Page 71 of Bitter Lies

Nothing.

“Halsey?” Griffin’s deep voice brings me around, and I trace my gaze over his features, his beautiful hazel eyes staring back at me under furrowed brows. His long-sleeve shirt stretches over his muscular chest, and his hands are clenched before him on the desk.

He’s everything I ever wanted and can never have. Maybe I don’t deserve him, and maybe he doesn’t deserve me because we’re fucked-up human beings with no direction.

We’re ruined. I’m ruined.

“What’s going on?” he asks softly, searching my eyes.

“Nothing. Nothing is going on,” I say as pain slams through my chest, and squeezing my eyes shut, I take deep, shuddering breaths against the panic forcing the air from my lungs.

“Halsey?” Griffin reaches out and grabs the hand clutching my shirt.

“Alright, class,” Dr. Marks says, dropping his bag to the desk.

“Are you okay?” Griffin says, to which our professor turns our way with a frown.

“Is there something you want to say, Mr. Hathaway?”

Griffin turns back to the front, his mouth a grim line. “No.”

“Good,” Dr. Marks says, his eyes dropping to where Griffin still holds my hand. “Now, I’ve graded your papers. Well done. Who wants to present?”

His eyes flow over the students, most of whom shrink in their seats until they stop on me, as I knew they would. Is this some new version of therapy I’m not familiar with?

“Ms. Moore?”

“I’ll do it,” Griffin breaks in, glancing at me worriedly, but our professor is having none of it.

“You can be next,” he says, pinning me in his expectant stare.

Standing shakily, I glance down absently to find Griffin’s hand still wrapped around me, and with a small, pained smile, I look into his eyes and pull from his grasp.

With a grimace, he lets go, and I step up to the podium, taking the paper I wrote from his hands.

“Why don’t you read the section I highlighted,” he suggests, and I nod without looking his way.

Licking my lips, I glance over the passage and let the last of my resistance go as every agonizing pulse of my heart rides through me heavily.

And with a sigh, I read the words I wrote onto the paper about Griffin and me. Things I never thought to share with him, never mind the whole of our entire class.

In conclusion, the subject showed a surprising lack of empathy, his responses to situations that might encourage nurturing absent. Although the subject has no prior history of trauma, it’s plausible that he experienced something or a series of somethings that created an almost borderline tendency towards antisocial personality behavior. After all, you can’t tear a bird’s wings and smile without liking the pain you’re inflicting.

Silence follows my statement, before our professor clears his throat and says, “Thank you, Ms. Moore. Who’s next?”

Dr. Marks stares out over the students before smiling wryly. “Oh right, Mr. Hathaway, I believe you volunteered?”

I slide into my seat without looking in Griffin’s direction, the icy waves of his displeasure clear from the distance between us as he leaves his seat with a grunt.

There’s a shuffling of papers before Dr. Marks says, “Just the conclusion, please.”

Griffin clears his throat and says in his deep voice, “The subject has a tendency to evade questions, giving half answers and lies. She refused to see the reality laid out before her and went so far as to create fantastical stories to cover her deception. My unprofessional assessment is that she craves attention, creates mayhem, and could be easily diagnosed with borderline personality disorder.”

My eyes fly to his, their cool depths showing no victory, just a grim acceptance, whether of him or me, I’ve no notion.

Joke’s on him, though—I’ve never been diagnosed with any such thing, but the words sting anyway because I’ve only ever hidden my truth to protect myself. Is that so wrong?

Griffin slides in beside me, and we avoid each other for the remainder of the class, after which I trudge tiredly out the doors, blind once again to anything but my pain.

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