Page 12 of Swallow Your Sorries

I take the box with shaking fingers, just as he’s about to drop it carelessly. Swallowing the thank you, threatening to spew out, I clear my throat. I’m not the one in the wrong here.

“So what? This is your apology?”

“I’m not apologising,” he says flatly. “I’d do it again.”

THIS ARROGANT ASS—

No, no, Elle. Keep calm. If you fight with him, he’ll only leave, and then how will you get his phone?

“Why do you care, anyway? About that video?” I try to ask coolly, but he brushes past me.

“It’s none of your concern.”

I grab his arm, and he freezes, looking down at the contact murderously. Just a week ago,hewas the one touchingme.

Hastily, I let go of his sleeve.

“Listen, despite everything, I took your tips to heart and now that I have a replacement, and the video’s gone, let’s call it even.”

“Call it whatever the fuck you want.” He shrugs, turning to walk away again.

I grip the box tighter, ignoring the urge to chuck it at his head. “Wait. I was wondering if you could watch me do a run-through of the Sugar Plum Fairy and give me your thoughts? It’ll take less than five minutes, and it’s my last day at the studio, so I won’t bother you again. Promise.”

This time his stare is as penetrating as it was last week, so unlike the dismissive one from a second before. “Why is it your last day?”

“You saw my rock phone. You see this place. Draw your own conclusions. It was only a temporary arrangement.”

He swallows and I watch his sharp Adam’s apple bob as his eyes dart to the end of the hall. To the girl’s locker room. Madame isn’t there. I already checked.

“Please?”

“Fine. Five minutes.”

YES!

“Can we use your phone for the music again?” I lift the box. “Obviously it’s not set up yet.”

My heart races as I follow him into the nearest study where he tosses his designer backpack onto the floor, before heading for the aux cord.

Please, please, let everything go according to plan.

My palms are already sweating in anticipation and my chest is growing so tight I can barely breathe.

“I’ll just start from the middle,” I say, getting into position as the soft music flits from the speakers. “My father will be here any minute.”

Of course, that’s a lie. Jarett’s still hungover from his week-long binger. Madame wouldn’t see her lover for a few more days at least, but he, this boy whose name I’ve yet to ask, doesn’t know that.

His eyes snap to mine, then to the door, and without a word, he storms out just as I’d hoped.

Why is he so bloody invested?

The scene from last week where he assaulted me finally comes rushing back. It imprints in my brain and curls around my throat, shooting straight down into my toes that suddenly feel like they’re scraping the floor again, desperate to find their footing.

The memory invokes a different kind of fear than the one I feel with Jarett.

But that doesn’t make sense. Fear is fear, right?

And yet, the fear creeping along my spine now feels like a different beast altogether as I watch his heel disappear.

---