Page 921 of One More Kiss

“I’m sure you know it’s illegal to drive without a license. And I can’t let you off, obviously. I clocked you going sixty-seven in a thirty-five. Plus, the red light.”

I shifted on my feet. “So, the ticket will be fat, I get it.” I felt like crying. Which was fucking stupid. Cocky was my default, though.

“Yes, it will. And, you’ll be walking.”

“What the—”

He held up the ticket. “This is me going easy, kid. And I think you should get some help.”

I ran my hands through my hair. Help. Right.

After he got back into his car, I started walking. I was sure I could have called Nate or Luca, but walking felt better.

It took me almost an hour to get to the dorms. I walked in, and the guys were drinking beer in the kitchen, arguing about something.

“Look who decided to show face.” Nate nodded up at me.

Luca turned and grinned.

“Shut the fuck up,” I said, grabbing a beer.

“Mood much?” Nate cocked a brow.

Luca raised his beer to me. “Leave him alone.”

“Why? He’s always hot or cold. It’s annoying.” Nate was really close to getting knocked the fuck out and I’d only been home for a minute. I stepped up to his face. “I said shut the fuck up.”

“Or?” He puffed up his chest at me.

I took a deep breath and stepped back. I wasn’t doing this. Nate was one of my best friends by default. We played ball together, and I’d known him since we were kids. “You’re still a jackass and deserve a beating, but not from me.” I shrugged it off and walked to my room, slamming the door.

* * *

I’d turnedinto a ghost the last few days. I’d avoided Luca and Nate. I knew I’d been a dick and didn’t want to show face. I’d also ignored texts from everyone, including my mom. My room had been my safe haven, and the only time I’d left was at night. I went for runs, sprinting until I was nauseous and dripping in sweat.

Emails poured in from my professors about missed classes. Finals were next week, and they were concerned. I wasn’t. I had a 3.9 GPA. I’d show. I’d pass. But for now, I just needed time. The anxiety came in waves. Music, which usually helped me, was making everything worse. Because every single fucking song reminded me of her.

I knew I should call her. Text her, at least. But I couldn’t bring myself to. I knew I’d screw up even worse than I already had. I wasn’t good at saying the right words. Doing the right things. Being the right person.

I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling fan. It was three in the afternoon, and my black-out curtains weren’t doing their job. I took a deep breath, trying to calm the storm brewing in my chest. But it was no use. This time it felt like it was there to stay.

The sound of my phone ringing broke me from the panic attack that was building. I didn’t recognize the number, but against my better judgment, I answered anyway. “Yeah.”

“Mr. Soronen? This is Brenda from group.”

I rolled my eyes. “Yeah?”

Why did I give them my contact info?

“I was just calling to check in on you. You’ve missed several weeks now, and I wanted to make sure you were doing all right.”

“I’m fine.”

She sighed. “Okay. Well, I just wanted to let you know that if you needed anything, recommendations for trauma or grief—”

I cut her off. “Has Tate been there?” Has she been going to group?” I gritted out in frustration. I didn’t care about the therapy.

Answer the damn question.

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