Bitter Lies

by Nina Lincoln

  ∞∞∞

  “I read through your file. Is there anything in particular you want to focus on during your time here?”

  My new counselor is younger than I expected, maybe late twenties, with burnished gold hair gelled back over his high forehead, kind blue eyes, and a strong chin. Absently, I note, he’s not bad looking for a man who now holds all my secrets in the palm of his hand.

  “Not really,” I mumble, wondering not for the first time why these asshats always ask me what I need. Don’t you fucking know? You’re the supposed professional.

  Even the room makes me itchy, the fake palm in the corner and tufted chair I sit in at odds with the darkness lurking at the recesses of my vision.

  “Okay, let’s start with what sent you to the hospital,” he says, looking down at his notes. “You were diagnosed with severe depression, PTSD, and catatonia.”

  He glances at me expectantly, and I nod dumbly, licking my dry lips. We can talk all day long about my diagnoses, but they’re just words on a piece of paper that can never portray the actuality of the shadows I found myself in.

  If sinking into a hole, where you can’t feel your limbs, and your soul feels like an empty husk in your chest is depression…well, I guess there you go.

  It wasn’t my intention to lose myself in that bed. It’s just as I lay there, staring at the damn wall, I was overcome with a powerful sense that no matter what I did, I would never see past my mistakes. And if that was my future, why get out of bed at all?

  “How do you feel…”

  ∞∞∞

  My first ever lecture as a college freshman just so happens to be Psych 101, and believe me, the irony isn’t lost on me. Maybe for my term paper, I can do a project on me, myself, and I? What better way to learn than via my own psyche?

  Finding an out-of-the-way spot where I hope I can remain unnoticed, I’m disgruntled when a guy drops down beside me when there is a sea of fucking empty desks to choose from.

  “Hey,” he says with a flirty smile, his dark eyes flashing, except the effort is lost on me because charming guys with cute smiles are the ultimate cons, and what lies beneath is often rotting and fetid.

  “Hey,” I say, decidedly lackluster.

  “So, psychology. I hope this course is easy. I just need a fucking break from the other shit.”

  Smiling weakly, I arrange my pens on my desk, from largest to smallest, soothed by the symmetry because my heart is beating out of my fucking chest.

  Somewhere along the way, when I lost who I thought I was, I forgot how to be an average human being, too. So even though he is essentially harmless, I don’t know how to make small talk or any talk at all.

  Here’s the thing. What writhes beneath the facade is so ugly and dark, I’m not sure how he or anyone can’t see it, and it’s like a wall I can’t step past. Psych 101 doesn’t matter, and this guy doesn’t matter because nothing does when you’re trapped in the morass.

  “How about you?” he asks, breaking me from my reverie.

  “I’m hoping to discover why I cut myself at night and cry because nobody loves me,” I say dryly. To be clear…I’ve never cut myself, but it rolls right off the tongue anyway.

  He blanches, pulling away with horror, and I stretch my mouth into a smile. That’s right, jerk, you can’t handle my brand of crazy, but he’s saved from responding when Griffin, of all people, drops in the seat on the opposite side of me, giving jerk a mercurial stare.

  “Hogan,” he says with a chin dip.

  “Hathaway,” Hogan says with a matching manly response.

  Griff turns his pretty eyes my way coolly, and I stare back mutely, unsure how to process this new turn of events. Griffin hasn’t willingly sat next to me since we were in junior high, and the effort now stinks of something underhanded, but what can I do? Demand he move?

  And since when does he have a class with me? Fuck.

  His mouth curves into a devastating smirk, and I turn away, looking toward our professor with blurry eyes until I focus and blink.

  Because fuck me, but my new therapist stands at the podium, gazing out over the sea of students only to stop on me briefly before moving on.

  Sinking in my seat, I contemplate dropping the damn class and leaving immediately as Griffin chats with Hogan-of-the-unknown-first-name over me, his heated body so close to mine I’m actually warm from the proximity.

  Is it even appropriate for this guy to teach here, knowing he could be counseling a student later?

