Page 10 of Bitter Lies

Shit. I sink in my seat and play with my food, wishing the ground would open up and swallow me. She doesn’t know it yet, but Griffin is as stubborn as they come. He once argued with me for four hours over who was better at chess. This after I beat his ass three times.

And although completely frustrating, it came in handy when Peter Long teased me in the seventh grade for missing a game-winning shot in PE and Griffin demoralized him every single class after until the end of the year.

Griffin’s quiet for half a second before he sighs. “Miranda, you don’t—”

“Then tell me,” she demands.

“You’re not going,” Max growls from the kitchen.

“Why? I want to go. I’m going,” I say, crossing my arms over my chest.

“Well?” Miranda says again, searching his expression curiously.

Griffin drops his gaze before turning to me and I shiver under his cool glare as he says, looking directly into my eyes, “Halsey’s not safe around herself. She just got released from a mental hospital.”

You could hear a pin drop after his statement, and I’m momentarily breathless at his cruelty—way to put it out there for the masses, fucker. My mouth trembles, and I clench my fists in my lap as he eyes me quietly for a minute before he turns away, and I glance back at Miranda.

She’s staring at me wide-eyed, which I ignore as I say quietly, “I’m not a danger to myself. If you’re still interested, I’d like to go.”

With that, I push back from the table and lock myself in my room, curling up in my bed and letting the tears I willed back before loose.

Even if I wanted to be normal, it’s impossible around Max and Griffin because they remind me of my damn mistakes every time I turn around.

Turning to my back with a long-suffering sigh, I acknowledge sadly that sometimes betrayal truly does feel like a knife to the back. At least, that’s what this breathless feeling in my chest is telling me.

Chapter Four

You can’t fix broken things, not even with glue and tape and hope.

Ihide away in my room for the remainder of the week, only emerging for class and ensuring it’s after the boys have gone. Although I hate the isolation, leaving the safety of those four walls brings on an itchy anxious feeling I’m not prepared to deal with. Thankfully, they leave me alone because I know I’m at their mercy, just as my mom wanted me to be.

My three other classes are all introductory, and I’m thankful because I had all advanced courses when I enrolled at the other school for my other life.

Now, I need the opportunity to relax, especially when it’s so hard to focus. Sometimes I feel like the world is pushing at my chest, and I can’t breathe for it, and frankly, even though I go to class, my heart’s not in it.

I’m not sure how to see past what’s already happened and how everything can continue to move forward when I can’t. And because I’m so fucked in the head, I haven’t met anyone new and stick to my corner in my classes, hoping if I’m quiet enough, the crazy I can feel lurking under my skin won’t be noticeable.

You can dope me up on meds, force me into therapy and give me stupid tasks like taking a daily walk, but none of that erases the dirty lingering in my soul and clawing to be free.

Truthfully, I preferred the numbness of lying in my bed and staring at the wall, but nobody cares about my suffering as long as I’m doing what’s expected of me.

I haven’t heard from Miranda, not that I’ve been hanging out where she can find me, so I assume she’s rescinded her offer, and it’s just as well because I’m not ready for a party with people and music and sound. Just the thought makes my skin crawl.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

Rolling my eyes to the wall, I sigh. I guess Miranda’s not up for the party either unless Griffin’s fucking some other chick in there.

“Oh god, yes, right there.”

And I think I just threw up in my mouth. Exactly how am I supposed to put up with this shit for a year? Four, if my mom has anything to say about it.

“Ahhhh,” Griffin’s distinctly deep voice rumbles through the wall.

Fuck this shit.

Exiting the room, I wander down to the kitchen with a headache brewing and a good dose of jealousy—foolish, I know.

I mean, we’ve established I’m fucked in the head already.

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