Page 8 of Bitter Lies

My jaw drops to my knees because what the hell? “How do you know my schedule?”

Shrugging, he says casually, “Your mom gave it to me.”

“Of course,” I say, slamming my bag on my desk, frustrated. Did she tell him my fucking menstrual cycle, too?

“No,” he says with a smirk, “but it’s not hard to tell when you’re on the rag.”

“What—”

“Ms. Moore? Is there a problem?” my new therapist/professor asks from the front.

Slumping, I turn to him with defeat because it would seem I’m going to be analyzed from every angle, and I just wonder for how fucking long because this shit’s getting old already.

“No,” I say, ignoring Griff beside me.

“Can you give us a moment, please, Mr.…” Dr. Marks asks, raising his brow.

“It’s Hathaway,” Griff says with a frown, rising and heading for the door but not without a curious look my way.

Once he’s exited the room, I step down to the front, watching silently as Dr. Marks closes the door in Griff’s face where he’s spun to stand against the wall opposite the door.

I spy Griffin’s brows slam over his eyes before he’s cut off, and the professor turns to me.

“I didn’t anticipate you would be in my class. Is this going to be a problem for you?”

“I don’t know,” I mutter, shifting uncomfortably. “Isn’t it like a conflict of interest or something?”

He smiles and do I detect a damn twinkle in his eyes? “It’s not a problem for me if it isn’t for you.”

“Um, okay,” I say, escaping to the door. “I’ll um, think about it.”

I’m still not sure how to feel about this, but I’ve got a few days to decide, and my skin is itchy with the need to be alone and process the fuck ton of bricks that have been dropped on my head.

Between Griffin being in the same damn class as me to my damn counselor being my teacher, I’m starting to think I’d have been better off lying in my own damn stink.

Griffin’s still standing against the wall when I emerge, and I stalk past him with irritation, ignoring him until we’re outside the building.

It’s a beautiful September day, the trees and grass lush on the small campus, but it’s lost on me as I turn to him and say, “I can get myself home.”

The house is a few blocks from campus, easily within walking distance, and even if just being in the fresh air makes my chest clench painfully, he doesn’t need to know.

I’d prefer to keep the last parts of my fucked-up psyche to myself because clearly nothing else is sacred. What was my mom thinking?

Why can’t she let me breathe? And why is Griffin looming over me with a moody expression?

“And you’ll have plenty of opportunities when I’m busy. Let’s go,” he says with a growl.

Frowning, I follow behind him, feeling the noose pinching my skin grow ever tighter. Frankly, I’d leave if I had the choice, but another part of my discharge agreement was that I surround myself with family and friends. Of course, my mom interpreted that as living together and blissfully made the arrangements.

Now I’m stuck for fear that if I don’t comply, they’ll assume I’m sick again. Fuck my life.

Griffin drives a fancy Suburban gifted to him no doubt by his daddy, and climbing inside silently, I stew as he pulls out of the lot, lost to my thoughts.

“How does our new professor know your name?” Griff demands into the quiet.

“What do you mean?” I play dumb, glancing at his stern expression.

It’s stupid, but I just want this piece of me to remain mine. Is that too much to ask?

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