“Piper,” he whispers again.
“P-please,” I beg, the tremble in my voice as clear as his cruel intentions.
Before he can threaten me, a door closes somewhere, and it’s enough of a warning to make him step away from me.
“See you tomorrow, Piper.” His tone doesn’t hold the warning it normally does, but his history of depravity speaks for itself.
When he’s far enough away, I shove past him and race up the stairs.
I lock my bedroom door for the very first time in my life.Chapter 9DaltonThe growl of my stomach is the only thing that pulls me from my bedroom. I didn’t race downstairs when the doorbell rang, and I didn’t bother plastering my ear to my bedroom door when the sound of Piper’s voice managed to make it up the stairs.
She hates me. That much was clear last night when I met her in the hallway. Actually, it was clear long before that. It was in the look on her face when she opened the door, and in the attitude she barely managed to cover when she helped me at the dinner table.
I may have lost my memory, but my ability to read social cues seems to be fully intact. The thing I don’t know is if she hated me before the accident or hates me because of it.
I wanted to talk to Peyton about it when we got home last night, but she doesn’t seem to be my biggest fan either. I’m a popular guy which I discovered after accessing my social media platforms a couple of days ago. I’m tagged constantly in posts, and even though I didn’t seem to post much myself, all of the things I did share showed me surrounded by smiling faces. I’m the captain of the varsity baseball team. I was nominated to homecoming court last year even though I don’t seem to be a football player.
Yet, even with all of the social proof that I’m popular and a fun guy to be around, not one person has stopped by. The messages in my inbox are either from people wishing me well that I’ve never messaged before or are stagnant leftovers from before the accident. There wasn’t one single message thread between Piper and me. I knew that when I went to dinner last night, but it didn’t keep me from hoping that we were closer than the need for messages. I’d looked her up online before going over there, hoping that the sight of her would bring back memories from our accident. I wanted a little more understanding of the girl I nearly killed. Apologizing for something I can’t remember strikes me as insincere for some reason, but the dated pictures on her mostly unused profile didn’t force any memories.
Peyton and Piper are both leaning over some worksheets spread out on the kitchen table when I make it into the room. Neither looks up at me as I walk by even though I make sure to make enough noise to be noticed.
I grab an apple and sit on the opposite side of the table. Being avoided by family members is one thing, but being ignored by Piper strikes a different chord with me. I actually hate it. Her indifference settles in my stomach like acid, and I’m pretty sure I’d do just about anything to have this gorgeous girl look up at me without contempt in her blue eyes.
They discuss a few more problems, and even when Piper sets a timer on her phone and Peyton works against the clock, the girl doesn’t look up. She busies herself by flipping through a math workbook and tearing out pages they’ll work on next.
The timer goes off just as Peyton’s phone rings. When my sister stands to take her call, Piper leaves the table as well. I watch her as she moves around the kitchen, pulling bread, butter, and slices of cheese from various places and placing them all together on the counter. She still doesn’t look at me when the first sandwich hits the skillet she’s heated on the stove.
I’ve had enough. Enough of being ignored. Enough of having no memories. Enough of not knowing where I stand with her and why.
She doesn’t respond to me when I stand from the table, but the same tension that was in her body last night tenses up her shoulders when I step closer to her. I don’t press against her or touch her with the fingers of my casted hand like I did last night, but I’m close enough that I know she can feel the heat from my body.
She doesn’t ask me to step back, but she doesn’t close the distance between the two of us either. Her breaths are ragged and quick, the only form of acknowledgment.
“I thought about your lips all night,” I whisper, and it’s the damn truth. Even when I tried to close my eyes to think of something else, it was the top curve of her cupid’s bow that infiltrated my mind. It must be one of the downfalls of not having anything else inside of my head to pull from. “And the scent of your hair.”