Page 15 of The Truth About Love

If he wasn’t worthy of it, I might have found his humiliation painful and difficult to watch. But Jordan Miller is a mouthy douchebag who deserves every second of his comeuppance.

And sure, I may not totally understand Miss Rossi’s devotion to 1950s America, but I respect her right to express herself. Champion it, even. Especially when conceited jerks like Jordan Miller try to rob her of the liberty.

At his stuttering, Miss Rossi cocks a brow and says, “If you’re struggling with that one, perhaps try discussing a theme you’re more familiar with. Like Holden’s sexual confusion, perhaps?”

Snickers sound throughout the class. Auden beside me covers his smirk with a clenched fist, eyes wide like he can’t believe the scene unfolding before him.

Jordan’s face grows red as a fire hydrant.

“Anything to say?” Miss Rossi probes.

“No, Miss.”

“Did you do the reading as I instructed?”

“No, Miss.”

“Thought not.” She fluffs her hair and sighs. “Sit back down, Mr Miller, I’ll see you in detention on Monday.”

The rest of class passes by with less spectacle. I spend the majority of that time holding my breath for fear of breathing in too much of Auden’s air and doing something mortifying out of sheer delirium, like holding his hand beneath the desk or pressing my face into his neck.

I’m already manically stacking my books together when the bell finally rings.

I can see Auden in the corner of my eye gathering his own things, hoping to hell that one of his friends will steal his attention so I can slip out without having to talk to him.

But no such luck.

He turns to me with that all-American smile, eyes twinkling in amusement as if he can see straight into my soul and read all the thoughts I’ve ever had of him.

I hate that he can do that.

That he can see me in a way no one else ever has.

It’s unsettling.

So why do I feel myself melting into him whenever he looks at me, willing him to see the things I’m too frightened to show him myself and tell me that he accepts me for them anyway? Why do I find comfort in the way that he holds my gaze? Why do I feel safe whenever he’s around?

“I’ll see you tomorrow, Summer-Raine,” he whispers, reaching to brush a strand of hair behind my ear, fingertips grazing my cheek. My heart stutters. I can barely see when he touches me like that. “Text me your address.”

I nod wordlessly and watch as he picks up his books and walks out of the classroom.

Heart thudding like a freight train, hands still trembling at my sides, I grab my books and force my legs to carry me out of school, doing my very best to pretend that Auden Wells didn’t just nearly kill me with the softest touch of his fingers to my skin.

Chapter Five

Auden

I pull up outside Summer-Raine’s house at five minutes to seven, with my best cologne on my neck and a bunch of wildflowers sitting on the passenger seat beside me.

Set away from the path, behind a small greenwood of plumeria trees and buttonbush, her house is three stories of blue weather-beaten cladding and white balustrades. Beyond it, ocean waves wash up on a private beach.

As homes on this side of town go, it’s one of the more modest but a mini-mansion nonetheless.

It is everything my house isn’t.

Per Summer-Raine’s adamant instruction to not meet her on the doorstep and despite it going against the laws of gentlemanliness that Mama has instilled in me since I was a child, I stay in the truck while I wait for her.

I turn the music on, then turn it off again. Blow into my hand and smell it. Check my hair in the rear-view mirror. Turn the music back on and flick through until I land on ‘Seeing Blind’ by Niall Horan and Marren Morris. Then I turn it off again.

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