Chapter 8
Sawyer (Flashback)
November, Senior Year
He was the only one who ever understood the real Georgia Hart.
My eyes scan over the words Honey scribbles vigorously into her notebook—not the usual pale-yellow one she’s been using during our tutoring sessions over the last month, but one with deep-red leather binding.
Her hand hovers at the side of the page to block prying eyes, but my height gives me a good advantage over where she’s sat at our table.
It’s beside the largest window and overlooks the track and field, and it’s slightly hidden by one of the taller stacks of books, making it a private little sunlight trap.
It’s somewhere I’ve come to associate with being a safe space now, giving me sanctuary and understanding in the form of Honey Goldman.
Whatever story is spilling from her has her chewing on her bottom lip with concentration and so enraptured that she doesn’t notice me approach.
Passion radiates from her as she writes, eyes widening and narrowing with each word that flows across the page, a spark of a smile when she finds whatever word she was stuck on.
I’ve never seen her like this before.
It’s like I’ve stumbled upon one of the more timid horses on the ranch running wildly through the pastures—Honey Goldman letting herself be free for once, animated and uncaring of the world around her. It’s … mesmerising, in a way. I want to know what I can do to make her like this more.
But, when I see that name pop up in her notebook again, my mind can’t help but latch onto it like it does with random things, and I ask, ‘Who’s Georgia Hart?’
Honey starts as I drop into the seat opposite her, a squeaky gasp rushing from her lips, and she immediately scrambles to close her notebook with the kind of speed we could use on the football team.
Fear momentarily rips through her eyes like lightning as she glances up, until she realises it’s only me.
I instantly regret creeping up on her like that—the pang of hate for myself hitting me straight in the chest and making me dig my nails in my palms. I should know better than to spook the little mouse who’s probably always on edge.
Just because I’m used to most blows coming at me in heated exchanges, rather than unexpectedly, doesn’t mean Honey has the same experience.
‘Fuck, I’m sorry,’ I quickly apologise, tossing my bag to the floor beside me, then internally berate myself because she doesn’t like cussing—she told me such during our first tutoring session after I’d already sworn a billion times. ‘Didn’t mean to scare you.’
‘It’s fine.’ Her voice is shaky, and her nostrils flare as she breathes deeply, clearly also trying to hide that she needs to calm herself.
Still, I can’t help but wonder why she was so worried about me seeing what she’d written.
Laughter bubbles in my chest at the thought that for all I know, Honey’s writing some filthy fan fiction in that notebook, like Wolfman’s twin sister likes to write.
Maybe I need to google Georgia Hart later, find out if she’s from a show or something.
I suppose I haven’t earned the privilege of knowing what Honey really likes yet.
What’s happening here is purely transactional, not a budding friendship.
Of all the people in Willow Ridge High, there’s no way I’m Honey’s first choice for a new best friend.
Which reminds me—I fish the concealer out of my bag and slide it across the table. ‘Here ya go.’
Honey’s eyes stay glued to the concealer for a few seconds of silence, her throat working, before she quickly grabs it and stuffs it into her bag. Georgia Hart repeats in my stupid fixating mind as I watch the notebook get packed away too.
‘Thank you.’ Honey’s baby blues flutter up to mine, swirling with a bittersweet mix of gratitude and agony that her polite smile doesn’t suggest. They’re always drenched in emotion, giving away her true feelings even when she presents herself otherwise.
It must be why she’s always looking away, only ever offering small glances.
‘So, um, shall we start with math again first or … ?’ she asks.
There’s something robotic about her today—little animation in her voice unlike that time when she was alone with me outside the locker rooms, smiling and giggling.
I really fucking enjoyed hearing her laugh.
I don’t think anyone in the whole high school—besides the one girl she sits with in homeroom, Daisy—probably knows the sound, and that makes me smug.
Like I’ve struck gold, and no one knows.
Honey pulls a textbook and her usual yellow notebook towards her, talking through what she thought we could cover in our session. I promised myself I’d try to pay better attention today, but just like in most lessons, my mind has a different idea.
After pressing my knuckles hard into my thigh to try to make me focus, I’m pretty sure she asks me a question, as she angles her head as if waiting for a response. Yet, all I say is, ‘Sounds good. Who’s Georgia Hart?’
She blinks at me, lips popping open. ‘Um, nobody.’
I try to give her my best pleading eyes—ones that remind me of when I’m eating and our new puppy, Trixie, is beside me trying to convince me to throw her down some food, which I usually do. I don’t have a lot of self-control. ‘Go on, you know you wanna tell me. It’s on my mind now, I gotta know.’
There’s a tightness in her jaw as she stares back at me. ‘Sawyer …’
‘Blue …’ I counter, my smirk playing out.
This time she takes a longer blink, as if to steel herself—just like she did in our other sessions. Wow, she really doesn’t like the nickname. It makes me want to call her it more.
She asks, a faint blush rising in her plump cheeks, ‘Are you always going to call me that?’
And I just respond, ‘Are you always going to have baby blues?’
The little huff she makes is adorable—and it has me buzzing, that reaction enough to fuel me for a week alone, just like her laugh did.
Because winding up Honey feels different to teasing everyone else.
Honey tries so hard not to be noticed, not to be perceived, that she fights every little reaction she has to me—which I’m not used to girls doing.
But I bet she does the same at home. She’s probably exhausted from all the hiding and pretending, ducking her head and getting on with it.
It sits there like a challenge for me—like a bucking bull just raring to be ridden—being the one to charm that emotion from her, help her let go for once, when I know how hard it is always to have to bottle it up.
