So I decide to let it go.
Big mistake. Huge. If I hadn’t, if I’d trusted my own instincts, would things have turned out differently? Hindsight. Mm. Fucking twenty-twenty, am I right?
“We are not getting together,” Parrish says instead, gesturing between me and him. He takes a step back and exhales, letting his head fall back and his eyes close. “Stop harping on it.”
“See, here’s the thing,” I tell him, standing up and then putting my palm flat on his tattooed chest, right over the green-blue scales of a dragon. “You are the one who keeps bringing that up, who keeps vehemently denying it. Why is that? Why are you so obsessed with the idea of me being into you? Wishful thinking is all I can come up with.” I take my hand away just as Parrish’s eyes open and he slowly—oh so very slowly—lifts his head back up to look at me.
“What kind of pervert do you take me for?” he whispers, almost like the question is more for himself than it is for me. “You’re supposed to be … like a sister or something.” He scrubs his face again and then points at the door. “Respect my boundaries and get the fuck out of my room.”
“Like a sister, but I’m not your sister. You’re not my brother,” I tell him, but he’s got me with the boundary thing. People deserve safe spaces and the right to say no to those trying to breach them. So I leave and he slams the door behind me.
My palms are sweaty, my heart is racing, and I can’t seem to grasp the fact that I have a stupid teenage crush on Parrish. For a second there, my mind goes blank trying to remember the name of the guy I was crushing on back home. Ryan. Right, right, it was Ryan. Ryan … something.
“Gah!” I rub at my face for a moment. Maybe if that crush faded so easily, this one will, too?
I retreat into my room, close the door behind me, and lock it.
Before I climb back into bed though, I set my phone up on a mini-tripod atop my dresser. If I do sleepwalk—or if someone comes in—I’ll know.
For now, there’s no point in stressing Tess out anymore than she already is. Her control over me is absolute at this point, and I don’t need to fan that fire without good reason.
My first week at Whitehall isn’t as bad as I thought it would be. Frankly, the worst part of the day is the ride to school, stuffed in the backseat with either Kimber or Parrish, or in the front with Paul—the hypocrite who gripes at us for being on our phones too much and yet has his glued to his goddamn ear.
“I’m tired of that DingDong app. It’s owned by the Chinese government, and it’s nothing but a data farm,” Paul continues as Parrish turns a muted scowl in his father’s direction. It’s now Friday and by this point, I’m more than used to their daily bickering. “Turn it off and enjoy the scenery around you.”
“You mean the way you do?” Parrish quips, apparently deciding against mentioning the misnomer of DingDong in place of TikTok. Close enough, I guess. And I mean, Paul is right about the rest of it.
“Don’t get smart me with me, son,” Paul reprimands, answering another phone call with the hands-free button on his steering wheel. That must be nice, to have one of those. Grandpa’s truck most definitely didn’t have Bluetooth. It didn’t even have AC or automatic windows. I mean, it was a freaking classic. God, I miss that truck, I think as I turn to look over at Kimber while Paul mouths, “this is work, I have to take it.” And then proceeds with his phone call uninterrupted.
“What the hell are you staring at?” Kimber whispers to me, her blond waves swept into a low pony and tied with a scrunchie. It’s her only form of self-expression; everything else about her uniform is perfect and polished. That is, until she gets to school and rolls the waistband over three times until her ass hangs out then leaves it that way until she gets told by the administration that it’s unhygienic to sit bare panties on the chair seats. At least they don’t slut-shame. I’ve decided I’m more comfortable in slacks, and Kimber already hates me for it. “Are you a dyke or something?” she asks as she stares at the offending pants, which is a question that just makes me laugh.
“Because I like pants? Girls can wear pants, Kimber. This isn’t the nineteen-fifties. I can wear or do whatever I want; it isn’t an indication of my sex or my sexual attraction.”
“You’re so uppity,” she breathes, like my being assertive is a problem. “And don’t you think it’s creepy that you’ve carved out a niche for yourself at the school for dating your own brother?”