  “Okay, everyone, let’s jump in. I’m Doctor Joseph Marks, and I’ll be your professor for the term. Hopefully, you didn’t take this course for an easy A,” he chuckles, “because…”

  Although I spend the next fifty minutes writing down notes, it’s by rote because I’m not hearing a damn thing he’s saying, and when everyone closes up, I do, too, slowly.

  Hogan takes off with a mumbled goodbye, and I wait, but when Griff doesn’t rise from his seat along with everyone else, I glance his way curiously.

  He’s sitting in his chair, with his bag in his hand, staring at me.

  “What?” I ask.

  “Are you ready?”

  “For what?”

  “To go,” he says impatiently. “This was your only class today, right? I’ll run you home on my way to the gym.”

  My jaw drops to my knees because what the hell? “How do you know my schedule?”

  Shrugging, he says casually, “Your mom gave it to me.”

  “Of course,” I say, slamming my bag on my desk, frustrated. Did she tell him my fucking menstrual cycle, too?

  “No,” he says with a smirk, “but it’s not hard to tell when you’re on the rag.”

  “What—”

  “Ms. Moore? Is there a problem?” my new therapist/professor asks from the front.

  Slumping, I turn to him with defeat because it would seem I’m going to be analyzed from every angle, and I just wonder for how fucking long because this shit’s getting old already.

  “No,” I say, ignoring Griff beside me.

  “Can you give us a moment, please, Mr.…” Dr. Marks asks, raising his brow.

  “It’s Hathaway,” Griff says with a frown, rising and heading for the door but not without a curious look my way.

  Once he’s exited the room, I step down to the front, watching silently as Dr. Marks closes the door in Griff’s face where he’s spun to stand against the wall opposite the door.

  I spy Griffin’s brows slam over his eyes before he’s cut off, and the professor turns to me.

  “I didn’t anticipate you would be in my class. Is this going to be a problem for you?”

  “I don’t know,” I mutter, shifting uncomfortably. “Isn’t it like a conflict of interest or something?”

  He smiles and do I detect a damn twinkle in his eyes? “It’s not a problem for me if it isn’t for you.”

  “Um, okay,” I say, escaping to the door. “I’ll um, think about it.”

  I’m still not sure how to feel about this, but I’ve got a few days to decide, and my skin is itchy with the need to be alone and process the fuck ton of bricks that have been dropped on my head.

  Between Griffin being in the same damn class as me to my damn counselor being my teacher, I’m starting to think I’d have been better off lying in my own damn stink.

  Griffin’s still standing against the wall when I emerge, and I stalk past him with irritation, ignoring him until we’re outside the building.

  It’s a beautiful September day, the trees and grass lush on the small campus, but it’s lost on me as I turn to him and say, “I can get myself home.”

  The house is a few blocks from campus, easily within walking distance, and even if just being in the fresh air makes my chest clench painfully, he doesn’t need to know.

  I’d prefer to keep the last parts of my fucked-up psyche to myself because clearly nothing else is sacred. What was my mom thinking?

  Why can’t she let me breathe? And why is Griffin looming over
me with a moody expression?

  “And you’ll have plenty of opportunities when I’m busy. Let’s go,” he says with a growl.

  Frowning, I follow behind him, feeling the noose pinching my skin grow ever tighter. Frankly, I’d leave if I had the choice, but another part of my discharge agreement was that I surround myself with family and friends. Of course, my mom interpreted that as living together and blissfully made the arrangements.

  Now I’m stuck for fear that if I don’t comply, they’ll assume I’m sick again. Fuck my life.

  Griffin drives a fancy Suburban gifted to him no doubt by his daddy, and climbing inside silently, I stew as he pulls out of the lot, lost to my thoughts.

  “How does our new professor know your name?” Griff demands into the quiet.

  “What do you mean?” I play dumb, glancing at his stern expression.

  It’s stupid, but I just want this piece of me to remain mine. Is that too much to ask?

