“What the hell was that all about?” I ask.
Whit lets out a breath and takes a drink. “Booker’s not the only one under his old man’s thumb. Difference is that while he goes along with it, Fallon fights back. It’s the same old thing. They want her to come here for school next year, for obvious reasons, and she wants nothing to do with this place. Said she’s not even applying and she’s looking at out-of-state schools. Their dad’s throwing a fit and saying he won’t pay for it. That it’s too dangerous for someone like her to go far away from home. Hell, if he had his way, he’d probably just marry her off.”
“Jesus,” Knox wipes his mouth. “Too dangerous for someone like her? That’s some shit, man.”
“For real. He’s always been controlling, but it’s getting out of hand. And you know Booker. He feels stuck in the middle.”
“Damn.” I shake my head. We spend the rest of the meal shooting the shit about baseball playoffs, our classes, and other stuff, but we’re all distracted. We’re worried about Booker, and concerned for Fallon, of course, but I still can’t get Knox’s words out of my head. He’s right. When it comes to Phoebe, I’m in way too deep.
Chapter 8
Ty
Friday night was a mistake. It should never have happened. I won’t pretend that waking up with Phoebe James in my arms was a bad thing, but it wasn’t smart.
I’m letting her get too close, and that’s not good for either one of us. Like Knox said yesterday, I’m in over my head. And no matter how careful I am, one of us is going to end up hurt.
But it’s hard to resist her. She’s so easy to talk to, so thoughtful, so funny. She invades my thoughts at the oddest hours, and I’m falling hard.
But what’s worse is that she’s trusting me. I meant it a few weeks ago when I said we should be friends, but we’re blurring that line. Real talk, I don’t cuddle on the couch watching old movies with my friends.
I need to end this. I need to walk away before I hurt her more than I already have.
I’m going to tell Phoebe I’m totally swamped--that helping at the writing lab is coming at the expense of my own studies.
It’s complete bullshit, of course. But she won’t know that. It’s far from the only secret I’m keeping from her.
So I’ll cut ties, recommend another tutor, beg someone to switch shifts with me. Hell, I’ll drop the course and take it in the spring if I need to.
It sucks, but it’s the right thing to do.
And I’m not the guy who always does the right thing, but I’m trying to do better. So, here’s step one.
Ty:Hey, do you mind if we meet for coffee instead of the writing lab?
Phoebe:Yea, sure. Meet you at Drip?
Shit. Now it sounds like a date. Fuck. Oh well. She’ll find out I’m not Prince Charming in about three hours.
My phone buzzes with a text from my mother, but I ignore it. I don’t need yet another reminder of why I have to stay far away from Phoebe.
***
I’ve been sitting outside the coffee shop for half an hour. I’ve restrained myself from pacing, but my leg is tapping a mile a minute while my coffee sits cold and unfinished on the table next to me.
I’ve dodged three texts from my mom, one from my stepdad, and responded to my adviser about a lead on a possible internship for the spring.
All while hoping Phoebe cancels on me.
Because, if she does, I can just be a total asshole and text her. It’s the coward’s way out for sure, but better a coward than a liar, right?
“Ty!” I hear my name on her lips as I spot her running down the cobblestone sidewalk toward me. She’s practically airborne by the time she arrives in front of me.
“Hey. Looks like your day is going better than mine. What has you in such a good mood?”
“I got a B! A freaking B on theEmmacharacter analysis.” She’s beaming up at me. “I thought for sure I was going to fail this class and I’ve never failed a class in my life! I felt totally intimidated and completely out of place, but now? Thanks to you and your kick-ass tutoring? I feel like I belong. I mean, I know. It’s just a B, right? You’d probably be horrified to get such a grade in a lit class. But for a girl who’s a million times more comfortable with a paintbrush than a pen? Yea. Getting a B in a crazy hard lit course is cause for celebration.”
“That’s awesome. Seriously,” I tell her genuinely. “You worked your ass off for that B.”
