Total pages in book: 174
Estimated words: 173355 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 867(@200wpm)___ 693(@250wpm)___ 578(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 173355 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 867(@200wpm)___ 693(@250wpm)___ 578(@300wpm)
My eyes go wide and I almost drop my fork on the table. “Me?”
Nothing passes over his features at my clumsy actions. No sign that we know each other. Or that only a day ago, we almost got caught and that he said all those things.
He simply nods. “Yes.”
Callie is the one to break the silence. Because even Poe and Salem are stunned like me. They both know that Conrad and I, we don’t usually interact at school much. So this is a surprise — a shock — for them as well as me.
“Why?” Callie asks suspiciously.
He looks at his sister. “It’s nothing you need to worry about.”
Callie grabs my hand. “Of course I need to worry about it. She’s my friend. Why do you need to talk to her?”
I go to tell her that it’s okay, but Conrad clenches his jaw and clips, “And she’s one of the players I coach. So if I want to talk to her, I will talk to her.”
At this, Callie wraps her arm around my shoulders as if to protect me, ever the loyal friend. “No. I told you that you can’t be mean to her about soccer. She doesn’t like it, Con, okay? No one likes soccer.” She glances at Salem then. “No offense.” Before turning to Con, “Just leave her alone. She doesn’t need a lecture from you about her skills.”
Conrad opens his mouth to argue, I’m sure, but I put an end to this. “It’s okay. I’ll go.” Callie turns to me, ready to protest, but standing up, I tell her, “It’s fine. He’s your brother but he’s…” The love of my life. “My soccer coach and I can take criticism about soccer so it’s totally okay.” When Callie still keeps frowning, I bend down and give her a side hug, kissing her cheek. “I promise.”
She sighs. “Fine.” Then she turns to her brother. “Be nice to her.”
She’s going to be such a mama bear, I swear.
Taking in a deep breath, I straighten up and look at him. He still has that aloof expression on his face as he orders, “Follow me.”
I would laugh if I could.
At his hardass, coach-ly command, but as it is, I’m a mass of anxiety and trembling muscles so all I do is obey and follow him.
We go through the cafeteria, the hallway, passing through the crowd that’s oblivious to who we are and what we are to each other, and go up the stairs. I keep following him up until we reach the third floor, walk through the same, albeit less crowded hallway, until we reach his office.
There he unlocks the door, holds it open for me like a gentleman would, and waits for me to enter.
Which I do.
On trembling, shaking legs.
Then he closes the door and as soon as he does, I spin around, “Is everything —”
He faces me too, only he’s not as abrupt as I was and his voice is as calm as it was in the cafeteria. “Yes. Everything is fine.”
I wring my hands. “So no one knows? Like no one…”
His jaw moves. “No. No one knows anything.” Then, in a tone that’s super familiar and dear to my heart, he continues, “I don’t want you to worry about these things. I’m not going to let anything happen to you.”
My heart squeezes at his declaration that is as familiar as his ferocious tone. “I’m not worried about myself.”
He clenches his jaw again before exhaling a sharp breath and saying, “Take a seat.”
Ignoring him, I blurt out, “What did she want? Helen.”
My question makes him stare at me for a beat or two before he says, “It’s not important. Just take a seat.”
I still don’t listen. “But it sounded important. She wanted to talk about… you. Together. So what did she say? What happened? I couldn’t find you at the party after I came out and —”
“It’s not important,” he repeats in a louder tone. “Now I want you to take a seat because we need to talk.”
At this my already racing heart explodes.
I open my mouth to protest, to say something, anything, that might prevent this.
Whatever it is that’s going to happen.
Because I know that it’s bad.
I just know it.
But nothing comes out as he moves from his spot after issuing the command for the second time and strides over to his desk. He pulls his chair out and glances over at my still-standing form, making me realize that he’s waiting for me to sit, which I do a second later.
Only then he takes a seat himself.
Because that’s what he does.
He always waits for me to take my seat first before he does.
I know this because he does it at his house when we’re about to eat at the dining table or at the island. Which makes me realize something strange.