Page 54 of Personal Foul

“Yeah,” she says in response to my grunt. “Exactly.” Her eyes fall closed again, and she rubs them. “I’ve been trying to distract myself from the fact that I’ll likely have to take next year off, and then …” Her hands fall to her lap, and she opens her eyes and shrugs. “I’m not sure after that. Go part time? Find an online degree program so I can get a job and do school at night?”

“Fuck that.” The words are out of my mouth before I can stop them, a full, categorical rejection of that plan.

She laughs in disbelief. “Oh, okay. Well, if Dylan says, ‘Fuck that,’ I guess that’s the end of the discussion then. Who am I to challenge the almighty Dylan Thompson?”

I can’t help smiling at her dramatics. “Fine. I get it. I’m in no position to tell you what to do. But I feel like you have to have more choices than you think. Isn’t there a point where you can work and show you’re responsible for yourself and have your parents’ income not matter for financial aid? And what about loans? I don’t have any, but I know plenty of people who do. Scholarships. Get a job and start working now.”

Her eyes narrow. “Doing what? Cleaning your apartment?”

I lean my chin on my hand, examining her. “I pay generously if that’s something you’re interested in doing.”

She scoffs, which tells me no. She’s not. Which is fine. I don’t really want her to, because I’d rather she just let me take care of her, but I don’t think we’re anywhere near that point. Offering her a job is the best I can do. “Well, I won’t hire anyone right away in case you change your mind.”

When her eyes meet mine, they’re shiny with unshed tears. Dammit. I go back over what I just said. Why did that make her cry?

But when she opens her mouth, it’s to softly say, “Thank you.”

I wave aside her thanks, uncomfortable with it. It’s not like I’ve actually done anything. “I thought you said you’d come to me for help if you needed it.”

That causes her to sigh again. “No,yousaid I should do that. I never agreed, though.”

“So what else are you going to do?”

She studies her fingers, picking at one of her cuticles, and lifts one shoulder. “I tried to get an on-campus job, but they’re all full at this point in the semester and the waiting list is miles long. My sister said she’d start paying me for babysitting and would ask around to see if any of her friends need a part-time nanny.”

“You’d rather take care of a spoiled brat than clean my apartment?”

Her head jerks up, then she looks around. Giving me a Cheshire smile, she leans closer. “You realize you practically shouted that, don’t you?” she murmurs. “I thought you were still pretending to date me. Do you often offer your girlfriends a position as your cleaning lady?”

Disgruntled, I shift around, then lean close to her. “I would if my girlfriend were a stubborn ass who wouldn’t just let me give her the money.”

Her eyes widen, drop to my lips, then go back to my eyes again. “Well, I guess it’s a good thing I’m not really your girlfriend then.”

The barb hits its mark. Sitting back in my chair, I study her for a moment, drum my fingers on the arm of the chair, then stand. “Guess so.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Charity

The image of Dylan walking away from me in the student center sticks with me for the rest of the day. He held himself rigidly, the way he does when something’s bothering him, not the relaxed stride he normally uses or the cocky swagger when he’s trying to impress someone. Me, most recently.

Somehow me saying that it’s good that I’m not really his girlfriend made him … upset? And before his face went blank, there was this flash like he was … hurt.

Me pointing out the reality that our relationship is a lie is somehow hurtful.

I don’t understand this guy at all. One minute he’s telling me my secrets don’t matter to him, and the next he’s saying he wants to take care of me. He’s making my head spin, and I can’t stop thinking about it all day. It nags at me as I go through the motions of going to class, kicking myself for my inability to pay attention since I should be sucking up as much information as I can while it’s available to me. But between the money problems and Dylan, focus is pretty much impossible.

I skip my last class—it’s just gen ed math anyway. I’m doing fine, and missing one class I wouldn’t even listen to anyway won’t hurt me. On my way to my car, I pull out my phone, debating with myself who to call.

My mom?

Mmm, I think probably not. If there were news, she’d have told me. And if I call to check in about … well, anything really, she’ll just feel more stressed out. I don’t think she’s handling what’s happening at all well. I can’t say I blame her, though. I’m a mess, and I’m only dealing with the peripheral fallout. My mom’s entire world has been turned upside down.

And then there’s the nagging question … did Dad really do what they’re saying he did?

I’ve always viewed him as honest. Kind. Caring. Law-abiding.

Now he’s being investigated, could be charged, might face prison time …

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