  He huffs, his eyes black as he glances at me. “How does the professor of our class on our first day of college know you by name?”

  “I don’t know,” I say waspishly. “Maybe my mom called and gave him a heads-up, too. Watch out for Halsey Moore. She’s batshit crazy!”

  “Halsey…” His warning tone brings my back up as he shoots me a cool glare.

  “Griffin,” I return like a five-year-old child.

  “Fine, you want to play that way?” he mutters, clenching his jaw. I stare fascinated because I haven’t seen this much emotion from Griffin in forever.

  “What does that mean?”

  “Nothing. Get out!” he barks as we pull up to the curb.

  Exiting the vehicle, I slam the door behind me and stalk to the house, tears of frustration welling in my eyes. Fucker. This is none of his business, and he’s not my fucking father. He’s not my brother. He’s not even my friend. Back off.

  ∞∞∞

  I’m still brooding hours later when Max pounds on my door, saying brusquely, “Dinner.”

  Staring at the door with disbelief, I wonder not for the first time if I’m ever going to be treated like a fucking adult. I can feed myself.

  Annoyed, I tromp into the dining area and skid to a stop to find the chick from this weekend embracing Griff in the kitchen, and my pulse stutters before speeding through my veins rapidly.

  Ignoring it all, and them, I grab a plate from the spread before me, noting it’s actually a real meal. Huh. I didn’t know the boys could cook.

  Hesitating, I stand at the threshold to the dining room and consider hiding out in my bedroom until Max says gruffly, “Sit.”

  Or not. With a petulant roll of my eyes, I plunk my plate down across from him and glare, but he’s ignoring me as he chews his food silently. Griff and chick, whose name I can’t recall, sit down across from each other at the tiny four-seater table, all cozy-like.

  And what commences is an incredibly awkward dinner where the only person who isn’t vibrating with tension is chick, who chatters nonstop while I pick at my meal.

  Curiously, I’m picking up tension between Griff and Max, which is unusual; their tension toward me not so much. I’m not entirely sure how she can keep rolling when I can barely eat with the frigid atmosphere, but maybe this is how she deals? Who knows?

  “Anyway, there’s a party this weekend at my sorority. You want to go, Halsey? That’s your name, right?”

  My head swings around, and I blink at her blankly before her words penetrate.

  “Um.”

  “No!” both guys say harshly, the only point in which they seem to be unified this evening.

  We both turn to them with wide eyes before mine narrow. Truthfully, I was going to say no because a party sounds like the seventh circle of hell, but now I’ll be at that party with fucking bells on, even if I hate every fucking minute of it.

  Calmly, I say into the breach as she stares at them curiously, “Yes, I’d like to go.”

  “Hals,” Griff says in warning as Max picks up his plate heatedly and stalks away.

  Shocked at the nickname uttered so casually, I can’t do much more than stare, my heart stuttering in my chest as memories assail me of the Griffin from before. Griffin’s eyes flicker before he looks away with a tic in his jaw that I once again focus on, bemused to see.

  “What’s the harm?” chick asks softly.

  “Yeah?” I turn to Griffin with the same damn question, as he looks between us with a furrowed brow.

  His eyes are dark, as he hesitates. “You don’t understand, Miranda. It’s not safe…”

  My heart pulses in my chest, but I refuse to acknowledge it because no doubt there’s a fucking plan in there somewhere. Maybe he doesn’t want me around to cockblock him; that sounds more likely.

  “But it’s safe enough for me?” Miranda says, raising a mocking brow.

  Shit. I sink in my seat and play with my food, wishing the ground would open up and swallow me. She doesn’t know it yet, but Griffin is as stubborn as they come. He once argued with me for four hours over who was better at chess. This after I beat his ass three times.

  And although completely frustrating, it came in handy when Peter Long teased me in the seventh grade for missing a game-winning shot in PE and Griffin demoralized him every single class after until the end of the year.

  Griffin’s quiet for half a second before he sighs. “Miranda, you don’t—”

  “Then tell me,” she demands.

