IT’S ALMOST HALLOWEEN. My favorite time of year. The school doesn’t recognize the actual holiday with garish decorations of ghosts and black cats and jack o’ lanterns, but it does decorate the campus with giant pots of colorful mums and bales of hay stacked on either side of the doorways, a variety of pumpkins scattered about. There are scarecrows that one of the dining hall ladies makes every year according to Sylvie, and they’re cute, with friendly faces and straw hair, plucky little hats sitting on their heads. Some of the teachers burn fall scented candles in their classrooms, making me nostalgic every time I smell one.
My mother used to do that when I was younger. Burn all of her fall candles throughout the season, before she switched to Christmas scents. She’d decorate the house with cute Halloween-themed items she picked up over the years, and I’d get excited every October when she pulled the orange and black storage boxes out. I loved dressing up for the holiday the most, becoming someone different every Halloween, even if it was just for one night. I still yearn to dress up. To pretend to be someone I’m not.
I think I’m having an identity crisis at the ripe age of seventeen and three quarters.
Whispers start among the students on campus as the days draw closer and closer to the thirty-first. Of a party planned, out among the ruins Whit took me to, which makes me assume he’s the one who organized the party in the first place. Not that he’s ever mentioned the party to me.
We meet at night, once, twice, sometimes three times a week. We mess around. We fuck. We don’t really speak to each other. He’s keeping his distance from me on purpose, as if he showed me too much vulnerability that one night. When he was visibly upset that he hurt me, marked me, despite his earlier threats that he craved to do exactly that.
We don’t really communicate in class either. We’re wooden. Acknowledging each other in the barest of ways, his eyes flat, his expression impassive. It feels like I’m losing him, and I don’t know why. I don’t even know why it matters. I should be glad. But he still hasn’t returned my journal to me. We don’t mention it.
It’s not even about the journal anymore. I don’t care. He can read every last word of it, and it wouldn’t matter. Not any longer. I wish he’d talk to me. Act like he cared, like he did before. I don’t want him to forget me.
But I think he already has. I’ve become a rote habit for him and nothing more. A girl to fuck. He doesn’t even threaten me anymore.
I’d rather have him be mean toward me than act like I don’t matter to him at all. Ambivalence is the worst feeling you could ever have for someone, and I think that’s what Whit has for me.
It’s awful.
The weekend before Halloween, Sylvie comes to me in the library Friday afternoon, her eyes bright, her face pink with vitality. Life. She’s in high spirits, and I don’t think I’ve ever seen her look so pretty. So alive. “You’re coming shopping with me.”
“Where?” I ask, hating how apprehensive I feel. What does she want from me? Why do I think everyone’s out to get me?
“Thrift shops. One of those temp Halloween costume stores they always have in town.” She bounces up and down, looking terribly pleased with herself. “We need costumes for Halloween night.”
“And what exactly is happening that night?” I need confirmation of this party once and for all. Whit certainly isn’t going to tell me about it.
“Haven’t you heard all the rumors? Whit came up with the best idea, and I’ve been helping him. We’re having a party on campus, among the ruins from the fire that happened a long time ago.” She tilts her head, contemplating me. “Have you ever been out there?”
“No,” I say solemnly, desperate not to give myself away.
“Oh. Wait until you see it. It’s beautiful. Creepy. Perfect Halloween scenario. Whit already asked Father, who gave his approval. It’s going to be so much fun,” Sylvie practically squeals.
I smile, but it’s weak. Being out there will just remind me of what happened between us last time, and it’ll make me sad. It’ll make me miss him, which is so incredibly stupid. Why do I miss a boy who clearly doesn’t give a shit about me?
Maybe Whit was right. My self-esteem is for shit. If I don’t care about myself, then no wonder no one cares about me either. My father. My mother. Daniel, my first supposed love. Yates—ugh. I don’t even feel bad that he’s dead.
He was a terrible person. Awful. Selfish. Demanding. Strange.
The only person I truly miss is Jonas. He cared. He had faith in me when it felt like no one else ever did. And now he’s gone.
It’s my fault too.
I sniff loudly, on the verge of tears when I feel Sylvie’s hand settle lightly on my arm.
