13. Emma
EMMA
I’m going home.
I’m going home, where I won’t have to think about this anymore.
I’m going to pretend this never happened.
Why did I come in today? Why do I force myself to do more than even my doctor thinks I should do? I mean, Grandma is one thing. She is always going to want me to be careful and baby myself. But even the doctors think I should go to school from home more than I do.
Yet here I am, because I have to prove something. To who? I don’t know. Considering nobody knows about the cancer, it doesn’t really make a difference. So maybe I’m trying to prove something to myself.
Look where it’s getting me. There’s probably a lesson here somewhere, but I’m having a hard time finding it as I head straight to the parking lot instead of hanging out in the library between classes, the way I had planned to. Before I was so unpleasantly interrupted.
The thought of him makes me grab for the water bottle in the mesh pocket of my backpack.
I take a long gulp, swish it around in my mouth, then spit it into a trashcan before moving on.
I’m beyond humiliated, not to mention mad at myself.
I know it’s not my fault—what was I supposed to do?
I’m too weak to fight. I’m practically too weak to walk to the car.
More than that. I couldn’t tell him the truth. It would’ve been so easy to. Guess what, asshole? I have cancer. As ignorant and cruel as he can be, I doubt even he could find a way to come out looking like a good guy if he knew what I’ve been fighting.
Somehow, even having to get on my knees and suck him off was preferable to having my secrets spilled. I guess that says something about me, doesn’t it? It must. I’m that desperate to keep my condition a secret. I would even let him take advantage of me that way, no matter how it disgusted me.
By the time I reach my car, disgust is the least of my problems. I was already exhausted and weak earlier, wondering if I should’ve stayed home. Now I’m completely drained. I can’t even imagine putting the car in drive once the key’s in the ignition. It’s too much effort.
Dammit. Just like Grandma said, I have to stop myself way before I’ve reached my limit.
But then how was I supposed to know I would end up giving my first blowjob today?
Against my will, which seems to have drained me even more.
The emotional weight makes my body feel heavier than it already did, until I have to close my eyes for a minute to gather my strength.
My head touches the seat, and I release a deep breath, willing myself to relax bit by bit. Not that it takes much effort—I’m practically limp by the time I inhale, my head rolling to the side, the sounds outside the car fading to a gentle buzz. What am I going to do?
What am I going to do? I asked myself that question in the doctor’s office the day I got my results.
Sitting in a molded plastic chair in a room with ugly fluorescent lights and a scuffed tile floor.
The roaring in my ears muffled the doctor’s voice and that single question playing on a loop.
Grandma held my hand, gripping a little tighter all the time. I barely felt the pressure.
What am I going to do? Sitting in a funeral parlor.
My chair was in the front row. I felt the stares of family and friends on the back of my head.
Poor thing, no parents, so young. And they’d keep on clicking their tongues and shaking their heads, but they went back to their lives, didn’t they?
They promised Grandma and Grandpa they’d help with me, but they drifted away once the shock wore off.
Once I wasn’t the hot new tragedy anymore.
Right there in the doctor’s office, I swore I wouldn’t let myself be anybody’s tragedy ever again. It’s too tempting to believe they’ll keep caring even when it isn’t convenient anymore.
Tap tap tap . “Hey.” Tap tap tap . “Yo. Emma.”
Oh, shit. I fell asleep.
Usually, my eyes would snap open if somebody startled me awake by tapping on a window only inches from my head. He’s not exactly being gentle about it, either. But then, why would he? Easton hasn’t shown me any gentleness yet. Why start now?
His face is the last one I want to see when I slowly open my eyes, since it looks so damn much like Preston’s.
I can’t help but remember his smug look after he finished.
Like he was proud of himself for doing something as involuntary as coming.
Because that’s not what it’s about for him.
It’s about making me do it. That’s what he craves.
Does he know? Do they compare notes on their assaults?
He mimes rolling the window down, and I roll my eyes in response before touching the button on the door. I only ease it down a couple of inches before asking, “What do you want?”
“For starters, I was wondering why you’re sitting here with the car idling, completely passed out.” Cocking his head to the side, he asks, “Are you on something?”
Yes. Chemotherapy. “Are you asking if I’m on drugs? Jesus Christ.”
“Are you? Because why else would you, like, pass out?”
“I’m just tired.”
“Still sick from last night?” You’d think he would sound even a little sympathetic, but you’d be wrong. “Why did you even come in today?”
