near-impossible task.
And when my parents, the people who love me the most in the world and know me like the backs of their hands, are only a few feet away, the stakes rise even higher.
Don’t ruin tonight for them.
“Your mother is a remarkable woman,” Clarissa, Cassandra, or possibly Callista assures me with a smile brighter than the muted golden lights above us. They’re all over the gala venue, casting a beautiful glow I’m too anxious to appreciate.
My words are sincere when I say, “Thank you,” because I admire my mom more than anyone else in the world, but did I mention I’m dying inside?
It’s not that I miss Oliver, not really. But my future is unclear, I still feel terrible for what I did to him because that’s not me , and maybe…
He knew me well, and he still thought I had no right to get into counseling. What if he’s right?
The venue where the National Book Awards ceremony is being held is packed with hundreds of guests tonight, and I try to calm my pounding heart. Wait until you go back home to cry if you need to.
The middle-aged woman who came up to me a minute ago—wineglass in hand, dressed in a rose gold gown, and introducing herself as one of the publicists working at my mom’s publishing house—puts a hand on my bare arm and says, “She tells me you’re studying for a master’s in counseling and that you want to work with children. Did I get that right?”
Running a hand down the tight fabric of my black dress, I tell her, “Yes. I’m graduating at the end of this year.”
Or maybe not, if I can’t find an internship.
The thought of waving goodbye to my dream of becoming a youth counselor because I was an idiot makes me feel like my chest is being carved open.
“You’re just as bright as your mother.” Clarissa-Cassandra-Callista beams, and I can’t think of anything else to do other than to thank her again.
Maybe someone else would be put off by people constantly comparing them to their mother—and I get it. But for me, there’s no bigger honor than to be considered just a fraction as incredible as her. My mom, whose latest educational children’s book just won Children’s Book of the Year at the most prestigious awards ceremony in the book world.
Being compared to Grace Callaghan doesn’t sting at all. If anything, I often find myself questioning whether I deserve to be put in the same box as her.
Mom would’ve never given up on her dream internship for an immature boyfriend, so no.
When did all these cotton balls get stuck in my throat?
Clarissa-Cassandra-Callista’s lips keep moving, but my ears are ringing and my brain isn’t processing a single word.
“Lila. There you are.”
The touch of a familiar hand on my arm brings me down to Earth. Mostly.
And Clarissa-Cassandra-Callista’s smile only gets wider as she takes in my mother next to me. “Grace! Oh, honey, what a wonderful accomplishment. I know I’ve said it enough times, but we feel so blessed to have worked on such a special project with you.”
“The pleasure is mine, Clarisse.” So that’s her name. “This dinner party was incredible, too. Such a dream come true for me. Everyone is having a great time.”
Guilt sinks its ugly claws into my chest and tears it up. Because no, I’m not having a great time at all, and it makes me feel even worse.
It was never in my mom’s plans for her books to gain this much traction and praise, but she deserves every ounce of the love they’re getting. And I’m not here—not emotionally, at least—to celebrate it with her and my dad, which makes me a terrible daughter.
Get it together.
My mom and Clarisse are still engaged in conversation, but I don’t have a single clue what they’re saying until my mom squeezes my arm and says, “Mind if I steal Lila away for a moment?”
“Not at all. It was lovely to see you both.”
A moment later, I’m following her to the crowded bar. The dinner party has since turned into a drink-and-mingle kind of evening, which I wouldn’t mind and even would enjoy if only I could get rid of the anxiety that has been clinging to my heart for two months now.
“What’s with that face, Li?” The concern in my mom’s eyes feels like a stab to my stomach. She pulls out two high chairs, gesturing for us to sit. “You’ve been acting weird all night. For weeks now, actually. I wanted to give you space, but you’re clearly not doing better. So, what is it, honey?”
Oh, it’s nothing, Mom. I just want to scream and cry because my cheating ex said he’s always thought I’m spoiled and have no right to be a counselor. Did I also mention I’m a vandal because I slashed his tire, and he threatened to sue me?
“I’m all right,” I say instead, which is much safer.
“Lila.” She gives me a look. “Tell me the truth, please. Is it about Oliver?”
My parents know about the cheating, but they don’t know about anything else that went down that day.
Don’t tell her. Don’t ruin her night.
But she’s looking at me like that , with those eyes I swear can read minds, and I know I have to give her something.
I hate liars. I hate them with all my heart, so, in a way, I also hate myself as I say, “I’m just stressed about my thesis, is all.”
