Page 45 of Only Fate

My parents?

It clicks.

She must be River’s twin sister, Essie.

He has a few photos of her, but I’ve never paid too much attention to them. But now looking at her, I see it.

Her hand shakes as she fishes her phone from her pocket. “I’ve tried calling him a hundred times, but it went straight to voicemail. It’s probably dead. For someone so tech-savvy, he seriously sucks at keeping his phone charged.” She focuses her gaze on the phone, as if waiting for it to ring. “And I took an Uber here, so I’ll need to book another.”

“Do you think booking an Uber this late is safe?” I retreat a step. “I can drive you.”

I need every second I can to study and don’t have time to drive her, but I also want to help her.

“You don’t …” She squeezes her eyes shut. “You don’t have to do that.”

I step back a few more paces and signal for her to come in as two guys in jockstraps rush down the hallway, shouting about strip poker.

An inch of tension eases from her shoulders at my invite. She scrambles into the room at the same time a guy nearly cartwheels into her. I quickly shut the door behind us.

I open my desk drawer, searching for my car keys, and she shuffles farther into the room.

“Where did I put them?” I mutter in frustration, shoving a few notebooks and cards to the side.

I’m organized. Everything has a place, and it’s returned to that place after use. My keys always go in this drawer.

Essie drops onto River’s messy bed. “Is, uh … everythingo-kay?”A hiccup interrupts her last word.

I slide my hand along the bottom of the drawer. “Can’t find my keys.”

“It’s okay.” She attempts to mask the doubt in her tone.

She for sure thinks I’m lying about losing my keys to get out of driving her home. As if I were playing thegood guyact, but it was fake.

I sit on my bed in defeat.

Her ash-colored hair is a wild mess of strands, and she isn’t wearing any makeup.

There’s something so euphoric about seeing someone when they’re at their most vulnerable. And,fuck, please tell me that doesn’t make me sound like a serial killer. But I love imperfection, seeing raw emotion and witnessing someone when not perfectly put together.

Love seeing it on other people.

Hate them seeing it on me.

World’s biggest hypocrite right here.

She studies me, hesitating, trying to decide whether I’m trustworthy, and kicks off her boots. “Do you ever feel like your past is suffocating you, dragging you down and refusing to let you go?”

I nod as if in understanding.

But that nod is a lie.

Even though I grew up without a father, I can say that my life has been pretty good. Despite having an emotionally detached mother, I consider myself lucky. I tutored kids in high school and saw firsthand how hard life could be.

I’ll take an isolated yet strict parent over an abusive one.

A deceased father instead of one abandoning me willingly.

I run my hand over my bottom lip. “Do you know the best defense against your past?”

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