  “You’re not going,” Max growls from the kitchen.

  “Why? I want to go. I’m going,” I say, crossing my arms over my chest.

  “Well?” Miranda says again, searching his expression curiously.

  Griffin drops his gaze before turning to me and I shiver under his cool glare as he says, looking directly into my eyes, “Halsey’s not safe around herself. She just got released from a mental hospital.”

  You could hear a pin drop after his statement, and I’m momentarily breathless at his cruelty—way to put it out there for the masses, fucker. My mouth trembles, and I clench my fists in my lap as he eyes me quietly for a minute before he turns away, and I glance back at Miranda.

  She’s staring at me wide-eyed, which I ignore as I say quietly, “I’m not a danger to myself. If you’re still interested, I’d like to go.”

  With that, I push back from the table and lock myself in my room, curling up in my bed and letting the tears I willed back before loose.

  Even if I wanted to be normal, it’s impossible around Max and Griffin because they remind me of my damn mistakes every time I turn around.

  Turning to my back with a long-suffering sigh, I acknowledge sadly that sometimes betrayal truly does feel like a knife to the back. At least, that’s what this breathless feeling in my chest is telling me.

  Chapter Four

  You can’t fix broken things, not even with glue and tape and hope.

  I hide away in my room for the remainder of the week, only emerging for class and ensuring it’s after the boys have gone. Although I hate the isolation, leaving the safety of those four walls brings on an itchy anxious feeling I’m not prepared to deal with. Thankfully, they leave me alone because I know I’m at their mercy, just as my mom wanted me to be.

  My three other classes are all introductory, and I’m thankful because I had all advanced courses when I enrolled at the other school for my other life.

  Now, I need the opportunity to relax, especially when it’s so hard to focus. Sometimes I feel like the world is pushing at my chest, and I can’t breathe for it, and frankly, even though I go to class, my heart’s not in it.

  I’m not sure how to see past what’s already happened and how everything can continue to move forward when I can’t. And because I’m so fucked in the head, I haven’t met anyone new and stick to my corner in my classes, hoping if I’m quiet enough, the crazy I can feel lurking under my skin won’t be noticeable.

  You can dope me up on meds, force me into therapy and give me stupid tasks like taking a
daily walk, but none of that erases the dirty lingering in my soul and clawing to be free.

  Truthfully, I preferred the numbness of lying in my bed and staring at the wall, but nobody cares about my suffering as long as I’m doing what’s expected of me.

  I haven’t heard from Miranda, not that I’ve been hanging out where she can find me, so I assume she’s rescinded her offer, and it’s just as well because I’m not ready for a party with people and music and sound. Just the thought makes my skin crawl.

  Thump. Thump. Thump.

  Rolling my eyes to the wall, I sigh. I guess Miranda’s not up for the party either unless Griffin’s fucking some other chick in there.

  “Oh god, yes, right there.”

  And I think I just threw up in my mouth. Exactly how am I supposed to put up with this shit for a year? Four, if my mom has anything to say about it.

  “Ahhhh,” Griffin’s distinctly deep voice rumbles through the wall.

  Fuck this shit.

  Exiting the room, I wander down to the kitchen with a headache brewing and a good dose of jealousy—foolish, I know.

  I mean, we’ve established I’m fucked in the head already.

  Rounding the corner, I find Max standing in the kitchen with a scowl on his face, and he’s the last person I want to see—okay, second to last—but it just goes to show where my priorities lie that I’d take him over the sounds of Griffin fucking some chick.

  “Hey,” he grunts.

  “Hey.”

  Opening the refrigerator for something to do, I pretend to look around and welcome the cool air on my heated face because I’m not technically hungry. For whatever reason, listening to someone else get banged, and good at that, is curiously hot, or maybe it was just the moaning from Griff.

  Ugh.

  “Did you eat today?” Max asks.

  Rolling my eyes to the contents of the refrigerator, I mutter, “Yes.”

  “Hmm.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Whatever. I’m not in the mood for your shit, Halsey.”