by Ashley Jade
I look away, hating how candid I'm being. This entire conversation is stupid and I detest that I can't seem to keep my mouth shut around her. “No one knows why I have Hypercalculia, just that I do.”
I keep the fact that one doctor suspected a brain injury from some kind of childhood trauma to myself. Besides, my father covered his ass when he said that I might have taken a few accidental hits to the head because I grew up playing football with him and my older brother. Hence the scar.
His declaration couldn't have been further from the truth though. I hate the sport and the only time I don't is when I'm making money off it.
Chalk it up to just one more reason I'm a disappointment to Mr. Spencer Holden, former NFL quarterback turned powerful investor and NFL football team owner.
Also known as the man who abused me for years.
My own personal monster under the bed.
“It's really not a big deal. Aside from it being useful in math class and when I play a game of blackjack, it serves no purpose.”
“I think it's kind of cool,” she interjects. “Heck, I'd be charging people to ask me math problems.”
“I'm not a freak show,” I bark, harsher than I intended.
Her eyes widen. “Whoa, I never said you were.” When I don't respond, she shifts uncomfortably. “Why do you have a scar?”
“Why did your grandmother lock you up in a basement?”
Her lips purse. “Maybe we should rock—paper—scissor it.”
“Not gonna lie,” I tell her. “I'm trying really hard not to make an inappropriate remark. It's almost painful.”
To my sheer surprise, she laughs. “Well, just so you know, I'm choosing scissors. Given I'm a lesbian and all.”
I rear back slightly, too enthralled to be crestfallen at her confession. “Tou-fucking-ché, angry girl. I was going to make some lame joke about being harder than a rock, but bravo.”
“Thank you,” she says, taking a mock bow. “Now in exchange for me one-upping your perverted ass, tell me something you've never told anyone else before.”
“My—” I stall, considering my next statement carefully. I had no intention of telling her, but now I find myself wanting to. And technically I've never told anyone about it, so I suppose it qualifies. “My father is the reason for my scar.”
She frowns. “What happened?”
“One day when my older brother Asher was nine and I was seven—” Her face scrunches at the mention of his name, but I continue. “Asher said he was too tired to go to football practice, and my dad went postal. He grabbed his head and kept ramming it into the coffee table. Asher's eye was inching closer to the corner of it with every hit and I knew I had to do something, so I moved it away. Unfortunately, I wasn't strong enough to move it entirely and it still ended up hurting him, but fortunately, it missed his eye.”
A lump fills my throat. “Later that night after Asher was all stitched up and everyone went to sleep...my father dragged me out of bed and did the same thing to me. Only he slammed the back of my head into the corner of the table repeatedly, even after I started bleeding all over the carpet. He told me he would stop if I apologized for getting involved, but I refused. He was hurting my brother and I wanted to protect him. To this day, I still remember the way the wood pounded my skull over and over while I cried. I'd never felt something so painful before.”
Except what came after.
Affliction crosses over her pretty face and she trembles. “Oh my God, Preston. That's horrible. No one ever suspected anything? Not that it's your fault, but you never told anyone? A teacher? School nurse?”
I shake my head. “I couldn't.”
“Why?”
I look at her and our gazes clash. “Probably for the same reasons you never told anyone about your grandmother locking you in a basement.”
There's a moment between us then, and even though no words are exchanged, I don't think I've ever seen someone as clearly as I see her.
“My father is an ex NFL quarterback turned sports team owner and investor. He has the money to get away with just about anything.”
She breaks eye contact. “There's nothing worse than when a person makes you feel powerless and you can't tell a soul about it.”
“No, there isn't.”
She brushes a strand of hair away from her face. “I—uh. I've fallen in love with approximately forty-nine people since I was fifteen.”
My brain rapidly concludes it's almost ten people a year, but I ignore that because I'm a little taken back by her confession. Or rather, why she's telling me this. “I don't—”
“All of them were women.” Her expression shuts down. “It's why she punished me...she hates that I'm gay.”
Those hazel eyes bore into me and I feel the impact right down to my marrow. “I'm gay, Preston,” she says, her voice cracking.
And just like that, I get the reason behind her confession now. I told her earlier that I didn't care enough to earn her trust, but she's given it anyway.
It doesn't matter that I already presumed she was a lesbian because of the Becca situation and the joke she made. She's still giving me her truth in the rawest sense of the word.
She's coming out to me...and silently asking for my acceptance.
She has it.
My brother Asher once told me there's a world of difference between people assuming or even knowing that he's bisexual...and actually confiding in someone that he is.
I don't think I ever really got that until now.
Tears are streaming down her cheeks and I have to restrain myself from walking over and wiping them away.
“I want so badly to be what she wants me to be, but I can't.” She wipes her tears with the back of her hand. “I keep thinking that maybe if I was, then I'd—”
She gives her head a slight shake as if dismissing the thought entirely, but I press on. “Then you'd what?”
She wraps her arms around herself. “Then I'd know what it feels like to be loved by someone again...because I'm starting to forget.”
