“SO YOU GUYS NEVER…”
I groan at Ben’s suggestive tone, cringing at the rude hand gestures he makes. An hour spent painstakingly laying out every detail of mine and Cass’ relationship, and that is the burning question at the forefront of Ben’s mind. Of everyone’s minds, if the curious expressions on everyone’s faces are anything to go by. Typical.
Exchanging a disgusted grimace with Cass, we simultaneously screech a very firm, “No.”
“Jeez,” Ben scoffs, dragging a piece of waffle through a puddle of maple syrup. “It was just a question.”
“You’re awfully defensive,” the instigator supreme pipes up, blue eyes simpering as Luna flutters her lashes innocently.
“Trust me.” The hand draped loosely over my shoulder lifts to tug on my hair. “You see this face one too many times first thing in the morning, the appeal dies pretty quick.”
Scowling playfully, I elbow Cass in the ribs. “Funny.”
Of all the ways I imagined today turning out, not a single rendition involved me squished in a diner booth, a mountain of greasy food spread out before me, with Cass on one side of me, the man whose bed I stole last night on the other.
Word got out quickly and within seconds, Cass and I’s breakfast outing became a group affair. There was no point arguing with the clamoring insistence to join; I know better than to get between my hungover friends and food and, apparently, Cass knows the same. Apparently, his friends are as needy and clingy as mine. And apparently, as I’ve learned over the course of this impromptu outing, our friends get along ridiculously well. As well as Cass and I do. Another thing to add to the list of weird coincidences aligning with the whole fate thing.
It took some rallying but we managed to get everyone out of the house in somewhat of a timely manner, relocating to one of the many diners scattered around campus. It wasn’t exactly a unique idea; I think every attendee of last night’s party occupy the booths around us, the students of UCSV unanimous in their decision to skip class today. The place is filled to the brim with slouching, blurry-eyed, groaning young adults, all sporting the remnants of Halloween costumes in the form of glitter and fake blood and cotton cobwebs.
As odd as this whole thing is, it’s kind of nice. I need a shower, and I need a nap even more, but still, it’s nice. And it’s better than the alternative; being holed up alone in my room, forced to process last night.
It’s a shame the universe decides to deliver a big ‘fuck you’ and force me anyway.
I’m eating the promised pancakes Cass delivered, laughing at some joke one of the guys cracked, when a shadow falls over our table, both literally and figuratively.
My previously delicious, sugar-coated mouthful turns to cardboard when a familiar voice barks my name, as palms hit the edge of our table and the last person I want to see today appears. “We need to talk.”
No hello. No apology. Not even a smile. All Dylan greets me with is an angry, accusing stare and a barked command.
I bristle at his unexpected appearance, and I’m not the only one. Silence settles around the table, everyone jolting upright, an immediate tense edge thickening the air. The only one yet to meet the infamous Dylan, Cass frowns. “Who are you?”
Dylan scoffs as though the question is preposterous. “Her boyfriend.”
“Ex-boyfriend,” more than one person corrects. Most notably, the snarling men on either side of me, and the seething women across from me. I don’t know what Cass is snarling about; the full extent of last night’s events is something he’s not privy to yet, nor does he know anything about Dylan and our relationship. He hates him on principle, and I kind of love him for it. Luna and Kate, I understand; they weren’t his biggest fans to begin with. And Nick… it’s got to be a principle thing too. See a girl get hurt, snarl at the hurter. Relatively speaking, it seems to be a universal dislike, something in the air, because even Ben and Jackson are shooting him evil eyes and they don’t even know the guy.
Dylan blinks disbelievingly at each of us in turn before his gaze lingers on Cass. Specifically, on his arm slung around the back of the booth, grazing my shoulders. “And who the fuck are you?”
Cass kisses his teeth. “I’m her brother.”
“She doesn’t have a brother.”
“She is right here,” I butt in, setting a placating hand on Cass’ tense shoulders and willing myself not to cower as I address Dylan, “And you need to leave.”
“Not until you talk to me.”
“Dylan-”
“Five minutes,” he interrupts, a whining quality to his voice. “Amelia, c’mon.”
“I-”
“Please.”
“She told you to leave.”
Dylan’s narrowed eyes bounce to my other side. “Fuck off, Silva.”
I’m jostled as Nick starts to get up, hindered by the table trapping his big body and by Jackson half-standing across from him, attempting to shove his friend back down with a warning look and a muttered ‘behave.’ Nick ignores him, hands fisted on the table as he death-stares Dylan, looking liable to leap over the table and tackle him at any moment. Dylan’s not helping the matter, goading him with a smug sneer, just daring him to do it. But that’s not even the worst of my worries; Cass, with a curious frown, glances between Dylan, Nick, and me, searching for whatever he’s missing, looking close to finding it.