She gives me a look that tells me she’s seeing right through the bullshit. “You’re a 4.0 student, Li. What are you worried about? You’ve got this.”
I let out a deep sigh that isn’t entirely fake. “What if it’s not…you know, good enough?”
My mom frowns like I’ve personally offended her. “If your thesis isn’t good enough, whose will be? You’ve got a perfect GPA, experience writing countless published articles, four extracurricular counseling courses, volunteering experience…” Her frown is going nowhere as she grabs my hands in hers. “And most of all, you’re passionate about what you do. Why do you doubt yourself so much? Can’t you see how brilliant you are?”
The backs of my eyes start stinging. I’m already way too emotional for my own good, feeling way too vulnerable, and now my mom says this ?
“I…” But no words come out.
Because no, I don’t see how brilliant I am. I don’t feel it, no matter what my academic results say. A brilliant person doesn’t lose her mind like I did.
Something to her right catches my mother’s attention, and suddenly, she’s waving at someone. It’s probably my dad, so I don’t look away from my lap, because if I focus on the black fabric of my knee-length dress, maybe I’ll contain the tears.
“Reed. Do me a favor, will you?” she starts, and my heart stops. “Can you please talk some sense into my daughter? Maybe if she hears it from someone else, she’ll finally believe it.”
Shit, shit, shit.
“Mom, I don’t—”
But she’s no longer in her chair. I watch as she walks up to Dr. Abner, who’s clad in an expensive-looking suit that fits him a little too well. I can’t make out what they’re saying over the loud throng.
The heavy weight of a tattooed hand and my dad’s unmistakable voice make me school my features into something less depressed faster than lightning. “Everything okay, little sunshine?”
My dad has always been protective of me. Of all three of us, really—me, Mom, and my aunt Maddie, who grew up with us due to my grandmother’s alcohol issues. He says it physically pains him to see any of us cry, so the last thing I want is to upset him right now.
I still don’t know how my mom and I convinced him not to kill Oliver when I told them about the cheating.
Lying to him feels equally as terrible as lying to my mom, so I change the subject. “I haven’t seen you in a bit. Where were you?”
“I was outside with Reed. There are too many people here.”
He isn’t a fan of crowded spaces, but he makes an effort for my mom. She isn’t into the party scene, either, but her job forces her to network—and she’s great at it.
It makes sense that Reed— Dr. Abner, damn it, not Reed —hangs out with my dad because they’re both quiet, closed-off men. Their introverted natures are probably what make them such close friends, which is something I don’t need to think about now.
Especially when the man in question lowers himself to the chair my mom was previously occupying.
My dad squeezes my shoulder. “Your mom and I will be around.”
And they walk away.
Dr. Abner unfolds his long, muscular legs in front of himself. The dark fabric of his suit pants grazes my bare skin, giving way to a sea of goose bumps.
“If it isn’t my favorite criminal.”
I think of crossing my arms to shield myself from the intensity of his gaze but drop them as soon as I realize pushing my breasts up isn’t the message I want to send a professor .
“Glad to know I’m at the top of your very long list of criminal acquaintances,” I retort.
His plump lips tilt into a dangerously handsome smirk. “Wouldn’t give the number one spot to anyone else.”
I try to keep my gaze trained forward and not on his brown hair, short stubble, or defined jaw. Because why would I openly ogle my parents’ friend, a man twelve years my senior? Please .
“Your mom said you were worried about your thesis, but she isn’t buying it, and neither am I. So, what is it?”
I guess this is what happens when you try to hide your feelings from a renowned counselor—you get busted.
But because I didn’t just inherit my dad’s hazel eyes but also his incurable stubbornness, I say, “I’m just stressed about graduating and writing a good thesis.”
It feels weird that he agreed to have this conversation with me. He’s been working with my mom for a couple years, but we’ve never really talked. At least not until Tiregate.
Maybe because I keep ignoring him?
The sigh that escapes his lips next sounds tired. “You’re studying to become a youth counselor. You should know bottling up your emotions isn’t the answer.”
Oh, I know that. I also know he’s only here because my mom asked him to be, not out of the kindness of his heart. Feeling like a burden—on top of everything else going on in my head—may just be the final nail in my coffin.
With as much poise as I can muster, I get down from the stupid bar chair, doing my best not to fall face-first. Despite my heels, I’m still ant-sized.
“Thank you for your concern, but I don’t want to force you to listen to my problems. I’m sure you have better places to be.”
