Page 54 of Ladybirds

Miles scoffs. “Hilarious.”

“Oh!” Jen gasps, “We should go to the casino!”

Sara catches Miles’ pleading look, smiling. “We totally should,” she says, watching his face drop before she adds, “next time.”

Jen groans. Miles mouths a silent, yet somehow emphatic, ‘thank you.’

It’s freezing outside, crisp in ways that are borderline painful. Sara shivers, pulling her coat closer around her neck and stubbornly wills her teeth to stop chattering. Beside her, Seth is completely unfazed—his bare fingers playing idly with the chain of his pocket watch and his eyes distant.

“How are you not f-freezing?” she asks, bouncing on the pads of her feet.

He blinks, regarding her strangely. “Beg your pardon?”

Sara frowns. He’s never had to ask her to repeat anything. Never. “What’s wrong?”

Seth shifts awkwardly, hands disappearing in his pockets, but he meets her eyes. “In there, you said friend.”

Sara frowns, trying to figure out what he’s referring to. When she does, she fights the heat rising to her cheeks. “Oh. Well, yeah. We’re friends.” It’s not something she ever really evaluated, but it feels right. It feels true. At some point, he’s transformed from her personal nightmare to someone she looks forward to seeing. She can’t even pinpoint when it changed; each shift a subtle layer of gossamer.

Seth is still staring at her, lips parted and brows furrowed, and Sara feels a sudden pang of insecurity. “Aren’t we?”

His lips twitch into a crooked smile, his gaze lowering as he clears his throat. “Yes. I rather think we are.”

The next day, she takes the bus to the closest casino. Between the Blackjack and poker tables, she more than doubles the amount she needs to repair her car.

“Time to go, Princess. The big men upstairs are watching you a little too closely,” he murmurs, his grin wide. This time, when Sara feels his breath whisper across her wine-flushed skin, she doesn’t jump.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

To say she studies is probably one of the biggest understatements of her life.

She’s not worried about math (numbers and equations she can memorize) or even her art appreciation final (because despite Mr. Kent’s droning, she at least understands the material), but her literature class is close to killing her.

Seth, to his credit, is as tolerant as any reasonable person should be, but the last few weeks seem to have worn away at his patience. “No,” he groans, eyes hidden behind his long fingers as he massages his temples. “That isn’t even close to accurate.”

Sara threads her hand through her hair, ready to pull at the short strands. “You said accuracy doesn’t matter as long as I can support it!”

“That isn’t support, it’s drivel.”

She stands, the kitchen chair screeching against the tile. She’s too busy pacing the short span of her front room to care. “I hate this. I hate it, I hate it, I hate it.” Grabbing the throw pillow from the couch, she screams into it before collapsing face-first onto the cushions. From around the fluff, she mutters weakly. “I really, really hate it.”

Seth sighs, but the frustration in his voice has at least given way to pity. “I am well aware.”

Sara turns her head, eyeing him miserably. “Why am I so bad at this?”

The shrug he gives is small, his hand coming away from his temple so he can face her fully. “Your mind is more suited for certainties—the black and white. Literature is about interpreting the gray areas, not memorizing facts.”

“Well, don’t hold anything back,” she grumbles.

He huffs on a laugh, eyes warm. “You’ll get it, Princess.”

“No I won’t.”

“Hm, perhaps not. But, at the very least, we can work on improving your poker face.”

She groans, flopping on her back and staring at the ceiling. “What does my poker face have to do with anything?”

“My dear, lie convincingly enough and you can turn any pile of bullshit into a passing grade.”

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