My head hurts at all the commotion, my wrist throbbing as Dylan pleads, “Talk to me, baby, please.”
“Take a hint, Well. Fuck off.”
“Luna, for once in your life, shut your mouth.”
“Hey!” Luna’s voice is echoed by Jackson’s, the latter abandoning his peacekeeping tendencies as he copies Nick, rising to a half-hovering stance. “Watch it.”
It’s sweet, his show of chivalry, but unnecessary. Unneeded. Luna’s liable to attack when unprovoked. When provoked, when her murder face comes out to play… run for your damn life.
It’s the appearance of said murder-face that has me interrupting the chaos, raising my voice a couple of decibels to be heard over the bickering. “That’s enough.”
I’m surprised when the yammering actually stops, and I shrink a little when all eyes turn to me. Resisting the urge to massage my temples, I blow out a relenting breath and look at Dylan. “Five minutes.”
Five minutes in exchange for some peace. For the sake of my blood pressure. So Luna can maintain a squeaky-clean record. To keep my dirty laundry from being aired to a diner full of my peers.
A round of protesting calls of my name breaks out but I silence my friends with a look and a promise. “I’ll be right back.”
Across from me, Luna harrumphs loudly, side-eyeing Dylan menacingly. “You better be.”
Before anyone can stop me, I nudge Cass out of the booth and shimmy to my feet. I ignore the hand Dylan offers me in favor of walking straight past him, not sparing him or anyone else at the table another glance.
Heavy footsteps follow me through the diner and out the front door. They come to a stop when I do, as I lean against a wall just around the corner, far away enough from prying eyes and ears, close enough to yell for rescue if needed. Arms crossed protectively over my chest, I hold my head up high. “What do you want?”
For someone so intent on talking a moment ago, Dylan is silent for a long minute, his narrowed gaze fixed on my clothes. “What are you wearing?”
I hug myself a little tighter. “Clothes.”
Dylan’s jaw clenches. “Who’s?”
Nick’s hoodie, Ben’s sweats, but he doesn’t need to know that. “Is this seriously what you wanted to talk about?”
“It’s a fucking question, Amelia,” he snaps, and I force myself not to flinch, to remain steady. “I’m allowed to ask questions when my girlfriend’s wearing another man’s clothes.”
As I rake my hands over my face in frustration, a chorus of my friend’s voice rings in my ears. “Ex-girlfriend.”
“C’mon, Amelia.” He reaches out to take my hands but I jerk away, keeping them steadfastly fisted at my side. “You don’t mean that.”
“Yes, Dylan, I really do.”
“Amelia,” Dylan groans my name like I’m annoying him, like I’m the problem here. “You’re gonna throw a year away over one little mistake?”
I can’t help but laugh. One little mistake. God, we have different definitions of ‘little.’ “You fucked another girl, Dylan.”
“It was one time.”
Because that makes it so much better. “We’re done,” I state firmly, finally. “ Leave me alone.”
“Amelia!”
I try to leave but I’m halted by a hand around my bicep, a hand I never want to touch me again. Ripping my arm from his grasp, I whirl around, palms meeting a hard chest as I shove him away with all of my might. “Don’t fucking touch me.”
“You’re being dramatic.”
“Dramatic?” Shaking my head, I roll up my sleeve, thrusting my bruised wrist, the dark purple imprint of his fingers on my pale skin, in his face. “You fucking hurt me, Dylan. You bruised me.”
He swats my hand away without looking, dismissing me with a wave and a handful of words. “That was an accident.”
An accident. It’s always an accident. “Stay away from me.”
Dylan’s nostrils flare in unison with his temper as he steps forward, red creeping up his neck and encroaching on his jaw. “You’re a fucking hypocrite. Giving me shit while you’re strutting around in another man’s clothes? Cozying up to him at breakfast?”
“I wasn’t-”
“Brother,” he scoffs, distrust written all over his tense features. “Do I look stupid?”
“Yeah,” a deep, accented voice drawls. “You do.”
I glance aside as Nick rounds the corner, casual in tone and stance, entirely un-casual in expression. That strong jaw of his looks fit to shatter at any moment, he’s clenching it so hard. His smirk is tight, forced, not the easy going one I’ve become familiar with. And his eyes… they’re burning. Like golden flames. Furious, golden flames firmly fixed on Dylan.
Dylan snickers sarcastically. “Good one, Silva.”
It didn’t click before, Dylan using Nick’s last name, but it does this time. The familiarity in the way he uses it, the venom behind his tone, it registers with me this time. “You two know each other?”
Neither man answers; they’re too busy glowering at each other. I’m beginning to feel a little ignored, honestly, when Nick finally tears his eyes off my ex just long enough to check me over quickly. “You okay?”
