Page 2 of Bitter Lies

All he had to do was say no, and we wouldn’t be in this fucked-up mess.

Still, as I step beyond him and drop a box on the bed already provided, I remember how he used to look at me, with the softest eyes and his telltale smirk curling his lip. And unfortunately, it’s that expression I still see when he gazes at me with his hate.

The room is tiny, barely fitting a full-size bed, small desk, and dresser. And it appears I’ll be sharing the guest bathroom, too, because it’s the only one I see from where I stand in the tiny-ass room.

I shouldn’t be a bitch about it, I know, but I was ready, even willing to enter the dorm life and maybe finally let go of my past, but it was not meant to be, at least not with Mom at the helm of my future.

Grudgingly, I unpack my things, placing them carefully in the drawers while ignoring both Max and Griffin passing by.

Dad brings in another box with a huff, dropping it by the wall, and I frown because I don’t recognize it, and I’m just about to tell him it must be Max’s when I see my name on the top.

Halsey’s room

Pulling the box toward me, I open the flaps and glare inside because Mom sent my paints and brushes anyway despite my refusal. She just can’t understand that I don’t have the spark anymore, and I’m fucking tired of trying to explain it to her.

“Griff, dear, this place is beautiful,” Mom says, clapping her hands together outside my room. “I just know you all will be so happy.”

“Thanks, Mrs. Moore. My parents did all the work, though,” Griff replies with his smarmy-ass smile that sets my teeth on edge.

Still, I can’t resist peeking at him through my lashes as I allow a moment of weakness and run my gaze over his perfect form, starting with his head of thick dark hair, cut short for football, the glossy strands sticking up every which way and making him look sexily mussed. He has broad shoulders and muscular arms with a tattoo I’ve never seen before peeking from under his tight shirt, of which the thin fabric emphasizes his nicely muscular chest.

And when he raises his arms behind his head to stretch, his happy trail comes into view, the muscles rippling deliciously as he bares his trim waist and a sprinkling of dark hair, I’d like to run my fingers through.

Of course, my gaze inevitably drops to his package, the bulge evident behind his basketball shorts hanging loosely on his hips.

“Ahem.”

My eyes fly to his when he clears his throat, and with the heat of a thousand suns burning in my cheeks, I find him looking at me with icy amusement.

Kill me now.

But just as quickly, he dismisses me, turning back to Mom and murmuring, “I made sure to add the lock as you requested.”

“Oh good, thank you,” Mom breathes, beaming at me.

Turning away, I suck in a deep breath and let it out slowly, my chest aching with the familiar itch I haven’t been able to shake for months. I know she’s trying to make me feel safe, but in her efforts, Mom forgets I want to feel normal, too, and I guess the two are not fucking synonymous.

When they walk off, I pull the door away from the wall and confirm that there’s now an industrial-sized lock designed to keep people out, allowing me to lock myself in. At least it’s the other way around this time…

“Where do you want these, Hals?” Dad huffs.

“I didn’t want those,” I mutter, once again staring with dismay as Dad sets my two paintings down against the wall, another reminder I don’t want to have.

When I finished them as a high school project, they were my pride and joy, both of them having won awards in the community, and it’s with a bitter twist in my heart I remember being so pleased with the attention. At the time, it was confirmation to those around me who wanted me to pursue other interests that I was a true artist, or so I wanted to believe.

Beyond that, it was a reminder that I could move beyond my painful feelings and be free.

Now I don’t want to look at them again. Ever. Those paintings are a reminder of who I used to be, and that girl died a fiery death, never to emerge again.

“Halsey, I thought you might like to hang them in your room?” Mom says, looking me over with disappointment.

Gritting my teeth, I put my foot down because, in this, I will not budge. “No, take them home.”

But when she puts on her mom face and raises a warning brow, I concede. “Please.”

“We can hang them in the living room?” Griff interjects in his silky voice, stepping up next to Mom as we face off.

Swinging my glare at him, I raise my brows in warning, but he just grins wickedly. Typical—if it annoys me, he’s all for it, even if it means a reminder of me hanging on the living room wall day in and day out for the next year at the least.

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