Finally, we’re back home. Even though I spent the night in lock up, I’m a lucky fucker, and I know it. I live with my three best friends in the renovated chapel house on campus. Booker’s family is royalty around here—his great-great-great-great grandaddy founded the school, and this house has been in his family ever since. It’s a far cry from the dorms and definitely nicer than most of the frat houses I’ve woken up in.
Ty pulls into his spot and finally releases the lock. My Porsche is parked next to Booker’s Audi. Nice of him to get my ride. I key into the house and head right for the liquor cabinet in the kitchen. I grab two shot glasses, both for myself—Booker doesn’t drink in season, Phoebe doesn’t drink at all, and Ty’s sure as hell not joining me. I pour generously and down the first.
“Jesus,” Ty mutters, right on cue. “What the hell is this?”
“Breakfast,” I say, raising my shot in an imaginary toast. I down that and am getting ready to pour a third when Ty swipes the bottle from me and tosses the shot glasses into the sink with a clank.
“The fuck?” I reach for the bottle, but he’s stowed it away and is standing in front of the cabinet like a pissed off sentinel.
“Move. You’re not in charge of me.” Looks like I’m about to start the second fight of the last twelve hours.
“Someone needs to be,” he says, crossing his arms. “You’re a loose cannon. We all know it. We’re all worried. But every time I dare to mention it, you laugh it off like this is some kind of joke.”
I roll my eyes. This lecture is getting old. “Just because you act like an old married man doesn’t mean the rest of us have to. Christ. I’m a sophomore in college. Going out and getting into harmless trouble is standard behavior.”
“You lost your car a couple months ago because you got so shitfaced you couldn’t remember where you parked it. You’re at a different party every night, and there’s so much traffic going through your bedroom door that you could charge a toll and fund some lucky schmuck’s college education. And let’s not forget, you just landed your ass in jail for starting a bar fight. Knox, that’s not standard behavior. That’s fucked up.”
The truth in his words stings, so I cut him a glare. “Then it’s on brand, right? Because I’m a fuckup.”
“That is not what I said.”
I shrug. “Doesn’t matter. It’s still the truth. Ask anyone on this campus—you’re the broody hero, Whit’s the good-time guy, Booker’s the all-American athlete, and me? I’m the fuckup. Always have been, so why should I change lanes now?”
“Knox, that is not true. You’re—”
“A mistake. My own father clearly thought so, seeing as he split the minute the stick turned blue. You know my mother agrees and—”
“And what?” his voice is low now. The shouting is over, and I know he’s just trying to help.
But it’s pointless.
“And nothing,” I lie. I could sit here and wallow in my feelings, spend yet another night trying to figure out where the hell I went wrong with Willa—what I ever said or did to make her hate me.
But I’ve tried that before, and it doesn’t work.
Nothing does.
I push off from the counter and head toward the stairs. “Thanks for the ride,” I say, palming my phone when it starts to buzz. I check it and see two messages.
Mom:A bar fight? All I can say is that it’s a good thing you’re away at school and no longer a daily influence on your brother. It would be for the best if you skip his basketball game next weekend. I’m sure you have court-ordered community service, and I think it’s best if we put a little distance between you and Ronin.
Caden:Dude. Heard shit went down at Wolfie’s last night. We’re partying at the baseball house later. You in?
I delete my mom’s text and reply to Caden’s, telling him I’ll see him there around ten. Yea, it’s stupid to even consider going, but no one ever called me a genius.
Chapter 8
Willa
I pull into the driveway of the address Brenda gave me and lug my stuff onto the porch. Since Rose and I moved into Ian’s last week, I can afford to cut back on these cleaning jobs, and honestly, I won’t miss them. I enter the code Brenda gave me and take a second to admire just how pretty this house is. Working at Maid 4 U, I’ve seen it all—grungy basement apartments, sophisticated studios, lived-in Cape Cods, tidy ranchers with plastic covers on the sofa. But few of the houses have been quite this nice. I step inside and the interior is every bit as lovely. Since I’m on Bainbridge’s campus, I figure this house has to belong to the dean or something.
Slipping in my earbuds, I turn my music up and get started. It’s only noon and a place like this will take a solid three hours. I finish up the downstairs an hour later, and I’m proud to say the floors gleam. Brenda’s instructions for the upstairs are simple: bathrooms, beds, and carpets. If I see any laundry on the floor, I’m to throw it in the hamper. Easy enough.
I make my way through two bedrooms—one obviously belongs to a couple, and the other to a guy, an athlete, judging by the hockey sticks and the stinky gym bag. I guess the dean and her husband have kids? There’s one more room on this floor and the final bedroom is one flight up. I tackle that room next—Brenda said that bathroom’s the worst, and she’s not wrong. Strangely, the rest of the room isn’t too bad, so it doesn't take as long as I feared.
It’s going on two and I need to pick up Rose by four-thirty, so I’m in good shape. I grab fresh sheets from the linen closet and make the last bed quickly. There’s a mound of clothing on the floor, so I scoop it up and pile it on top of the overflowing hamper. Unsurprisingly, a few pieces topple to the ground, so I stack them back on, but one falls back on the carpet. It’s a gray hoodie. It’s worn and a little stretched out. The sleeves are raggedy and there's a rip along the seam of one cuff. I know that rip. I traced my fingers along it more than a year ago. Across the chest, the word Rockvale stands out in gold and navy stitched letters.
But that’s not possible.