The distance between us tightens and something deep inside my chest dislodges. I have every reason not to like her, and yet, seeing her so upset like this is the equivalent of someone turning down the sun. The world feels a little colder and a lot less bright when she cries.
“You don't want to be loved by someone like her.” I wait for her to look at me and then I continue. “You deserve more than a love based on contingencies. You, Kit Bishop, deserve the real fucking deal. The best kind of love. The constant, unwavering, selfless, for better or worse, never goes away and they'd do anything to see you smile kind of love. And one day, someone is going to come along and give it to you in spades. They're gonna crash right into you and never let go.”
She smiles through a new batch of tears. “You think so?”
“I know so.”
Because there's someone on this earth who was born to love this girl like she deserves. And I hope like hell she finds them.
“That might be the nicest thing anyone's ever said to me.”
“I have my moments.” I rub my palms on my knees. “So, when did you first realize you were gay? Did you always know, or was there some kind of experience that led to the discovery?”
She ponders the question for a moment before she says, “I'm pretty sure I always knew. But I think something started to click and I realized I was different from other girls when my mom walked in on me making my two dolls kiss while Ken was tossed across the room somewhere.”
I place my hand on my chest. “Ouch, poor Ken.”
She waves a hand. “Don't feel too bad. I gave him to a friend who had hundreds of dolls, so I'm pretty sure he made his rounds.”
“How did your mom react after she walked in?”
She inhales deeply. “She was amazing. I thought she would be upset or tell me I was doing something wrong because my girl dolls shouldn't kiss each other...but she didn't. She sat down next to me, wrapped me in her arms, and told me she loved me.”<
br />
She turns so she's facing the water. “Whenever I come out to someone...I usually hear the same stupid shit. If it's a guy, he'll make a joke about how I'm a wet dream come to life. Then when he realizes I'm serious and not interested, he'll tell me that I'm—” She holds up her fingers and makes air quotes. “Too pretty to be a lesbian and I just haven't found the right guy yet.”
She rubs her temples. “If it's another girl, they're usually supportive at first...but then it happens. They slowly distance themselves, making excuses not to hang out or be alone with me. Like they're afraid I'm going to be overcome with the uncontrollable urge to yank down their pants and shove my face between their legs.”
She shrugs a shoulder. “It's why I only have one best friend. She never treated me like I was a leper. When I came out to her, she said it was no big deal and ordered us a pizza. She never once distanced herself from me or treated me like I was different.”
“I get it.” When she gives me a look, I say, “My brother is gay. Bisexual, actually. When people found out, most weren't too accepting of it.”
She snorts. “That probably has more to do with the fact that he's an asshole.”
When I narrow my eyes she says, “Yeah, I know all about your brother Asher. And had he not cheated and lied to my best friend Breslin back in high school...he would have had at least one person in his corner.”
The tiny hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. I ran into Breslin—literally ran into her—in the courtyard moments after I found Becca and Kit in the cafeteria. I had no idea that she attended Woodside before then though, or that she's Kit's best friend.
“You mean to tell me the friend you just described, the girl who never judged you for being gay is Breslin?” I stand up. “I hate to tell you this, but that girl is a two-faced bitch. She might not be judging you, but it's only so she can bide her time until she fucks you over.”
Kit lurches to her feet and the angry scowl is back with a vengeance. “Excuse me?” She balls her fists. “Don't you dare talk about—”
“Talk about who? The girl who bailed and skipped town after her boyfriend told her he was gay? The girl who slammed the door in his face and said she never wanted to see him again...leaving him there with tears in his goddamn eyes and his heart on the floor? Yeah, she's a fucking peach. Real supportive, that one. So supportive she—” I bite my tongue because if I share the information I have about Breslin...Kit will tell her.
And if Breslin finds out that I know all about her little set up before Asher does, she'll find a way to twist the truth and sink her hooks into him again.
I can see it now. The bitch will wait for the perfect opportunity...probably when he's a successful NFL player...and then she'll plunge that knife right through his heart all over again and take him to the cleaners.
Fuck that. I'm keeping this shit to myself. At least until Asher and his new boyfriend, Landon, are together long enough that he forgets all about her and can move on from both her and her betrayal.
Kit gets close to my face, or rather, my chest, given she's so tiny. “Don't call my best friend a bitch.”
“Don't call my brother an asshole,” I counter, and she shoves me.
When my 6'3” frame doesn't budge, she tries again.
“Get the hell off my bridge,” she screams.
“Believe me I would, but I don't know my way out of here,” I scream back. “Why the fuck do you think I've been sitting here talking to you for hours?”
She looks at me like I slapped her, and I immediately wish I could take the words back. “Dammit, Kit. I—”
“Shut up.” She digs around in her purse for a pen and paper and rapidly scribbles something on it before she slaps it on my chest. “Here. Now go.”
“I—”
She starts walking to her car. “Leave me alone, Preston.”
“Kit.”
She holds up a hand. “You said we could pretend tonight never happened and we could go back to being enemies, remember?”
