Page 22 of Shy Girls Can't Date Rockstars
“I’m trying—“ The words come out choked and desperate.
“No.” He stands up, gathering his phone and guitar. “You’re crying. There’s a difference.”
I stare at him through my tears, and something cold settles in my chest beneath the grief.
“Look, I get it. Your life sucks right now. Mine does too.” He slings his guitar strap over his shoulder. “Maybe today is a no-go on studying. But tomorrow, you need to actually help me, or this whole thing is pointless. Can you do that?”
I don’t answer. Can’t answer.
He moves toward the door, and I think he’s going to leave. Part of me wants him to. Leave me alone with my rage and shame. But he pauses with his hand on the doorknob, looking back at me.
“And for what it’s worth...” His voice is quieter now. “I am sorry about your parents. It’s really unfair. No one should have to go through that.”
For a moment, the sympathy in his voice makes my chest ache. He does understand.
“But they’re gone, and we’re still here.” His tone shifts, becoming matter-of-fact again. “So tomorrow, show up ready to work. Okay?”
He doesn’t wait for an answer. The door clicks shut behind him, leaving me alone in the library.
I sit here, frozen, as his words echo in my head.
“They’re gone, and we’re still here.”
Like the loss of my parents is just... an inconvenience. Like my grief is something I need to get over so I can be useful to him. Like I’m supposed to just move on because he needs help with his English homework.
The tears stop. The shaking stops. Everything stops except the cold fury building in my chest.
How dare he?
Howdarehe talk about my parents like that? How dare he act like he’s being reasonable when he’s asking me to cheat for him? How dare he treat me like I’m weak and useless just because I can’t stop crying?
I look down at the table. Scattered are the novel, worksheets, and the careful preparation I did this morning while he was rehearsing with his band.
None of it matters. Because I’m not here to tutor him. I’m here to do his work for him. To be useful. To earn my place in this house.
Miranda doesn’t want a niece. She wants a resource.
And Ryder doesn’t want a tutor. He wants someone to blame for his problems, and someone to fix them.
The walk back to my room feels longer than it should. For a moment, all I hear are my footsteps on the hardwood floor, until somewhere in another wing flows faint guitar music. Ryder practicing the setlist that matters so much more than anything else.
I close my bedroom door and lean against it, staring at the sparse room that’s supposed to be mine. The wooden bed I didn’t choose. The antique furniture that belongs to dead strangers. The paintings of twisted trees that make my chest tight every time I look at them.
My eyes land on the framed photo on my desk. Mom and Dad beaming at the camera, their catering van visible in the background.
I drop everything to the floorboards and pick up the photo frame with both hands. Mom’s bright smile. Dad’s laugh lines around his eyes. The way they’re standing close together, comfortable and happy.
“They’re gone, and we’re still here.”
“He’s wrong,” I whisper to the photo. “He doesn’t get to say that about you. He doesn’t get to act like losing you is just... something I need to get over.”
But even as I say it, a small, traitorous part of me knows he’s right about some things. The world didn’t stop when they died. Miranda doesn’t care about my grief. School starts tomorrow, whether I’m ready or not. And if I don’t help Ryder pass English, I have no idea how Miranda will react.
I set the photo down carefully.
Ryder Hamilton thinks I’m weak. A charity case who can’t handle real life. He talks to me as if I’m a child who needs to be taught how the world works. As if my parents dying is equivalent to his equipment getting damaged. As if we’re both just dealing with “stuff.”
He’s wrong.
