Page 32 of Endless Anger
Nothing has ever stung more.
Above me, his window remains dark, and I start to grow irritated. Stepping back, I scan the ground and find a pebble among the rows of rosebushes, then cock my arm with it in hand, aiming for the glass pane.
“You break it, my mom will probably make you buy it.”
Startled by the sudden voice coasting in over my shoulder, I jump, dropping the pebble as I whirl around. Asher’s six-foot-four frame is cloaked in darkness, his pale face partially lit up by the overhead moon. Jet-black tendrils of hair fall in damp strands over his forehead, and the blue stud in his left nostril seems to sparkle as he looks down at me.
His brown eyes are indiscernible, completely masked by the shadows.
Yet I feel his stare in my stomach.
Clearing my throat, I give him a dirty look. “Let’s be honest here, pretty boy. Your mom would makeyoupay, because you took too long to come out.”
I can’t tell if his expression changes at all. “I was busy.”
“You always say that, but you never really are.”
“Except when I’m doing something for you.”
For some reason, that makes my cheeks heat. I shiver, shaking it off. “Well, I don’t think I asked you to do anything for me tonight, so consider yourself pardoned.”
A few unbearably awkward beats of silence follow. He just looks at me, and I feel my heart beating in my chest—can feel it in my throat as every muscle in my body begins to itch beneath his scrutiny.
Or maybe it’s the standing still. I’ve never been very good at that. Something within me, like a spiritual need, is always rearing to go. It’s like my body is made up of a million little worker bees who will die if they stop moving.
Finally, Asher exhales, his breath collecting in a plume between us. It smells vaguely of mint toothpaste and nutty alcohol.
That gives me pause. Asher doesn’t drink or even smoke. Never has.
I don’t ask him about it though. It’s probably my imagination anyway.
“What did you want?” he probes eventually.
I try not to let the muted irritation dull my excitement and shove the envelope forward, bouncing on my heels. “I got this in the mail today.”
“What is it?”
My eyebrows arch. “Is the big gold A on the front not enough of an indication?”
When he doesn’t respond, I groan, tossing the thing at him. He catches it against his broad chest, holding it in place.
His fingers are stained with smudged ink, and I imagine him sitting upstairs all evening, working on his sketches. Endless stacks of drawing pads fill his bedroom, and I let myself dream a little bit of how his dorm will look with them.
I wonder if he’ll tape any pieces to the walls or gift them to me like he used to.
Silly aspirations but, standing here right now, they feel attainable.
“It’s my Avernia College acceptance letter. Well, maybe. I haven’t opened it yet. I wanted to, uh, do it with you.”
That makes my face burn even more, and I reach up, pushing my hair behind my ears just to have something to do. I don’t know if he’s tracking my movements, but it feels like he is, and it makes me fidget more.
I tuck another piece of hair back, then scrub my palm over my jaw.
“You got in?” he replies.
“I…I don’t know. We’ll have to open it and see.”
More silence. Fuck, I’m starting to get nauseous. Why is he being so weird?