“Are you okay?” she murmurs.
I lift my head, shaking my hair back, unable to hide the tears shining in my eyes. “I’m fine.” I swipe at the corners of my eyes, catching the tears that don’t fall. I can’t remember the last time I actually cried. “Homesick, I guess.”
What a bunch of shit, but I need an excuse.
“Aw.” Sylvie squeezes my arm, her touch gentle. “It’s okay. We all feel that way sometimes out here. Well, not me since I go home all the time thanks to my mother, but you know what I mean.”
“Right.” I nod, sniffing again. “Sure.”
Sylvie changes the subject and starts rattling on about Halloween costumes, but I’m not really listening. Though I should. Getting caught up in her excitement would be the perfect distraction I need. I swallow hard and turn to look at her, forcing myself to listen.
“…and so I was thinking I could be a sexy angel? But like, a devil’s angel, because when I die, I doubt I’m going to heaven,” she says with a laugh.
“Why would you say that?” I know for a fucking fact I’m not going to heaven, but I have my reasons. None of them I’d share with her.
She leans in close, pressing her forehead to mine. “I’m not a nice person, Summer. Haven’t you realized that by now? I’m spoiled and mean. Over-indulged and dumb. I’m not going to amount to anything in this world, but the bar is set pretty low, so what would anyone expect?”
I blink at her, taking in her words. They don’t feel like anything she’d think about herself. “Who told you that?” I whisper.
Sylvie pulls away from me, her eyes gleaming with approval, like she wanted to shock me. “The woman who birthed me, of course. She hates me. I have serious middle child syndrome, haven’t you noticed?”
“If she hates you so much, why does she take you to the doctor all the time, looking for the cure to your mystery ailments?” I ask, genuinely wanting to know.
“She’s not looking for the cure, Summer,” Sylvie practically drawls, glancing toward the window. “She’s trying to kill me so she doesn’t have to deal with me any longer.”
A gasp leaves me and she turns her head, her eyes narrowed into slits. “Don’t act all surprised. Isn’t it obvious? Whit is the golden child. The only boy. The heir apparent to the massive Lancaster fortune. And then there’s Carolina. The tiny dancer. She’ll become world renowned, queen of the ballet. She’s already on her way. Everyone adores her.”
“Sylvie.” My voice is a harsh whisper and I scoot closer to her, not wanting anyone to overhear us. “You don’t believe your mother is really—”
“You’re right, I don’t,” she interrupts, laughing so loud, she sends Miss Taylor into shushing fits. “I just wanted to see your reaction when I said it. Though I really do suffer from middle child syndrome. No one gives a shit about me. They never really have.”
I blink at her, trying to process what she said, what it all means. If she’s being serious or not. “Your brother cares about you.”
“Because he has to,” she retorts, watching me carefully. “You’ve accomplished something major, you know that right?”
I rear back from her, frowning. “What do you mean?”
“You’ve earned the approval from not just one, but two Lancasters.” When my frown deepens, she continues, “Me and Whit.”
“Whit doesn’t approve of me,” I say quickly.
“He approves enough to sneak you into his room.” Her smile is knowing. I’m sure she’s seen me.
“It’s nothing,” I tell her. “Meaningless.”
“He’s just using you?” she asks, raising her brows.
“We’re using each other,” I correct.
“Whit doesn’t attach himself to the same girl more than once. Twice, and usually that’s by mistake. He’s very much a one and done kind of guy,” Sylvie says. “Not that I pay too much attention to my brother’s sex life, because ew. But I do know what’s going on, because I can’t help but see it. And what’s going on between you and my brother? Is not the norm for him.”
“He treats me like garbage most of the time when we’re together,” I mumble, feeling stupid for even admitting it.
Whit won’t be happy that I’m talking about him to his sister either.
“He treats everyone like garbage. Including me,” Sylvie says. “Don’t take it too personally.”
Easy for her to say. I take everything Whit says and does personally, especially lately.
“I’m just a habit. I scratch his itch, so to speak.” My cheeks grow warm and I clamp my lips shut. I should quit while I’m ahead.
Sylvie giggles. “He must have a freaking rash then, because you’re scratching his itch on a regular basis.”
