Page 14 of Because I Killed Him
I go back to staring out the window, even though I know I should make the most of my time alone with him. I should ask foradvice about my professors, which students to avoid, and which areas to steer clear of at Grandmaster. But all I can think about is Charlotte.
We drive for about ten minutes before reaching Harrison’s estate. The property, which could be its own district, is much larger than ours, with a private helipad and an airstrip. His mom is a Green Representative, and his dad owns Skyrider, the company behind all the most popular hoverboard brands. As an only child, Harrison is set to inherit more money than even Vivian can spend.
Harrison heads directly to the airstrip. The jet’s engines are already running, bright as torches in the rain. Two Pinkies in rose-pink raincoats are waiting as we pull up. One robot guides me up the rain-slick airstairs to the boarding door with an umbrella, while the other helps Harrison unload our suitcases.
Inside the jet, I’m escorted to a smoky lounge with silk carpets and leather-wrapped walls. I hardly notice the furnishings—the black onyx lamps, the jade-tiled kitchen, and the fully stocked bar of fine wines and prestige champagnes—while I search for Charlotte. A slow pressure builds in my chest, fueled by dread and panic. I relax my face until my expression betrays nothing, forcing myself to pull it together.
The sound of shifting cushions draws my attention to a velvet sofa near the windows, where Charlotte lies, her feet propped up, in a way that seems more tired than relaxed. One of her arms hangs loosely over the headrest. A cigarette dangles from her painted mouth, its smoke drifting like wandering thoughts.
When Charlotte sees me, she jerks upright with a startled gasp, and the cigarette slips from her mouth onto the carpet between us. She curses and pulls her hair forward, letting her long, wavy curls fall across her face like a mask.
“You gonna pick that up before it burns a hole in Harry’s carpet?” I ask.
Charlotte doesn’t move to retrieve the cigarette, so I reach for it, my hand shaking as I fight the urge to flick it at her. My skin feels too hot, and my throat constricts. Seeing her again hurts more than I expected.
When she stays silent, my self-control snaps. “What are you doing here, Charlotte? Your boyfriend couldn’t save you a seat?”
“I’ve been planning to fly with Harry since last week,” she replies, her voice muffled by her hair. “How was I supposed to know you’d show up at the last minute?”
Her hair slips enough for me to catch a glimpse of her cheek before she cups her hand over it.
“What’s with the act?” I say. “Why the hell are you hiding your face?”
“I’m not.”
“Bullshit. You’d be less obvious wearing a bag over your head. But I guess I’m not surprised you can’t look me in the eye.”
“That’s… not what it is.”
“Then what?”
Charlotte straightens on the sofa, fingers twitching against her face. “It’s none of your business.”
“It’s a long flight, Charlotte. You’re really gonna sit there with your hands over your face the whole time?”
“If that’s what it takes.”
I step forward, gripping the cigarette butt tightly before flicking it at her. Charlotte scrambles to catch it, and her hair slips away, revealing a face I barely recognize. Her dark skin is flawless, her jawline unnaturally sharp, and her chin more pointed. Her fuller, bow-shaped lips contrast with her once-lively beauty, now cold and symmetrical, lacking any trace of warmth or happiness. I feel an unexpected, unwelcome stab of pain, as if I’m losing her all over again.
“What the fuck?” The words scrape out hoarsely. “Charlotte… Who made you do this?”
She swallows hard, her eyes shifting uncomfortably as she crushes the cigarette in the ashtray. “No one. I did it for myself.”
If that’s true, she’s a liar on top of being a lousy friend. “What happened to you hating cosmetic surgery? What happened to you swearing up and down you’d never get it?”
“I changed my mind.”
I let out a sharp, disbelieving scoff. “It was Jack, wasn’t it?”
“No. He doesn’t even know. I had it done after we broke up.”
“Youbroke up?”
“Yeah. A year ago.” Charlotte clears her throat and avoids my gaze. “He’s the one who ended it.”
My anger hits a wall, shattering into bitterness. Their whole relationship lasted only a year, which means Charlotte threw away our friendship fornothing. She threwmeaway for nothing.
“Guess you know how it feels, then,” I say, fighting the tremor in my voice.