She probably doesn’t have the sad luxury of being able to fight back occasionally.
Honey lets out an exasperated sigh, though a small chuckle is mixed in there somewhere. ‘You are … never mind.’ Her eyes dip back to the textbook. ‘Can we please get back to math?’
Not a chance.
‘I’m what? Go on, say it. I won’t tell a soul.’ I mimic zipping up my lips.
It takes her a few seconds to contemplate it, but then she giggles out the words, ‘You’re insufferable.’
Bingo. I lean forwards, courting her with my smirk and whispering, ‘Oh, I love it when you talk dirty to me, Blue.’
‘Sawyer!’ Her eyes go as wide as saucers, the apples of her cheeks staining a deep red now—almost as deep as that secret notebook of hers. I’ve got the good girl flustered and it’s magnificent.
I see it as my chance to try once more, for my own sanity.
‘Please tell me who Georgia Hart is. I ain’t trying to blackmail you, but with the way my brain works, it means I’m gonna latch onto that until you tell me.
’ I can already see myself getting told off in class for wondering too much about who Georgia Hart is and not enough on how to ask for directions in Spanish.
‘I mean it, I’ll keep pestering you all year until you do. ’
The fear in her eyes at the prospect of me annoying her for the rest of senior year is downright comical.
‘You promise you won’t laugh at me?’ she asks, teeth tugging on her bottom lip. She leans in closer to me across the table. I get a whiff of her scent—it’s sweet, something floral with a little vanilla mixed in there too. It’s the kind of smell I’d associate with a happy, warm home. How ironic.
‘Pinky promise.’
I hold up my pinky and her gaze zaps straight to it, jaw tensing.
She rolls her lips, then gives a light nod—as if for herself, not me—and carefully wraps her pinky around mine.
Her eyes never leave our entwined fingers the whole time, like she’s marvelling at how easy and unthreatening a touch can be.
Pride climbs into my chest knowing I could give that to her. How I want to give her more.
When we let go, she plops her hands back into her lap and takes another deep breath. ‘Georgia Hart is a … a character I created.’
‘Like, in a book?’
‘Yes. She, um … she’s kind of like an escape for me.
Like, if I could be anyone else in the world, she’s who I’d be.
If I need to get away, and I can’t, I write as if I’m her.
’ Honey turns her gaze to the large window beside us, as if she can see that sanctuary of Georgia Hart’s life in the distance, beyond the gym track and football field. ‘It gives me a little hope, y’know?’
I follow her eye-line, wondering if I might find some hope lying there too. But there’s nothing, just a school and a town that turns a blind eye to kids like us.
‘I’m … I’m sorry you need that,’ I say, unsure which of us I’m directing it at.
The strange urge to take Honey’s hand for comfort hits me. Which is weird as fuck because I don’t think I’ve ever held a girl’s hand before.
So, I brush it off and say, ‘I like it, though. I sure could use an alter ego I can escape to when things get too much.’
A tiny divot appears between her brows as she considers me. I prepare myself to grimace at the pity in her eyes, to come up with some way to divert the conversation away, but the light dims in them instead. Because she doesn’t pity me—she knows pity can’t save us. Pity doesn’t stop the pain.
No, Honey understands me.
And the thought has me swallowing.
Because I don’t think I hate the feeling.
‘What does Georgia Hart do?’ I ask.
‘Oh.’ Honey gets flustered again, blinking incessantly as she averts her gaze. I decide I rather like the way she looks with flushed cheeks—that I’ll keep trying to make her blush. ‘She, um, sings. She’s a—she’s a musician.’
‘You sing.’
‘Yes, but Georgia Hart gets to travel the country doing it.’ Pain wipes away all trace of her smile, leaving sorrow in its wake. ‘She’s … free.’
‘What about when you go to college?’ There’s no way Honey isn’t heading off to some Ivy League with her fantastic brain.
‘Oh … well, my father wants me to go somewhere nearby, where I can maybe stay at home, help around the house still. I don’t think he’s too bothered about how good the college is, just as long as I’m trained to be a good wife like my mom—’
‘Yeah, but what do you want, Blue?’ Rage pricks inside of me, and for once I’m oddly grateful to have a father who couldn’t care less about me.
Honey’s mouth snaps shut, shock plastering her face, like she’s never been asked that question before. Like she can’t remember the last time anyone cared about her opinion.
‘I …’ She glances out the window once more, then turns her shining eyes back to me.
‘Ivy League is out of the question, really. We’re not needy enough to get much financial aid, but there’s no way my father could afford or would even pay to send me to any.
But … my mother has family in North Carolina, and Powell University is supposed to be good. I think I’d like it there.’
‘You should apply.’
‘Maybe … I’ll think about it.’ She gives me an unconvincing nod, but there’s a hint of possibility swimming in her eyes. ‘What about you? Who would your Georgia Hart be?’
‘Oh, well obviously my guy would be the Professional Bull Riders world champion.’ I straighten up my shoulders, throwing a grin back out as the visions flash through my mind—the glory that would come from knowing you practically conquered fear for a living.
‘Not a bull he couldn’t tame, that one. No fear at all. That’s the dream.’
‘He sounds great.’ She presses her lips into a soft smile. ‘Well, I just swapped my initials around so maybe yours could be …’ Her eyes circle around, cogs turning in her mind. Then they flare and she suggests, ‘Noah Stetson?’
I chuckle. ‘Stetson—like the hat. You’re a genius, Blue.’
This time, Honey grins wider than I’ve ever seen before, and I swear the room becomes a little brighter. ‘Yeah. Noah Stetson, it suits you. Bravest cowboy in the world.’