Page 28 of Undone

“I don’t know what kind of shit your dad is trying to pull, taking this job, bringing you here?” His voice is deep, angry, grating over my skin. “But I’m not some kid who’s obsessed with you anymore. It’s not going to work. So stay the fuck out of my way and we won’t have a problem.”

What I should’ve done was point out that he was the one who followed me home, into my house, into my room. That he was the one who pulled me into the storage closet that first day. That he was the one who took my schedule and walked me to class like a child—but I don’t say a word.

Instead, I focus hard on not breathing in the scent of him too heavily, or else it’ll linger.

“You said you were leaving.” I cross my arms again. “Leave.”

It’s enough; he’s pushed away from me in seconds, leaving the air around me cold with the loss of his heat.

“How about this?” he snaps. “I’ll stay away from you. You stay away from me.”

“Fine.”

“Fine.”

My eyes are closed, so I only hear my bedroom door slam shut as he follows my command.

I let the memories of his mouth at my ear guide me to my bed, crawling to hide under the covers like I have so many times before. To pretend, for a moment, he’s right there with me.

And nothing bad has happened to us.

Chapter 12

Lily

“Lily?”

My eyes dart up from my food, thankful for my sunglasses—for the bright sunlight and the outside seating that’s allowing me to wear them without getting reprimanded by my father.

“Carson asked you a question.”

I look toward him, sitting next to me at the too-small circular table. There’s barely room for all three of our hot lattes, though now mine’s gone cold and I don’t want to ask if they’ll microwave it for me because it’s a nice place, but I can’t drink even lukewarm coffee—

“Lillian.”

“Sorry.” I shake my head, the smile I’m able to stamp across my lips equally shaky. “What did you say? I got lost in my thoughts for a moment.”

Carson is average height and build, with light brown hair and brown eyes. His face is somewhat round, making him seem more youthful than his twenty-five years, with a five-o’clock shadow that ages him only slightly.

We met at Harvard. He was an MBA student, and I was a freshman. I was terrified and failing, while he was confident and handsome. He took me under his wing easily. And for someone who struggled to leave her one-bedroom apartment or attempt to make friends (though that usually went poorly anyway) he was a godsend. I was lucky to have him, as my father pointed out frequently.

We’d kissed once, and he didn’t taste like grape lollipops mixed with the metal of lip piercings and tongue rings. I hated it.

Then, when I’d failed at Harvard and things had gotten bad again, his dad was the doctor who oversaw my care. Mostly to avoid the hospital, I assumed. But in that way, my father had tied us, and our families, even tighter. Perhaps it was what he wanted. Maybe he even thought that I would find comfort in Carson’s presence, and maybe I had, if only in that I wasn’t completely alone.

Now, he’s a leash of my own making—strangling yet comforting—and I’m too afraid of my father’s abandonment to slip him.

“You’re fine,” Carson says, but his voice is quiet, and his eyes barely leave my father as they quickly flicker over me.

There is a lot I don’t understand—social cues, relationships, why my father doesn’t seem to like me—but this I do. I was raised in this, isolated and alone. And as much as my dad might not understand me or enjoy my presence, he was very clear.

Art isn’t sustainable. Carson is. I am. Happiness is relative. You have to trust me to take care of you, to know what’s best.

I’d heard the words he didn’t say too. That he was embarrassed by my failure at Harvard. That he’d lost out on his protégé and shot at coaching fame because of me. That he hated how much I seemed to remind him of my mother. That everything bad in his life seemed to swirl back my direction.

Maybe it was why I am thankful he kept me around. That he put up with me despite his clear dislike. Without him, I would be entirely alone. I knew that.

My dad loves me. He just doesn’t like me. And . . . that’s okay for me, at least I think.