Page 14 of The Truth About Love

The bell rings for the end of lunch and the sound of metal chair legs on wooden floors echoes like a siren as everyone packs up their shit to get to class.

“Reckon I can sit here again tomorrow?”

Marlowe shrugs her shoulders in an attempt to appear apathetic, but I catch the slight tilt of her lips before she covers it. “Yeah, guess so.”

My sister would be so proud.

***

The end of the week arrives before I’m ready for it.

My parents got back from their conference on Tuesday and every night since they’ve insisted on having a farce of a family dinner. It wouldn’t be so bad if Mama didn’t insist on cooking despite having about the same kitchen prowess as a monkey or if we didn’t sit in awkward silence the entire time. But I’m used to that, the silence. My parents stopped knowing how to talk to me when I became a teenager and they never cared enough to learn.

But at least the dinners have afforded me some time spent away from staring at my phone while I wait for a text from Auden. Apparently, I’m willing to waste my life away wishing he’d reach out to me again, but I’m too chickenshit to message him first.

When I mentioned it to Marlowe during lunch, she told me that I was embarrassing her with my pathetic pining. I didn’t realise that was what I was doing, but I didn’t argue. Apparently, I need to get a grip.

By the time I walk into AP English Lit on Friday morning, I’m convinced that our lack of communication means Auden has moved on from whatever interest he had in me and that whatever we were is no more. And for the most part, I’ve made my peace with it, so colour me surprised when he saunters in and takes the seat beside me again.

“Summer-Raine.” The sound of my name on his lips is a sacred prayer I want to hear him say over and over again.

I can’t even lift my eyes to look at him. Somehow over the last two weeks, this damn boy has robbed me of the essence that made me the stone-cold bitch I was. And I want it back. Truth is, I don’t know who I am without it.

I’m not the girl who sits with friends at lunch. Who goes to sleep at night and wakes up every morning thinking about a boy. Who pretends that she doesn’t get jealous every time he smiles at a girl who isn’t her.

I prefer the Summer-Raine with a black heart.

It’s safer being her.

“Hey,” Auden says, gently touching my arm and forcing me to finally look up into his hideously beautiful eyes. “You okay?”

“Yeah.” I try to sound nonchalant, but my voice comes out cracked and raspy like I’ve just smoked a carton of cigarettes or hiked across the Serengeti without water.

“You sure?” He cocks his head to the side, watching me with amusement.

“Uh-huh.”

“Still on for tomorrow?”

“Oh, um.” My gaze shoots to my lap, my palms sweating feverishly as panic seizes my body. I was so sure he’d forgotten all about it. “Sure, yeah.”

I sneak a glance back at him.

He nods, perfect mouth curled into a knowing smirk. “Good.”

The smell of him assaults me. It’s woodsy, warm and familiar. Like old books and forest floors, November nights and Christmas trees. I can hardly bear it. It makes it impossible to concentrate on anything else. No one should be allowed to smell like that.

Thankfully, Miss Rossi sashays herself through the door and gives me something else to focus on. Today, she wears a flowy white dress with her hair coiffed into a pageboy style just like Marilyn Monroe inThe Seven Year Itch. She’s even drawn herself a beauty spot on her cheek. Some jerkface in the front row snickers and asks her if it’s Halloween already.

“Perhaps if you were more secure in your own individuality, you wouldn’t feel the need to tear down others for theirs.” She scathes, utterly unflustered by his ridiculing. “Jordan Miller, isn’t it?”

“Yes, Miss.” He nods, lacking half the confidence he had only minutes ago.

“Since you’re so enthusiastic to contribute to discussion today, how about you kick off by talking to the class about the theme of artificiality inThe Catcher in the Rye?”

Jordan gapes, panic flashing across his face. Hesitantly, he pulls out his chair and moves to the front of the room to address the class.

“I – I – um – artificiality, right.”

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