I open my car door. “Yeah, I remember.”
Her eyes become tiny slits. “Have fun enjoying the life that I'm supposed to be living with her. Enjoy having everything I ever wanted.”
When she gives me her back, I slide into the driver's seat and turn the key.
The engine roars to life and the headlights illuminate her form as I shift my car into reverse and pull away. It's only then that I notice two large angel wing tattoos on opposite sides of her shoulder blades.
A moment later, her small body starts shaking with sobs.
Check.
II
“Women are meant to be loved, not to be understood.” ― Oscar Wilde
It's all I can do not to walk over and bash their heads together as I watch them from across the cafeteria.
Both Landon and Asher, my best friend's exes, or whatever they are at this point, are practically salivating—sitting with their chests puffed out, like two dogs fighting over a bone as their eyes lock on Breslin.
Not that I can't understand why. Despite speculations around campus over the years, I've never been sexually attracted to her. Probably because I consider her more of a sister than a friend. That said, the girl is gorgeous. She's all curves for days, huge boobs, and fierce red hair with a fiery personality to match.
My gaze rests on Asher and I freeze. There's no refuting that he and his brother bear a strong resemblance to one another, deep dimples included. But while Asher is all light blue eyes and blond hair—giving him that golden boy vibe, Preston's features are darker...sharper—giving his appearance an intensity his older brother lacks.
And even though I prefer pussy to penis seven days a week and twice on Sundays, I can't deny—objectively speaking, of course—that both Holdens are good looking.
Good looking jerks.
Sighing, I focus back on my friend. “They're still staring at you.”
She stabs a piece of lettuce with her fork, and I wonder which one of them she imagines it is, seeing as they both did quite a number on her. “I know.”
I take a long sip of my soda, silently pondering if I should ask my next question, given it's none of my business. On the other hand, Breslin getting hurt again is my business and if what's happening between the three of them is what I'm thinking—Mamma Mia, things are going to get complicated.
“Okay, that's it,” I say because I'd rather focus on her drama instead of mine. “The suspense is killing me. What is going on? You haven't slept at the dorm the past two nights, and no offense, but you look exhausted.”
“I'm not exactly sure,” she says. “But I don't want to talk about it right now.”
Concern punches me in the gut, but when I open my mouth to tell her I'm here for her, I make the awful mistake of looking up.
Just like that, my concern for her rapidly turns to concern for Preston Holden...because he has the balls, and evidently the stupidity, to start walking toward me.
I have nothing to say to him—nothing good anyway—after what happened the other night.
My heart spasms when he sits down in front of us, his eyes solely glued on me.
Breslin makes to stand, but I reach for her hand under the table, silently urging her to stay because I don't want to be alone with him again.
Preston grips the back of his neck, and before I can ask him what the hell he's doing here... he pulls something out of his pocket and slides it across the table.
My breath freezes in my chest because I would recognize that jewelry box with my eyes closed.
It's my mother's engagement ring.
He looks at me then and I honestly don't know how it's possible to hate someone, and yet, want to hug them with everything you're barely hanging on to.
“Give this to someone who deserves it next time.”
His words are like a fist to the face. Not only because it brings me back to our conversation on the bridge...but it's a reminder of the situation we're in and why we can never be friends.
“How'
s the baby?” I ask when he stands up. The words feel like sandpaper in my throat, but I know no matter how much I hate him and Becca, I could never find it in my heart to hate or wish ill on an innocent baby.
A baby Becca and I once talked about having after we got married.
He looks around the room and lets out a sigh. “Baby's good. We had our first sonogram today.”
There's something significant in his eyes when he says that, almost like he's finally accepted this baby is happening...whether he likes it or not.
A bolt of pain shoots through me with my own acceptance. There's no way back from this. Becca is having a baby...with him.
The girl I love is going to have everything we were supposed to...with someone else.
I draw in a breath and nod, trying like hell to push through the ache. I can feel myself crumbling like cheap plasterboard with every beat of my broken heart.
“I'm sorry,” Preston says solemnly in my direction before he backs away, his tall frame becoming blurry.
The second he's out those doors, the fragile dam inside me breaks and I lose it.
I hate the idea of people witnessing my meltdown, especially since I gave them all quite a show last week, but I can't help myself.
I've never been good at controlling my emotions, and when I feel something, good or bad, I feel it with all my heart and soul.
Breslin stands up and wraps me in her arms before she ushers me into a bathroom.
“I'm so sorry, honey,” she whispers. “I wish I could take it all away.”
“Me too.” My fingers wrap around the jewelry box. “This was my mom's.”
It's my feeble attempt at trying to get her to understand how serious I was about Becca. I know Breslin had her reservations about her, and in the end, she was right, but I thought Becca was the one.
Our relationship wasn't perfect, and deep down I always felt like there was something about her I couldn't quite figure out, but I told myself it didn't matter. Because when I was with her, I was happy.
And it's been such a long time since I've truly felt that.
Almost nine long years.