Because if word were to get out that Miss Halsey, or rather Mrs. Turner, is meeting a colleague in secret, her reputation would be ruined. Her parents would likely disown her like they wanted to.
Back when we were dating.
But I couldn’t allow that, Helen talking to her.
For some very strange reason, if anyone was going to talk to that student, it was going to be me. And no one else.
I would talk to her. I would handle it.
Perhaps because I knew that she’d already been upset because of what happened at the library. So upset that for the last three days, she hadn’t come to her spot to draw. She hadn’t sat under her tree and done the thing that most likely is the reason for her to get up in the morning in the first place: draw. And every time I caught sight of her around campus, she looked… devastated.
Because of me.
Despite being hardened against students’ tantrums and excuses over the years, I have to admit that something has been feeling tight in my chest for the past three days. What I did was wrong. Things I said to her were mean and harsh and deliberately cruel. Designed to crush her and make her forget her infatuation with me.
And I wasn’t going to add to her stress — or have her get more upset — by letting someone else handle this situation.
“Well, whatever reason you did it for,” Helen says, “I’m glad you did it. Although I’m not sure if you’ve noticed, but I think she has a crush on you.”
Her chuckle grates on my nerves and I signal the bartender for another tumbler of whiskey. “No, I haven’t.”
Her chuckle turns into a laugh, making me tighten my abdomen. “Before you go flying off the handle and taking more of her privileges because you’re crazy that way, I want to say that it’s only a schoolgirl crush and it will die down after a while. But it’s cute.”
The bartender places the drink in front of me and I’m saved from making a response as I gulp the whole thing down in one go.
Which is just as well.
What the fuck am I supposed to say here?
I know she’s got a crush on me. That’s the reason I was so harsh with her the other day. And I know — I fucking know — that it will die down after a while.
Only I’m not sure — for the hundredth fucking time — why the thought is making me want to break the glass in my hand and signal for another drink.
And that’s the thing, isn’t it?
That’s the thing about Bronwyn Bailey Littleton.
For some reason, when it comes to her, I never know why I do the things that I do. Why I react the way I react.
And it pisses me off.
It makes me angry.
Like it did today, only an hour ago, under that goddamn tree. Where I crossed another line with her. The way I talked to her. The way I almost…
Put my hands on her.
What the fuck was I thinking?
She’s a student. She’s my sister’s age. She’s my sister’s fucking best friend.
Something I still haven’t been able to wrap my head around.
That the girl I met eighteen months ago is not only at St. Mary’s, but also she’s my little sister’s best friend.
I know she thinks I don’t remember her. But I do.
I remember her.
I remember her, sitting on the side of the road, all alone. I remember her wearing that yellow ball gown, bent over something, looking like a fucking mermaid.
Well, a flower.
A wallflower, apparently.
Which yes, I fucking Googled the other day. Along with French Impressionism.
Anyway, the point is that I remember her.
I remember her passion. How the mention of her art lit up her silver eyes and how in turn, those silver eyes lit up the entire dark street. I remember her drive, her desire, her dream.
It was rare.
Even though she was a teenager, still is, I couldn’t help but admire it. I couldn’t help but admire that she knew what she wanted even though she didn’t know how to get it. And when I found out that she stood up for it, for her dream, I was… glad.
No, actually I was proud.
So fucking proud. Strangely.
And then I was furious. Because instead of cherishing that, her fight, instead of nurturing her drive and encouraging her, her parents — her goddamn, good-for-nothing parents — sent her here.
Rich people aren’t really good for anything, are they?
But then it’s not all their fault.
It’s mine too apparently.
Because I was the one who inspired her. I was the one who tipped the scales, led her to insurrection against her dad, and so I’m responsible for her being here.
Me.
“You’re going to break that glass,” Helen yet again interrupts my furious thoughts. “What are you thinking so hard about?”