I don’t go to Ethics. Or chapel. Or anywhere that requires me to pretend I’m still the same person who walked into that candlelit room last night.
Spoiler alert: I’m not.
I’m hiding behind the quad bushes like some kind of academic fugitive, replaying every last second of last night on an endless loop. His breath on my neck. The way his hands mapped my body like territory he was claiming. How I almost—almost—let him.
Jesus Christ, Juliet. Get it together.
My phone buzzes.
Lily: Babe where are you? Prof Martinez is asking about you
I ignore it.
Lily: Jules seriously where tf are you
Ignore.
Lily: JULIET MARIE ALDEN
Lily: If you don’t text me back I’m calling campus security
Lily: Are you dead? Kidnapped? Having a breakdown?
Lily: Jules. Skipping chapel?? Are you DEAD??
Finally, I text back: Alive. Just need space.
Lily: Space from what? What happened??
Me: Nothing happened
Lily: That’s the biggest lie you’ve ever told and you once convinced your mom you had food poisoning to skip that charity luncheon
Me: I’m fine
Lily: You’re hiding behind bushes texting me that you’re fine. That’s the opposite of fine
Me: How do you know I’m behind bushes?
Lily: Lucky guess. Also I can see your stupid purple hoodie from the library window
Fuck.
Lily: I’m coming over
Me: DON’T
Lily: Too late. Moving.
I turn my phone face down and try to disappear into the landscaping.
But she doesn’t come. Because of course she doesn’t—Lily gets distracted by literally everything. Probably saw a cute dog or remembered she had a manicure appointment.
Fine. Better this way.
What really pisses me off is that he hasn’t texted. Not once. No “where are you?” or “are you okay?” or even “sorry I almost corrupted you in a room full of fire hazards.”
Nothing.
Like last night was just another day for him. Like I’m just another girl he backed against a wall and made forget her own name.
Which you probably are, you absolute moron.
By sunset, I’ve convinced myself I’m over it. That I’m relieved he’s showing his true colors so quickly. That this is actually perfect because now I can go back to my regularly scheduled programming of being untouchable and uninterested.
Excellent plan. Foolproof.
I’m cutting through the courtyard to get back to the dorms when I hear it.
Laughter.
That particular kind of laughter that sounds like expensive champagne and bad decisions.
Please be literally anyone else.
I round the corner and there he is.
Grayson West in all his devastating glory, leaning against the lockers like he personally installed them. And her. The ex-girlfriend with red hair like liquid fire and a laugh that could cut glass. They dated somewhere in freshman year for like what…a week or so.
Brielle Torres. Of course it’s Brielle fucking Torres.
She’s pressed against him, arms around his neck, mouth inches from his like she owns the rights to that territory.
Breathe. Just breathe. Turn around and walk away.
But I can’t move. Can’t look away. It’s like watching a car crash in slow motion.
Then she kisses him.
And he lets her.
Oh.
Oh fuck.
My stomach drops somewhere near my ankles. Air evacuates my lungs like I’ve been punched. She’s kissing him like she never stopped, like the last few months were just an intermission in their grand romance.
And he’s not stopping her.
Same mouth that kissed me like I was oxygen. Same hands that traced my skin like he was memorizing it. Same boy who said I wasn’t the only one scared.
Liar. What a damn liar.
Then his eyes lift.
And find mine.
Shit shit shit shit shit.
Time stops. His entire body goes rigid. The expression on his face shifts from relaxed to absolutely stricken.
“Juliet—” he starts, pushing Madison back.
But I’m already moving. Already turning. Already running like my life depends on it.
“Jules, wait!” he calls after me.
Nope. Not happening. Not today, Satan.
I make it to the dorm building, up the stairs, past the common room where girls are doing homework and pretending their lives aren’t falling apart. Into my room. Door locked. Back against the wood like it’s the only thing keeping me vertical.
Don’t cry. Do not cry over this boy.
But my eyes are already burning. Throat closing up like I’m allergic to my own feelings.
He kissed her.
After everything. After last night. After making me feel like maybe—just maybe—I was special.
You’re not special. You’re just another conquest he got bored with.
My phone buzzes.
Grayson: Let me explain
Grayson: It’s not what you think
Grayson: Please just let me explain
Grayson: Juliet please
I turn it off. Throw it across the room. Slide down the door until I’m sitting on the floor like a broken doll.
This is what you get for thinking you were different. This is what you get for almost letting him in. This is what you get for being stupid enough to believe him.
The tears come anyway. Hot and fast and completely mortifying. I press my face into my knees and let myself fall apart for exactly five minutes.
Then I’m done.
No more crying. No more believing. No more Grayson West.
I wipe my face with my sleeve and make myself a promise:
He will never get close enough to hurt me again.
Ever.
30
