Page 28 of That Pretty Pucking Mouth

Then I hear it.

“Bro, I heard it wasn’t even an overdose this time.”

Laughter.

“Maybe he just choked on some pussy.”

“Or guilt.”

Another round of laughter. Someone makes a mock gasp.

“Maybe Reaper business, bro.”

Reaper what?

They’re by a stone bench. Three guys in letterman jackets. Frat boys. Not the ones from last night, but they all blend together. Loud voices, smug smiles.

My legs stop moving before I realize it.

Are they talking about Jack?

I can’t tell. They don’t say names. No one lowers their voice. It’s all a joke to them. Whatever “it” is.

One of them crushes an energy drink can against his thigh and chucks it into the bushes.

I keep walking.

My heart’s pounding again, and not because I’m out of shape.

Because every laugh sounds like a threat. Every voice feels like it knows.

Maybe they saw something.

Maybe they know.

Or maybe this is what it’s like to lose your mind and smile through it.

Students hurry to class around me, but I barely notice them. I’m too focused, too anxious about what I need to do. The cafe noise fades into the background as I sit here, planning my next move.

I’m at a table by the window that faces the quad. Cassidy sits across from me, typing furiously on her laptop. Professor Jennings’ paper is due in a few hours, and she’s left it until the last minute, as usual.

“Ugh! This Albert Bandura dude must have been some kind of uptight nerd. I don’t understand half of what I’m writing.” She pauses and chuckles. “Thank you, AI.”

“Right,” I mumble, forcing a smile. I can’t shake the tension coiling in my chest. “Good luck with that,” I say, my gaze drifting back to the quad, searching.

Thatcher van Doren.

There he is.

I sit up straight, my heart jolting as he strides out of one of the buildings. His familiar swagger draws eyes. A cream sweater hangs off his strong frame, blue jeans wrapping around his long legs. He chats with teammates as he walks, pushing backhis brown hair. I watch him laugh and fist bump Ezra before continuing across the quad toward the cafe.

I grip the edge of the table, following him with my eyes. He pulls open the door and steps inside, gaze on his phone. Sidestepping a pair of girls, he joins the queue at the counter.

I take a deep breath. My heart pounds. With each passing second, my determination slips away.

I can’t fucking do this.

What am I thinking? Confronting him about the party? Did I really think I could just walk up and beg him not to report me to the cops?

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