“She’s fine,” Dylan answers for me.
“I wasn’t talking to you.”
“Mind your own fucking business.”
Jesus Christ.
Before they have a chance to whip their dicks out and start measuring, I clear my throat. “I’m going back inside.” Dylan opens his mouth to argue but I cut him off like he so often does to me. “Don’t follow me. Don’t call me. Don’t talk to me ever again. Stay away from me,” I repeat. “I’m done.”
Dylan scoffs and splutters, no actual words coming from his mouth as he gapes at me. I can practically see his tiny brain whirring, searching for a viable argument, but I walk away before he can find one.
I half expect him to follow me as I head back inside but he doesn’t; of his own volition or because a certain inexplicably angry man is holding him off, I’m not sure, but either way, I’m grateful. I’m grateful for the crowded diner too because the sea of people means no one notices my re-entry so I’m free to take a detour. Cutting across the room, I make for the hallway housing the bathrooms, seeking a second of privacy before I’m bombarded with questions.
The second I’m out of anyone’s line of sight, I sag against the wall, the fire that fuelled me when giving Dylan the boot abruptly fizzling out. It’s the first moment I’ve had to myself all day, the first semblance of quiet, the first second to think, and it’s like everything catches up with me all at once.
My boyfriend cheated on me.
My boyfriend hurt me.
I no longer have a boyfriend.
I hate him, I genuinely hate him, and I have no rational explanation for the sudden burning behind my eyes because I shouldn’t be crying. I can’t cry over him. I’m not allowed to cry over him, according to the rule I made about thirty seconds ago, yet still, wet eyes become wet cheeks as salty tears escape and track paths down my cheeks. My wrist aches as I dig the heels of my hand into my leaking eyes, an attempt to stem the stream but it only makes it worse. Within seconds, it’s a full-on sob fest, embarrassing sounds escaping me, my body shaking as I cry over someone who doesn’t deserve it.
I jump when fingers graze my arm suddenly, recoiling from the mystery touch. A croaked, incomprehensible but undeniably panicked noise leaves me.
“Shit.” Nick snatches his hand away, my visceral reaction making him back up a step. “Fuck, sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you. I said your name but…”
“It’s fine.” Sniffling, I dry my face as best I can with the sleeve of my hoodie. Crap, no. Not my hoodie. His hoodie. I got my tears and snot all over Nick’s damn hoodie. Fuck. “Sorry.”
“It’s fine,” he parrots my assurance. Ensuring a safe distance between us, he leans against the wall opposite me, so careful as he regards me. He doesn’t say anything else, not a word, but I see the silent question on his face.
With a sigh, I swipe at my eyes again, sucking in a steadying breath before employing what seems to be my new favorite phrase. “I’m fine,” I insist. “Really. I don’t even know why I’m crying.”
Nick’s silence continues, seemingly content with surveying me, and I shift under the attention. I’ve never been one for silence, particularly those of the awkward variety, which is probably why I break it by blurting out, “Thanks for the save. Again.”
“My pleasure,” he says like he means it. I’m tempted to why he came after me, why he swooped in once again. But that has its downfalls. Potential embarrassment when he reveals it to be accidental—he happened to stumble upon us. Definite pity because poor little Amelia. And more embarrassment, again because of poor little Amelia, so backboneless being pushed around by a man, so weak being constantly saved by another. So, yeah. No. I keep quiet, and silence settles between us, only permeated by my occasional sniffling and the odd post-sob hiccup.
“So about that rebound you mentioned last night,” Nick suddenly says, and I jerk in a mixture of surprise and disgust for my past, drunken self. “Anyone in mind?”
“What?”
“Because I’d be more than willing,”
“Nick!”
“What?” He mimics my tone and the wide-eyed look I’m giving him. “I’m hot. I’m good in bed. I come with no strings attached. I’m perfect.”
“And modest.”
“Honest,” he corrects.
Choking on a disbelieving breath, I’m incapable of doing anything but blinking at him in confusion for a long moment before my tongue untangles itself. “Are you seriously hitting on me right now?”
“Is it making you feel better?”
Is a hot man propositioning me making me feel better? “A little.”
“Then, yeah.” Perfect white teeth glint in the shitty diner lighting as full lips stretch in a self-satisfied smile. “I am.”
“You are unbelievable.” Practically able to see the dirty joke forming on his lips, I cut him off before he can say it. “No. Thank you,” yeah, Amelia, thank the man for offering to pity-fuck you, “but no.”
Nick is unfazed by the rejection. He simply shrugs his broad shoulders, his smile never faltering as he makes his exit. “If you change your mind, you know where to find me.”
“I won’t,” I call after his retreating form, a smile on my face that definitely wasn’t there a couple of minutes ago, and I wonder if that was his intention all along.