“Are you writing a report on me?” I snap. It feels good, watching him react in surprise. Maybe he’s even offended, poor baby. I’m sure he and his twin don’t usually care about who they’ve offended or wounded or even traumatized. I’m probably not even the first person.
“Fine,” he mutters, standing up straight with his hands raised like he’s the one who has any right to be offended. “Remind me not to give a shit.”
“Please, don’t let me stop you from getting back to your life.” It has to be the adrenaline that gives me the burst of energy I need to put the car in drive. I have to get out of here. Of all people to find me this way, did it have to be him?
It doesn’t matter. All that matters is getting away and regrouping. One thing is for sure: I’m not stepping foot on campus tomorrow. I’ve been burned enough today. Maybe enough for a lifetime at this point.
He steps back to let me pull out, but I’m still shaking with rage and fatigue—not a great combination.
It’s a shame I don’t think about that before turning the wheel too soon and sideswiping the car next to me.
“You’re kidding me!” It’s a cry that comes from my soul, one filled with all the pent up shame and fury festering inside.
Of all things, I had to go and do that. Like this day needed to get any worse.
The adrenaline is still flowing as I unbuckle my seatbelt and fling my door open, silently praying to whoever might be listening.
Don’t let it be bad. Please, don’t let it be bad.
“Way to go.” Easton’s voice is dripping with sarcasm, because of course he’s still here. It would be too much to ask for him to leave me alone and let me deal with this by myself.
I’m a little too concerned with the scratches I left on the Lexus to react. My heart’s in my throat, and I’m pretty sure I’m going to throw up yet again, thanks to the ugly marks on the otherwise pristine, pearl white exterior.
“She’s going to be pissed.” Easton sounds anything but sorry for me, standing by my side with his arms folded. It would be so nice if I had a friend, somebody who would at least commiserate instead of basically laughing about this. “I wouldn’t want to be you right now.”
And I wouldn’t want to be him ever. “You said she’s going to be pissed. Who is she? Whose car is this?”
Why does it seem like he was just waiting with bated breath for me to ask that question? His eyes light up, twinkling when he looks from the Lexus to me. “Her name is Brittany. She’s not somebody whose bad side you want to be on.”
Brittany. I don’t recognize the name. Not like I’m going out of my way to make friends or anything, either. “I don’t know her.”
“She hangs out in a group of girls. Maybe you know Tiana—she’s kind of the leader or whatever you want to call her.”
Tiana. That name, I recognize. “You’re kidding,” I whisper with a sinking heart.
“Oh, you know her? Now you know why you’re basically fucked.” The son of a bitch even has the nerve to chuckle like there’s anything funny happening. “Good luck.”
Okay. Time to be logical. This isn’t Tiana’s car, for one thing.
For another thing, the damage is completely cosmetic.
It won’t take anything to get it fixed up.
If she wants me to pay for it… I mean, this isn’t exactly something I budgeted for, but I can probably make it work.
It’s amazing the things we need to tell ourselves in a moment like this.
Especially when we’re trying to keep it together in front of somebody as vile as the heartless jerk snickering at my misery.
And the hits just keep on coming.
“Oh, I know you didn’t hit my car!” It’s like the screech of a dying bird filling the air, piercing my eardrums. “What the fuck? What is wrong with you? Don’t you even know how to drive?”
Wouldn’t it be nice if the ground would open under my feet and swallow me whole? The world is spinning around me as I slowly turn in the direction of that shrill voice.
What a surprise. She’s not alone. If she was, I might have to think there was something seriously wrong. My luck never goes that well.
“It’s not just hair you’re missing, is it?” Tiana’s nasty little smile makes my molars grind. “Your eyesight is shit, too. But I mean, who cares if you’re driving an ugly piece of crap like that, right?”
“You shouldn’t even be allowed to park next to a car like mine!” Brittany’s face is beet red by the time she shoves a hand into her bag and pulls out her phone. “You’re nothing but trash! I’m taking pictures. You are going to pay for every cent of what it costs to get my baby fixed.”
I was going to, anyway. “It was an accident. I’ll?—”
“Do you think she even has the money?” Tiana asks, looking me up and down with a smirk. “I would say start a payment plan, but it would probably take a hundred years for her to pay it off. Who’s got that kind of time?”
In the middle of everything, Easton’s voice sinks into my awareness. He’s still standing close to me, murmuring softly enough that only I hear him. “You know, it’s a real shame you haven’t been nicer all this time. I might speak up for you, make an excuse. I could at least calm her down.”
Clicking his tongue, he sighs. “Instead, it looks like I’m going to have to be a witness against you.”
Like I need things to get any worse.