Page 82 of Secret Obsession
It’s cold and efficient, and how she tackled all of my teenage drama.
“Perfect! We’ll solidify the dates, since it’s coming up in just about a month. What else is going on with you?”
The hairs on the back of my neck stand up. I look around. It takes me a moment to realize that I’ve left campus. Just wandered right out the gates, headed toward Haven.
Well, it’s about to bemyhaven. I hurry along the sidewalk and tell Mom about my classes. Classes are safe to discuss with her, because they’re safe in general. They’re normal to stress over.
“Okay, honey,” Mom says after I’ve pushed in through the doors to Haven.
Clearly, she can hear the shift of background noise.
“I’ll let you go. Thanks for calling, honey.”
“Of course. Talk to you soon.” I hit theendbutton and slip my phone back in my pocket. My stomach growls, reminding me that I haven’t eaten anything since the breakfast sandwich Miles handed me. It was surprisingly delicious, actually. Not that I’d admit it out loud.
But now, I wave to one of the waitresses. She gestures to any of the open tables along the windows. I take one a good way down and set my bag on the chair beside me.
Never-ending homework—but now at least I’ll be able to eat while doing it.
I order a drink and burger, then crack open my laptop. I slip earbuds in and turn up the white-noise music. It’s supposed to focus your brain, and I’ve always believed in that shit. Like,yes, this random assortment of noises will keep me concentrating much better than All Time Low or Harry Styles.
Four drinks and another order of fries later, and I’mtoast. Also, toasted. That’s a thing, right? It sounds like something people would say. Aeuphemismfor drunk. Pissed. Blasted.
I slouch in my chair and zip closed my backpack. I quit homework a while ago, and now I’m just enjoying the afterburn of a certain salt-rimmed drink.
You know what I’m talking about.
“Water?” the waitress asks, setting one down in front of me.
“Thanks.” My smile feelssomuch less forced right now. My lips just tip up like I was born to smile. Or grin. Am I grinning? Showing too much teeth can be a detriment. It can scare people away, because sometimes it can be misconstrued as a teeth-bared expression.
Or so I’ve heard.
I touch my cheeks. They’re warm, and I’m sure my face is on fire.
The chair opposite me is dragged out. I look up, my lips parting.
Miles drops into the seat. His gaze is impassive, but I’m sure he’s pissed about something. He’s always mad, isn’t he?
Belatedly, his last rule comes drifting back to me.
The no-drinking rule.
I sit up straighter and drop my probing fingers from my cheeks, lacing them in my lap. I’m glad, at theveryleast, that the waitress already cleared most of my table. All that’s left is the water in front of me.
“Willow.”
I eye him.
Can I get away with pretending to be sober?
His hair is wet again. He must shower at the arena, in the locker rooms. How rough was his practice? He looks like shit. Dark circles—wait, no, those are bruises—under his eyes, his split lip scabbed over. They were there earlier. I didn’t split his lip. Or hit him in the nose again. But someone did.
Those eyes burn into me.
His nose is a little swollen, too.
“How much?” His voice is so quiet.