I wad up a piece of paper and toss it at her. Laughing, she bats it away. Miss Taylor shushes us, even says Sylvie’s name, but we ignore her.
When you’re with a Lancaster, you can ignore everyone.
Friday night and everyone’s at the football field—our last home game of the season. I don’t go, because there’s still no one for me to sit with. I haven’t made any friends beyond Sylvie, and I’m okay with that. Sylvie hates football, so she doesn’t go to the games. I think she does it on purpose. Spencer plays football so she stays away and it drives him crazy.
Their interactions make no sense to me, but I have zero room to talk, considering the fucked-up supposed relationship I have with Whit. So I say nothing.
It’s none of my business anyway.
There’s a soft knock on my door around eight-thirty and I climb off my bed, ready to answer it when the door swings open.
Whit stands in the doorway, watching me. He braces his hands on the doorframe, leaning away from the door and remaining in the hall. For anyone to see.
“Get in here,” I whisper-hiss.
“You gave me permission,” he says as if he needs to remind me, his tone nonchalant as he strolls into my room, slamming the door behind him.
I stay rooted in place, not moving when he walks right up to me, so close, his shoes brush against my toes. “Why are you here?”
“Why am I always here?” He reaches for me, his arm going around my waist, his hand sliding to my butt and pulling me into him, but I resist, desperate to keep space between our bodies. “What the fuck, Savage?”
“I’m not in the mood.” I rip myself out of his grip and return to my bed, tugging the covers over most of my body.
“You’re not in the mood?” He actually scoffs. “Please. Don’t pout. It’s not a good look for you.”
“I’m on my period,” I tell him, which is a lie. I had it last week. And the one night we were together when it was at its heaviest, I gave him a blow job and that was it. Not like he protested. He loves nothing more than having my lips wrapped around his dick.
He studies me, his expression fierce as he slowly approaches my bed. “So if I slipped my hand in your panties, I’d encounter blood?”
I roll my eyes. “I use a tampon, asshole.”
“Right, so I’d find that little string then?” He lifts a brow.
He has way too much knowledge of the female body. This should bother me. But I can’t judge him for his past sexual conquests, just like he can’t judge me for what I’ve done.
“It’s my first day,” I tell him, wanting to gross him out. “Heavy flow and all. You don’t want to risk it.”
“Risk what?” He sounds genuinely interested.
I make a face. “It’s really heavy.”
If he tries to dive beneath my panties, he’s going to find nothing. And he might be pissed that I’m lying.
“I’m curious though,” he says.
“You’re also gross.”
“It’s a natural bodily function.” He shrugs. “Are you freaked out by the sight of blood?”
“Of course not. I bleed out of my vagina on a monthly basis,” I retort.
“I’m not scared.”
“You’re a perv,” I spit out.
“So are you.” His voice is annoyingly calm.
I glare. He watches me with that ever present impassive expression on his face. “Come on, Savage. Let me see.”
“Absolutely not.”
“Right. Because you’re lying.” He literally pounces on top of me on the bed, a yelp escaping my lips. He settles his big hand over my mouth to keep me quiet, thrusting his face in mine. “You were on your period last week. That’s why you gave me the BJ and wouldn’t let me touch you.”
I narrow my eyes, hating how observant he is. How he remembers every little thing.
“And you were a grumpy little shit. PMS is real and you suffer from it mightily,” he continues.
I try to buck him off my body and he laughs, the asshole. Doesn’t remove his hand from my mouth either.
“You’re grumpy tonight too. What the hell is your problem?” He drops his hand from my face.
“I don’t want to do this anymore,” I tell him, my voice weak. It’s hard, denying yourself something that you actually enjoy. Yes, for some weird reason, I enjoy Whit’s cruelty. His mind games. His terrible words and soft touch.
But what we’re doing is fucked up. I’m tired of feeling like a mess all the time. I just want to be normal.
“Really.” His tone tells me he doesn’t believe me.
“Yes, really,” I retort. “And I want my journal back.”
His gaze narrows. “I haven’t finished reading it yet.”
