Those old memories aren’t pleasant. I wasn’t happy—far from it. No one was listening to me. I only found absolute peace when I got away from Yates and it was just Mom and me. Living with him, having to deal with him all the time, his persistence eventually wore me down. More times than I could count.
And it was…horrible.
Knowing that I was about to spend my entire summer with him, the summer before my senior year, pushed me to my limits. I did something that’s almost…scary.
But it got me away from him.
Forever.
“I just sent your new schedule to the printer. Vivian will have it ready for you. Good luck today, Summer,” Headmaster Matthews says, his shrewd gaze landing on me.
You’re going to need it.
I can hear the unspoken words there, hovering in the room. Oblivious to it all and pleased with getting her way, Mother stands and I rise too, fighting the nerves swimming in my stomach.
“Thank you for understanding our needs,” Mother says. “We’re so grateful.”
“Of course. Anything for a—friend of Mr. Lancaster’s,” he says.
I catch the emphasis the headmaster made. So does Mother. She marches out of his tiny office with her head held high, snatching the newly printed schedule from Vivian’s fingers without so much as a thank you as we pass by her. Vivian mutters something under her breath, and I pretend like I didn’t hear it, though I did.
“Whore,” is what she whispered.
The word follows my mother everywhere she goes, and she’s an expert at ignoring people. I don’t know how she does it. I remember the boy I met. The son of the man she had the affair with, and how he called me a whore too. Those memories linger in the forefront of my mind, especially when I’m in bed late at night. I remember how he made me feel. His cruel words, his brutal kiss.
I’ve been chasing after that feeling ever since.
Two
Summer
I enter the honors English class early, since I already missed most of first period, and go to the desk where a giant, dark-haired man is sitting, chatting with a couple of students. The girls are pretty, their uniforms immaculate, their hair a matching golden blonde, long and parted in the middle. They’re carefree in the way they toss their heads back and laugh at something the teacher said, and I envy just how comfortable they are. They’re so confident, so sure of themselves, and I understand why. They’ve been here for three years; they’ve put in the time, and now they’re on top. The seniors. Ready to rule the school.
And here I am, barging into their class thanks to my overbearing mother, as if I belong here. I don’t.
And I know it.
When they all turn to look at me, their expressions full of disdain, I shrink back from them, handing over my schedule to Mr. Figueroa with shaky fingers.
“Hi. I’m in this class,” I say.
He glances over the schedule, his dark brows drawing together. “I’m afraid there must be some mistake.”
I say nothing. Just glance around the classroom, pretending I don’t know what just happened in the headmaster’s office.
Figueroa picks up the phone on his desk and dials a three-number extension. “Hey. Yes, I have a—” he looks over my schedule, “—Summer Savage here, claiming she’s in Senior Honors?”
He goes quiet, listening to whatever Headmaster Matthews is telling him and I want to disappear into myself. The girls are obviously listening, their gazes cutting to me, and one of them leans over to whisper to the other, her hand cupped around the other girl’s ear so I can’t hear them.
They don’t bother trying to hide they’re talking about me. I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised.
“I see.” His voice is low. A little cold. “All right then. Thank you.” He hangs up the phone and looks at me, his expression impassive as he hands me back my schedule. “You can go ahead and sit down, Miss Savage. Class will begin in a few minutes.”
I do as he says, sitting in the very front, on the farthest side of the classroom. I pull out a fresh notebook and a pen, taking the cap off with my teeth before I open the notebook, smoothing my hand down the blank page. I’m filled with the urge to write in my journal, but it’s buried deep in my backpack and I don’t want to pull it out, only to have to put it away.
My journal carries all of my thoughts. My feelings. Notes and doodles. Scraps of paper I wanted to save. A receipt from the time my friends and I went to that new coffee shop, right before I moved. A concert ticket stub when I went to see Harry Styles. A note from Yates, threatening me. A rumpled, stained with champagne cocktail napkin taken from that party, the night I kissed that terrible boy. It was a dark navy blue, with a giant white L in the dead center.
For Lancaster.
Sometimes I like to flip through my journal, running my fingers over the bits of paper, rereading my entries. Some are hard to read, like the night of the fire. My interactions with my stepbrother. The argument with my stepfather. My falling out with my friends.
Others make me smile. Still others make me yearn for the old times, when I was still young and innocent and believed there were good people in the world.
Now I’m not so sure if any even exist.
Students slowly trickle into the classroom, every single one of them looking at me with confusion in their eyes. They expect to know every single person in this class, so I understand why I trip them up.
“Okay, are we all here? I think so.” Figueroa stands and goes to the white board, writing Romeo and Juliet in blue ink. “Welcome to senior honors English. It is truly an honor to be here.” He smiles. The class chuckles. He points at the board with his capped marker. “This was your summer reading assignment. I hope you’re all fully prepared for the assignments I’m about to make.”
He sends me a doubtful look and I smile in return, writing Romeo and Juliet on the first line of my page. This is too easy. I read this book my sophomore year. I’ll need a refresher, but I’m not worried.
“I’m sure you’ve all noticed we have a new student in here with us. Please say hello to Summer.” His gaze never leaves mine as he speaks, and I look away first, uncomfortable with his scrutiny.
A few people offer murmured hellos, but not too many. I’m sure they hate that I’m in here with them. In their eyes, I’m sure they believe I don’t belong here.
The door suddenly bursts open and a boy strides in, his head turned as he yells to someone in the hall. The door slams shut behind him, and everything within me comes alive. I sit up straight. My skin prickles. My heart races. My breath stalls in my throat, and sweat beads along my hairline.
I know who it is. I told myself he wouldn’t be here, but I was wrong.
He is.
Whit Lancaster. The boy who kissed me. Who wanted to fuck me and called me a whore when we were barely teenagers. He’s taller than I remember. Well over six feet, and his shoulders look so broad, clad in the requisite navy uniform jacket. His arrogance is palpable. He saunters into the classroom as if he owns the place, and technically, he does.
After all, it’s his family name on the sign.
I stare, caught up in his magnificent face. It’s better than I remember. He’s heartbreakingly beautiful. Piercing blue eyes, sharp cheekbones, aquiline nose, angled jawline. His mouth is lush, his lips a deep pink and he bares his teeth in a smile for our teacher that is hopelessly fake.