Page 27 of Creeping Lily
“I’ve got a paper due at the end of the week,” I tell him, gripping the textbook in my lap. “I’m staying in.”
Bethany crosses her arms as she directs her words at Justin. “Okay, but why are you here? We had plans. At the restaurant. Remember?”
He ignores her and strolls deeper inside. With one easy motion, he drops onto my bed and crosses his ankle over his knee, settling in like he’s staying.
“What are you doing?” Bethany demands.
“What are you doing?” I echo, sharper than I meant.
Justin smirks—the kind of smirk that could get away with murder. “Joining you. I’ve got two cars full of friends downstairs, and I’m not going back without you.”
My stomach flips. Not at the words, but at how certain he sounds, like my choice is already made.
Bethany shoots me a look that says,What the hell is happening right now?
I can’t answer. My thoughts are too tangled, my skin buzzing with something I’d rather not name. Justin is the last thing I need. And yet… here he is.
“You’re wasting your time,” I tell him.
“Am I?” His voice is lazy, but his eyes don’t let go of me.
Bethany groans, grabbing her clutch. “You two are impossible. I’m leaving. Enjoy your weird standoff.” She storms out, the door clicking shut behind her.
The air feels heavier without her. Justin leans back, all patience and quiet persistence.
“You’re really just going to sit there?” I ask.
“Until you change your mind,” he says, smiling like he’s got all night—and maybe the rest of the week.
I bury my face in my hands, trying to block him out, but his presence seeps through anyway, filling every inch of the room like smoke. There’s no way I’m getting any work done now. Not with him sitting there, watching me like I’m the only thing worth waiting for.
The bayside restauranthums with warmth and the low murmur of conversation. Golden light flickers over polished wood tables, and the air smells of salt, butter, and charred seafood. When Justin walks in, the owner—a wiry man with a sun-browned face—looks up from behind the bar, recognition sparking immediately.
Within minutes, two tables are pulled together for our group of eight. Laughter spills between us, loud and confident, like we own the place.
Justin takes the edge seat, one down from Bethany. I end up between Trick—grinning, easygoing—and Wendolyn, whose scowl sharpens every time her eyes land on me. Her crush on Trick is no secret, and my presence is clearly an inconvenience.
I stare down at my plate, shrimp glistening in a pool of butter. Trick nudges me. “You’re not eating,” he says, teasing but watching me closely.
I force a small smile and spear a shrimp, pushing it around in the pool of butter just to give my hands something to do. “Not much of an eater,” I say lightly.
The truth? My appetite disappears the second Justin walks into a room. Even when I’m not looking, I can feel him—his gaze like a thread pulled tight, tugging at me.
Bethany, ever helpful, pipes up with a breezy laugh. “She hardly eats. And whatever she does eat never makes it past her waistline.”
I grin, but my stomach knots. My hips have always been the one thing I can’t ignore—curved in a way that makes jeans my harshest critics, every mirror a reminder.
Across the table, Wendolyn lets out a scoff, sharp and deliberate. “Not all of us can be so lucky.”
The words land like glass shattering in a quiet room. I glance up, meet her eyes. She’s wearing that tight little smile—just enough to pretend it’s not meant to wound.
I keep my face calm, almost bored, but I feel the sting. And I know she’s waiting for me to respond.
Bethany beats me to it, voice sugar-sweet. “Don’t be jealous, Wendy,” she says, voice low but carrying. “Some of us have better things to do than count calories… or other people’s ribs.”
The heat rushes to Wendolyn’s cheeks. Even Marshall, her own cousin, looks away like he doesn’t want the fallout on him.
The tension hovers, thick and unblinking. Conversations start again in fragments, forced and brittle.
