Apparently the theme for all female costumes must begin with “the naughty”—Grant and Ty’s idea. The unfortunate thing is that I’m sure I’ll be the oddball if I don’t comply. “A schoolgirl, I can manage. Not the naughty part.” Reagan saw my pleated skirt—the one I wore the day Ashton drove me to the hospital—and decided to complete the costume for me, coming home with garters, thigh-highs, and red stilettos. I sigh. Truth be told, I don’t think I want to go. The sooner this weekend is over with, the sooner I can rid myself of this guilt choking the air out of my lungs. But Reagan doesn’t want to hear any of that.
She turns to give me puppy-dog eyes normally reserved for Grant. “Don’t you dare bail on me, Livie. It’s Halloween!”
“I . . . I don’t know. I have this thing and then my volunteering . . .” Not to mention I’ve barely slept the past four nights, my mind unwilling to shut down, my stomach unable to stop rolling. Dread—that’s what is ripping me apart. Dread over meeting Connor’s parents, dread over seeing Ashton with his sweet and unsuspecting girlfriend.
Dread over seeing Ashton’s father.
I don’t even know if he’ll be here; I never asked. But just the thought makes me sick. There are few things that spawn violence in me. Hurting those I care about is one. Hurting a child is another. He’s done both. Maybe if I attack Ashton’s father, I can avoid meeting Connor’s parents altogether?
“Relax!” Reagan says, nudging me with her body. “Say, ‘Hi, nice to meet you, ba-bye.’ End of story.”
“And then what, Reagan? How do I break up with him? It’s not like he’s done anything wrong that I can use against him.” Not like me. A sour taste fills my mouth. I’m going to have to look him in the eye and hurt him. Can I avoid that part? It’s only been about two months. What’s the etiquette? Maybe I could do it through email . . . Kacey would be the right person to ask but, seeing as I’ve kept my sister in the dark up until now, it will spark an afternoon of questions I’m not ready to face and things I’m not willing to admit to having done.
“Livie!” I turn to see Connor in his tight orange-and-white sleeveless top and black shorts—the team uniform—break through the crowd with a wide grin on his face. He’s toweling the sweat off of his glistening body.
I take a deep, calming breath. You can do this. Just keep being nice to him. Just a few more days until I rip his heart out and stomp on it.
“Want a hug?”
I give him a wrinkled-nose smile and curl my shoulder away from him. That’s not fake, actually. A sweaty Connor is far from appealing. He chuckles and plants a kiss on my forehead instead. “Okay, later, maybe. What’d you think of the race?”
“It was amazing.” I had watched the guys with balled fists as they rowed in to first place standing—their movements synchronized, powerful, graceful.
“It was.” Scanning the sea of heads, he says, “I’ll be back soon. Stay right here. Okay?” A slight frown creases his brow. “You okay? You seem a little bit off lately.”
I immediately force a smile. “I’m good. Just . . . nervous.” I lift to my tiptoes to give him a light peck on the lips.
Those pretty green eyes flash with amusement. “Don’t be. They’re going to love you. Stay right here.” In many ways, I’m more worried about that than his mother pointing an accusatory finger at me while she screams “whore” in front of thousands of people.
I watch his lean form weave through the crowds.
And then I turn to look for my towering, beautiful man. I see him almost immediately. He’s impossible to miss. His hair is damp and pushed back, falling at different angles around his face. His muscles are tight from the recent exertion. A slick sheen covers his body, as it did Connor’s. I realize I wouldn’t hesitate for a second to throw myself at Ashton, though.
He’s walking up from the water with a towel around his neck as he wipes the sweat off. When his head lifts, he catches my eye and my breath in an instant. I haven’t seen him in a few days and my body instinctively gravitates toward him.
I give him a wide smile and mouth, “Congratulations.”
His head bobs once.
And then he turns away and walks toward the pretty blond waiting at the sidelines with a group of people. I watch Dana dive into his side, grinning wide. Without hesitation, he puts his arm around her shoulder and smiles down at her as if there isn’t anyone else in the world for him. As if I’m not right here, twenty feet away, watching it all.
Whether real relationship or not, it reminds me that Ashton is not mine. He never was mine.
He probably never will be mine.
The air is temporarily knocked out of my lungs.
Fighting against the sting, keeping the tears from slipping out—tears I have no right to shed—I swallow and turn my attention to the two older couples with them. One I quickly deduce as Dana’s parents—she shares too many facial traits with them to be otherwise. I turn my attention to the other couple, to the stylish blond woman of maybe thirty. She’s scanning her phone, her expression one of boredom, suggesting she was dragged here and can’t wait to leave. Next to her is a well-dressed and attractive older man with gray streaks running through his hair.