Page 87 of Sawyer and the Bookworms

There’s a wolf after her, I think, my chest tightening again. I can’t see it, but I feel it. And she won’t let me close enough to help.

28

SAWYER

Can you get your heart broken a second time, by the same person, without even admitting to your feelings for her?

That’s how it feels.

I’m fucking broken.

The pack I’m to meet tomorrow is called the D’ Angelo pack. They fit the bill: rich, old money, steady jobs, a big house in the suburbs. Cookie-cutter packs that my parents deem acceptable for me, and above all, for themselves.

And I feel fucking sick.

I feel like trashing my café and leaving town.

I reach for a new pack of coffee, and my hand brushes over the glossy cover of the book I bought for her. The book she left.

My jaw clenches.

Give it up, Sawyer. Give up on these teenage crushes you have.

I bet the D’ Angelo pack is going to be smashing. Amazing. You’ll love them. They’ll love you. It will be like in the movies. Stars in your eyes, your hands all over one another. Boom, you fall in love, and that’s it.

No more worrying. No more broken hearts.

No more angry parents, threatening to take away my dreams, no more concerned, overbearing older brother micromanaging my life.

I don’t need the McGraw Pack. And I don’t need Brinlee. It’s all in my head, I decide. I’m creating this obsession where there’s nothing. They obviously don’t feel that pull. So even if it’s real for me, it’s one-sided and doomed to fail.

I can’t… function. I’m torn up.

Run away.

Hide.

Ignore.

Keep working.

Keep hoping.

Yeah, I’m torn in two.

Something’s really off. I feel like rocking in a corner, ignoring either possibility. Or is that hiding anyway?

That’s the state of things when the McGraw Pack walk inside.

“Sawyer.” It’s Archer who leads the way between tables to reach me. Only two tables are occupied, the customers turning to stare as the pack moves through the café. “There you are.”

I manage a glare—where did he think I’d be?—but it’s weak, I guess, because he grins.

“Hiya, Say.” Roman sits on a stool. “How is it hanging?”

Bad, I want to say. Miserable. I’m cleaning the bar for the thousandth time, which I suppose is my version of rocking in a corner. What do you want from me? What are you doing here?

But I say nothing.

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