“Just—what’s the point anymore? Give it back. You’ve found out all my secrets already. What more is there for us to do? Haven’t you blackmailed me enough?” I ask, my gaze flickering away from his, my stomach knotting with nerves. I hate the idea of him finding out what I did to Jonas and Yates, but it’s bound to happen. He’s had my journal for almost two months. I almost don’t believe him when he says he hasn’t finished it yet.
He’s probably ready to reveal he knows my biggest secret right now. He’ll drop the bomb, it’ll detonate, and none of this will ever be over.
Whit slides off my body and off the bed. He’s on his feet, staring down at me, his gaze contemplative as he rests his hands on his hips. “You want this to be over.”
I nod, pulling the covers up higher, until they’re at my chin. “Yes. I do.”
“My father said I should stop fucking you.”
I drop the covers and sit up straight, shock coursing through my veins, chilling my blood. “What the hell, Whit? You told your father we’re together?”
“I told my father I was fucking someone, not that I’m with someone. Big difference,” he corrects, his words a weapon. Reminding me of my place. “And I never mentioned your name.”
“Thank God,” I breathe out, trying to ignore the pain his words made me feel.
He doesn’t care about me. We’re just fucking. I know this.
Yet it still hurts.
“I’m marrying someone,” he announces, and my jaw drops. “Not right now, but it’s already been arranged.”
“You’re not even eighteen,” I point out.
“I will be soon.”
“And what, you’ll get married then?” I ask incredulously.
He grimaces. “Of course not. We’re too young for that. But we’re expected to be together. Me and my future bride. We need to start making a show of it—of our relationship. We’ll go to college. We’ll be a couple the entire time. I’ll ask her to marry me. We’ll have a big wedding at the Newport house. It’ll be everything my mother could ever want.”
He describes it in such a monotone voice, I know he doesn’t believe a word he’s saying. He doesn’t want this.
So why is he doing it?
“Is that what you want?” I ask him.
He shoves his hands in his jeans’ pockets, averting his head. As if he can’t face me. “I don’t have any say in it.”
“You’re heir to one of the biggest fortunes in the world, and you don’t have a say in who you marry?” I climb out of bed and start pacing, overcome with what he’s telling me. “That’s fucking ridiculous.”
“You’re the one being fucking ridiculous right now,” he says, his voice dark, his eyes cold as he watches me. “You can’t judge me. My situation may sound crazy to you, but it’s normal in our social circles, of which you’re no part of. Matches are created, mergers are necessary. Lineages must be preserved.”
I ignore the insult. When it comes to Whit, I’m definitely getting a thicker skin. “So if you were to marry a lowly girl from say…New Mexico, then it would make every Lancaster in the ground roll over in their graves?” I toss out at him. I don’t know why I came up with New Mexico. I don’t even know what I’m saying, but what he’s telling me is straight out of a historical novel. Like British royalty stuff.
He actually chuckles, the smug bastard. “Most likely. Life isn’t as simple as you think, Savage. There are expectations set upon me, right from birth, especially being the first male. The only male from my father. I have to maintain a certain image, and there are promises I must keep to my family.”
“Totally understandable.” I don’t get it, but whatever. It’s easier if I just accept it and move on from this once and for all. “You can leave now.” I point at the door.
He watches me carefully as he says, “I’ll give you back your journal.”
“You will?” My voice is scratchy and I swallow hard against the sudden emotions rising within me. Returning the journal means he really won’t see me anymore. I’m the one who made that demand in the first place, but God help me…
I’ll miss him.
“Give me till Halloween.” I start to complain, but he lifts his hand, silencing me. “We’re putting together the party right now, and I have a lot going on. I can return it to you after that. It’s only a few days, Savage. You can wait.”
“Okay,” I whisper, watching as he makes his way to my door. He pauses there, his hand on the handle, his back to me.
“This is really it?” He says it as a question, as if he wants me to do something. Say something. Like beg him to stay.
There will be no begging on my part. I won’t stoop that low. If he looks back though, I’ll say no. If he says he’ll miss me, I’ll invite him into my bed.
But he does none of that. He remains in place, hand still on the handle, back and shoulders stiff with tension.
“Goodbye, Whit,” I say firmly.
He doesn’t respond. Simply opens and closes the door without a backward glance.
