Chapter Twenty-Three
Twenty-Three
MY brOTHER LOOKS TERRIBLE—DARK circles, bloodshot eyes, wrinkled clothes damp with sweat. He scratches his jaw, his suspicious gaze shifting from me to Jamie.
“What the fuck is going on here?”
Jamie closes his eyes, his mouth pressed in a thin, defeated line. He tries to answer once, twice, then gives up and looks at me.
I shake my head helplessly.
“Oh, that’s great,” Sawyer says with a mean laugh. “You two have your own little language now?”
“No,” Jamie croaks. I can see on his face that this is pure devastation—the worst possible thing that could have happened, standing right in our living room. It triggers a protective instinct that makes me want to stand in front of him and take whatever my brother has alone.
“I’ll explain,” I say to Sawyer. “Can you sit down?”
Sawyer’s eyes narrow. “Yeah, sure. I’ll sit down for a nice, calm explanation of why you feel like you can walk into my best friend’s apartment without knocking, and why he doesn’t look surprised to see you, and why I’m pretty sure your car was in the parking lot, only I convinced myself it wasn’t, because that would be crazy.
Because you don’t live here. You live with Starr and Leni in some perfect house to fit with your perfect fucking life—”
“Sawyer, please.” It is a desperate plea as I watch Jamie’s face crumple with the realization that we’re going to have to own up to this.
Sawyer has already figured it out, but he wants us to confirm it.
“Fine.” Sawyer smiles, an angry twist of his lips as he sits heavily on the sectional and folds his hands in his lap.
He looks the picture of Victor right now, waiting at the dining room table to catch one of us coming home after curfew or a particularly bad call from the school.
(Both of those were usually Sawyer’s territory, the latter especially.)
“I’m listening,” my brother says.
I glance at Jamie, flicking my eyes to the couch to indicate that he should sit. He does, on the opposite side from my brother. I take the middle of the room. Between the three of us is a Bermuda Triangle where good feelings disappear without a trace.
“You two seem close,” Sawyer says. “Don’t worry, I’m not at all disturbed, dumbfounded, or disgusted. Oh, wait—yeah, actually I am all those things.”
As much as he’s lobbing his anger at me, I can tell it’s for Jamie’s benefit. Being pissed off at something I’ve done isn’t just expected—it’s tradition. But Jamie’s role in it is a foundation-cracking betrayal.
“This isn’t Jamie’s fault.”
It’s the wrong thing to say. Sawyer’s attention slides slowly to me, like a cat that’s just seen a second, slower mouse move out of the corner of its eye.
“Mm-hm,” Sawyer says, smiling in a way that says I’m a few short seconds from having my head bitten off. “He’s an innocent third party, completely uninvolved. He didn’t even know you were here!”
“No, of course not. He didn’t know I’d answered their ad, and I’d already signed the lease by the time he found out. He didn’t want to lie to you—”
Sawyer gives a derisive snort.
Jamie looks stricken; his knuckles are white where his hands are fisted on his knees. It’s the most I’m able to take in without looking for too long.
“I didn’t want to lie to you either,” I say to my brother. “I didn’t even want to live here, but I was desperate. If I could’ve gone anywhere else, I would have, but—you’ll understand, okay? Just listen.”
So I explain—about Leni and Starr dropping me, my classes at Stone I don’t really care.
So here’s what I’m thinking: you”—he points to me—“will give me your room for the weekend, and you”—he swings around to point at Jamie—“will stop speaking to my sister immediately.”
I look at Jamie, but he’s already nodding, acquiescing to Sawyer’s strong-arming without protest.
“That’s not fair,” I say weakly.
“Well, Blair, as your elder, I think it’s important that I impart these crucial hard lessons, like how life’s not fair. Get over it.” He starts down the hall, poking his head first into Felicity and Mikey’s room, then mine. “Oh, this must be it. Real air of desperation in here—nice and familiar.”
“Shut up, Sawyer,” I growl.
“This’ll be fun. Just like old times.”
As soon as the door snicks shut behind him, I sag against the arm of the couch, reeling. Sawyer is here. Sawyer. Is. Here.
Jamie gets up, and I feel the air in the room shift as he nears me.
“What are we going to do?” I whisper.
Jamie exhales slowly, his gaze on my bedroom door. “I don’t know, Blair. I guess… whatever he says.”
It lands like a physical blow, and I hold on to the arm of the couch until my fingers ache.
Of course.
Of course he would readily agree to cut ties with me if it means he can make Sawyer happy, like dusting off the first brick on the hidden road to forgiveness.
Of course I matter that little to him.
“I shouldn’t be surprised,” I murmur, pushing off the couch. “I guess ‘fuck the rule’ is only good until you’re staring the consequences in the eye, huh?”
Jamie sighs. “What do you want me to say?”
I grab my bag from the floor and swing it over my shoulder. “Nothing. I want absolutely nothing from you, Jamie.”
I can’t retreat to my room now that Sawyer’s taken ownership of it, so I do the only thing I can think of—I walk straight out the front door, letting it slam shut behind me.
I have nowhere to go, but I don’t want to drive aimlessly, wasting gas and getting lost in my own anxiety spiral, and before I realize what I’m doing, I’m pulling my car into a familiar parking lot.
Deonne is teaching one of her summer camp classes—all kids between eight and twelve—and she waves me inside when she spots me through the window.
“This is Blair,” she says to the class, holding out a hand to me as I come through the door.
“Hi, Blair,” they chorus. They’re making pottery, half of them ultraserious while the other half just seems excited to spin the wheel as fast as possible.
“Have you ever done wheel throwing?” Deonne asks me.
I shake my head. “I wanted to try ceramics in school, but I didn’t have room in my schedule.” And by that I mean Mom and Victor would have never let me take something like ceramics over a more impressive elective, like the ones that would help me prepare for the APM. That turned out well.
I can’t believe it was only hours ago that I walked out on Professor Douse. I wonder if there’s any chance I can return with my tail between my legs and beg for my spot back. I’m sure Douse would at least enjoy the ego boost of having me grovel.
“Oh, wheel throwing is so fun,” Deonne says cheerfully, either not noticing or—more likely—accustomed to my sullen mood.
“You can get all the way to the end and completely mess up your bowl, or whatever it is you’re making, and have to start all over again.
A frustrating but rewarding medium! Right, everyone? ”
A few kids murmur their agreement. One girl, whose bowl has gone lopsided, groans loudly.
Deonne shoots me a grin. “Wanna try?”
Which is how I end up sitting at an empty station between a Black girl with space buns, tongue poking out of her mouth as she carefully molds the lip of her bowl, and a white boy who seems content with just spin-spin-spinning his clay, occasionally punching it into new shapes.
He reminds me a little bit of Sawyer, which makes me avoid looking at him, because I do not want to think about my brother right now.