“I think so. I didn’t really ask. He just wanted to know where the gym was.”
Mrs. Lowe nods like this is totally understandable since only a new student would ask me where the gym is located. I sneak a glance at Griff and catch him staring at me. We both look away.
All it would take is one word from him and Griff’s staying quiet.
“Okay then,” Mrs. Lowe says, shifting her purse higher on her shoulder. “You two have a nice evening.”
“You too,” I say, and wait, staring at the floor, for Griff to leave too.
“So. You and Milo, huh?”
I look up. “It’s not what you think.”
Except it is, isn’t it? Plus, unlike Griff, Milo isn’t ashamed of me. I’m ashamed of me though. I’m ashamed of how tied up I am with Carson, how I’ve disappointed Bren . . . how I can’t get over the boy who’s over me.
“If it’s not what I think, then what is it?” Griff asks.
I work my mouth around. What Griff thinks he saw is bad. What actually happened is worse.
Much worse.
I mean, I was going to frame Carson too, but the plan jumped off something the detective was already doing—digging into Bay—this . . . this is accusing him of something that won’t just ruin his career. It could get him jail time.
I should do something . . . but I’m not going to. I’m not sure what that says about me. I’m definitely sure I don’t want to know.
In the meantime though I’ve taken too long to respond so Griff thinks he already has my answer.
“That’s what I thought,” he says, and I watch him walk away. Again.
41
I should follow Griff, tell him it was all a mistake, feed him lies . . . so why am I not running after him?
Because this feels too familiar to ignore and, suddenly, I’m not in my high school’s hallway, I’m standing in my parents’ house, watching my mom run after my dad, pouring words of love from bloodied lips.
Griff would never hit me, but he doesn’t get me either and I’m embarrassed of what he sees.
Of what it makes me see.
So I turn to my locker, taking extra time to make sure he’s long gone before I leave the school. This is my fault. I gave Griff a piece of me. He didn’t ask me for it. Hell, maybe he did, he wanted me—at least the idea of me—for a time. And here I am now: eaten from the inside out, craving someone I didn’t know I would ever crave and, if I’d been told, I would never have believed it.
I should never have allowed myself to want him. The least I can do now is protect him and I’m doing that. It should be enough.
But it’s not.
So I think about my Joe problem instead and it’s amazing how quickly my hands curve into claws. What am I going to do about that?
I have no idea. In fact, I could really use a bit of inspiration, but when I turn in to my driveway all I get is Jason Baines sitting on my front porch, waiting for me.
I glare at him as I park. Jason doesn’t seem to mind. He walks straight to my car door and waits for me to get out.
“You know this is creepy, right?” I ask, nearly bumping him with the door as I open it. “We’re not living in a sitcom. Waiting for me to come home is not cute. It’s stalkerish.”
“We really going to do this out here? Where your neighbors can see us?”
I’d tell him to shove it if he didn’t have a point. Mrs. Ellery is standing by her mailbox, watching us. Wonderful. That’s all I need right now.
“Five minutes,” I say, and motion for him to follow me to the side door.
Which is still no good because Mrs. Ellery just walks farther into the road so she can glare at us.
“Kitchen,” I mutter, and unlock the door, watching Jason from the corner of my vision as I key the security code into our system. He ignores it. “Talk,” I say.
“I want to know your decision.”
“I haven’t made one.”
“When will you?”
“I haven’t decided.”
“Fair enough.” Jason wanders to the kitchen doorway and stares down the hallway, head cocked like he’s considering our color palette. “Nice house.”
I stiffen. “Even nicer security system.”
Jason grins. “You like living with that lady?”
“Bren? Of course. She’s awesome.” When she isn’t overreacting. “You don’t have anything better to do than ask me personal questions?”
Jason swings around, one hand rubbing the back of his neck like it aches. The movement makes the sleeve of his shirt droop, revealing the pale skin of his forearm, and my heart trips.
There’s a curl of faded ink along his forearm, the edge of a tattoo.
It’s . . . lumpy. Like a birthmark. Numbness crawls up my legs. In the picture, I wasn’t looking at a birthmark. I was looking at the edge of a tattoo.
Jason smiles. “Everything okay?”
I swallow. “’Course. Why wouldn’t it be?”
He shrugs, searching my face for a beat.
All I can think about is that faded tattoo. It means Jason’s holding up Lell’s head in the picture and, based on the angle of the shot, that also means he was holding the camera.
Which suggests he was alone.