His big, warm hand catches my elbow, and my heart flutters. “Sit down, please. I’m here because I want to be. Let’s just talk.”
Does his gruff voice sound softer, or am I hearing things?
Thinking it’s probably the latter, I press, “I’m not sure that’s a good idea.”
There are too many people here, some of whom have connections to Warlington University. It only takes one ill-intended person to start a rumor and ruin my career before it even begins.
When he drops his hand from my elbow, my skin suddenly turns cold.
“You can leave if you really want to. I’m not holding you hostage here, Lila. But I can tell something’s eating at you, something that maybe you don’t want your parents to know—which is fine. I’m here to listen if you want me to. Does it have to do with your ex?”
The soft music coming from the speakers around us engulfs me, along with the buzzing of the crowd, and my head spins.
I hate that I’m letting Oliver’s words about me being too privileged to help children in need affect me this much, but I trusted him. Yes, he wanted me to do fun things with him, but he also used to support my career and cheer me on. Did he fake that for two years?
“Do you want to talk?” Dr. Abner asks again, but I’m not really listening.
Revenge blinded me, and I did something I deeply regret, even if Oliver deserved it a little bit.
“I want to go home and sulk” is what comes out of my mouth.
He sits up straighter, looking even bigger and taller than his six foot four. “I think talking would do you better. I can order you some water if you’d like.”
My nod is smaller than I would like, and so is my voice. “Please.”
He calls over a waiter, who quickly sets two small bottles of water in front of us, next to two glasses with ice cubes and a slice of lemon in each. Dr. Abner pours mine first, and I take a sip.
He doesn’t drink his. Instead, he rests his arm on the bar and looks at me. “Feeling better?”
I swallow. “No.”
“Okay. I’m here when you’re ready to talk.”
Oh, he’s good. It’s easy to tell why my mother would want to work with him—patient, open, reliable.
I’m no child, but his counseling magic works on me all the same. Because not even two minutes pass before I say, “It’s about my ex.”
“The same guy who didn’t pay rent, right?”
My sigh is nothing short of exhausted. “I only have one ex, so yeah. That’d be him.”
How did I not see it before, how much of a liar Oliver was?
Maybe because he never lied about anything important, anything big . When he’d go to a bar with his friends, he’d never mentioned any of his girl friends being there because, in his words, he didn’t want me to get angry that he was hanging out with other women. The thing is, I’d never told him he couldn’t do that. He kept things from me because he didn’t want to fight, he said. He thought I would get mad over it, so he lied to avoid conflict and protect the peace.
I’m so stupid.
Flags of all shades of red were waving in front of my face, and I closed my eyes.
Because it was easier. Because it hurt less. Because I’m an idealistic coward.
“Do you need to vent?” Dr. Abner asks, reminding me I’m not alone. “How did you find out about the cheating?”
I snort. “Do you have endless patience and a taste for drama?”
“Whatever you need.”
Maybe I should question why he’s being so nice to me, but honestly? My heart feels numb today. I can add “venting to my mother’s colleague and the man I’ve been trying to avoid for two years” to my list of questionable decisions.
So, I take a deep, shaky breath and let it all out.
He doesn’t interrupt me once. Those intense eyes never leave my face, and I find that holding his stare makes my stomach do weird things that don’t feel… terrible.
“I broke things off right away, and he said I was being unfair,” I conclude when I’m done explaining what drove me to ruin his tire. My fingers find the pendant hanging around my neck—a single golden flower my parents gave me for my sixteenth birthday that I never take off. “Said we could work it out because it was a onetime mistake.”
I don’t know why I’m about to tell him this, probably one of the most humiliating things someone has ever said to me, but at this point, my self-love is pretty nonexistent.
So here we go.
“He blamed me for it.” My voice comes out quiet, meek, and I hate that I’m letting Oliver do this to me so many months later. “He said he had needs and that I didn’t…didn’t always help him with those.”
“Are you fucking kidding me, Lila?”
I only shrug, taking another sip of my lemony water.
We stay silent for a few moments, the noise from the party surrounding us, before he says in that deep voice, “You were brave for calling him out on his bullshit and kicking him out; I want you to know that. And I also need you to know you’re not to blame for the choices he made. I don’t want to hear you say that what you did or didn’t do drove him to cheat on you because that’s not true. It was his choice.”
“I know it was his fault. But maybe if I had—”
“Absolutely not, Lila. Don’t even go there.”
“There’s…something else.” I’m already bugging him with all my drama, so what’s some more? “A few months ago, I saw an opportunity for a summer internship at a children’s camp for aspiring youth counselors. I would’ve had the chance to work under the supervision of real counselors and help kids, but you know what I did instead?”
He doesn’t answer.
“I told Oliver about it, and he said I worked too hard and he deserved to spend a summer with me. We’re only young once, he said. And I passed on the internship like an idiot. I gave up on an opportunity that would’ve helped my chances at getting my dream job after graduation. But the thing is, I can’t graduate this upcoming December without having done an internship—I’m sure you’re familiar with the university’s policy—and I can’t find one. That’s what I get for being a tire-slashing vandal, I guess.”
I hide my face in my hands, not caring if I smudge my mascara in the process. I might as well become a mess on the outside, too.
“You want to be a youth counselor because of your mom?” is what he asks next. No comment on how stupid I was.
“In part, yes.” I swallow back the emotions climbing up my throat. “My mom… She’s been through a lot. My aunt, too. They got the help they needed thanks to access to good mental health care, and I want to be that person for children who may need guidance. But it’s more than that. I’ve always felt like…”
When the seconds tick by and the words won’t come out, he nudges his leg against mine. An intimate gesture I’m surprised but not bothered by. “Like what?”
“I’ve always felt like I was born to be a youth counselor. To help children just like others helped my family.” I take a deep breath through my nose. “But I lost my temper and did something so out of character for me. It may not seem like a big deal to you, but I’m a rule follower. I don’t slash people’s tires.”
How am I supposed to teach children to be healthy when I’m such a mess?
Dr. Abner stays silent for so long I’m starting to think he hasn’t even heard me, but then he says, “If you want to work with kids and can’t find an internship, I’m the board member of a youth center you could intern at if you’re interested.”
I blink once, twice. “You’re also a board member at a youth center? Like a Doctor of Psychology, researcher, co-author, and what else isn’t enough?”
His shoulders rise and fall. “I have many interests and great organizational skills. Why would I force myself to fit one box when I can do it all?”
Fair enough. If only I had that level of self-confidence.
“Thank you for offering, really, but I don’t…you know, want things handed out to me.”
Those thick eyebrows form a notch. “I’m not following.”
“I don’t want to take someone else’s place just because you know my parents. Or because you think I’m a mess and feel sorry for me. I’m not about that.”
The expression on his face is nothing short of unimpressed. “We are currently understaffed, so trust me that you wouldn’t be taking anyone’s place.” My stomach twists at his words. “I’m a board member, but I wouldn’t do the hiring. Haniyah, our director, is responsible for that. You’ll also need to pass a background check and obtain a fingerprint clearance card—two things I can’t just hand out to you.”
Great, now I feel like a self-absorbed idiot.
“It’s called Warlington Youth Center, on Main Street,” he continues. “Your mom has visited it a few times; she can give you directions. But no pressure. I just thought I’d offer, since you want to become a youth counselor. We don’t do summer internships, but we can arrange something starting in August if you’re interested.”
And even though I know I should avoid accepting any favors—especially from him —I can’t deny I’m intrigued. “What kind of activities would I help with?”
He runs those big hands down the dark fabric of his suit pants, smoothing it down. Why I’m focusing on how big his hands are is something I’m not willing to dwell on, ever.
“You’ll have to clear that out with your internship supervisor at the university, but mainly clinical and administrative functions, supervised counseling sessions, reporting, co-organizing workshops, that sort of thing.”
It sounds…right up my alley.
It really does.
I’ll find something else. I still have time to look at other options.
But do I? I was supposed to apply to summer internships in December, so those are off the table. And I’ve been looking at other options ever since, but youth counseling internships are scarce in Warlington, for whatever reason, and I can’t afford to travel anywhere else.
I can’t accept. What will happen if other students find out I’m interning with Reed Abner, who coincidentally happens to be my mom’s close friend?
My inner voice is right. It’d be irresponsible to accept, not to mention it’d go against what I’ve been trying to avoid for years.
Am I ready to risk my reputation for an internship I could possibly do somewhere else?
I finish my glass of water under his scorching stare. He still hasn’t touched his.
“Are you feeling better?” he asks.
To my surprise, I find myself giving him a genuine nod. “I’ll be okay. Thank you for offering the internship.”
“You know where to find me if you want to talk.”
I smile at him, tight-lipped and nervous.
Why is Dr. Abner holding the flashlight at the end of the tunnel I’m in?