One-Eighty (Westover Prep 1)

“I told you to leave me alone,” I grumble as I cram my pens and a couple of spirals into my backpack.

“I left you alone all day.”

“Try forever next time,” I snap as I zip my backpack.

I refuse to acknowledge that I watched the bottom of the staircase all day, waiting for him to saunter into the room. I even kept my ears peeled, wondering when he was going to show his handsome face. I don’t know if I’m disappointed or grateful that he didn’t.

“Why are you so hateful?” When my eyes snap up to his, I see his face transform.

It’s easy to tell he regrets asking the question in the first place, but even if he can’t remember what he’s done to me, his true colors are already starting to reappear.

“That’s rich coming from you.”

“Can’t you forgive me?”

“No.” And it’s the truth. There’s no level of forgiveness I can offer him. The pain from what he’s done is too great. He could become a model citizen, helping the homeless and dedicating his life to those less fortunate, and it still wouldn’t change my opinion about him. A zebra doesn’t change its stripes and all that.

“I don’t remember being a jerk to you. It’s not fair for you to hold that against me.”

I sling my backpack over my shoulder with so much force, I wonder if it’s going to leave a bruise on my back from the impact. Hurting myself because of him only serves to piss me off even more, but it’s not like it’s the first time.

“Just because you can’t remember doesn’t mean I should forget the years of torment and torture I suffered at your hands and those of your crappy friends.”

“I’m not asking you to forget,” he clarifies, “but a little forgiveness would be nice.”

“You don’t deserve my forgiveness.”

“And I’m sure that’s true, but that doesn’t mean you can’t. It’s obvious that you’re a better person than me. You volunteer at the library and help teach little kids how to read. I know that girl could forgive.”

I take a step back from him. “How do you know that?”

Is he remembering? How long do I have before he realizes that I was driving his car the night that we wrecked?

“Peyton told me.”

My jaw tenses, and I’m already formulating the words I need to have with his sister. We’re not best friends or anything, but it seems like some break in girl code for her to give information to the one guy she knows I hate more than anyone else in this world.

“Peyton should keep her mouth shut,” I snap as I take a step around him.

Instead of staying in his kitchen, Dalton follows me to the door, and then he stays on my heels as I walk across his lawn to my own. He’s still at my back when I unlock my front door.

Mrs. Payne texted not long ago to let me know that she was on her way home, and Preston would be fine until she got there if I wanted to leave. I couldn’t get out of there fast enough, yet, I’m still being followed by her obstinate son.

“What will it take?” he asks, walking into my house behind me and shutting the door behind him.

“There’s no chance,” I tell him, but my pulse quickens when the closing of the front door echoes around my empty house.

My parents won’t be home for another hour or so, and just the thought of being alone with Dalton where no one can hear me scream if he tries to hurt me makes me hyper-aware of my surroundings.

The curtains are pulled tight, the only light infiltrating the foyer streams in from the arched window above the front door. The silence is deafening, filled only with the ragged sound of my breathing.

“Y-you need to leave.” I hate the tremor in my voice. It speaks of weakness, and that’s always something I try to avoid around him.

Dalton has never physically put his hands on me before, and the only time I thought he would, was when I refused to give his keys back outside of Kyle’s house after he caught him and his girlfriend together, but this new Dalton may think it’s a good idea. I have no way of knowing if the crash did more to his brain than wiping his memories. Did I read somewhere that head trauma patients are known to have regular bouts of aggression and hostility?

“We’re just talking,” he says, and as if to get his point across, he takes a few steps away from me.

He doesn’t make a move to leave, but the several feet between us calms me some. It gives me a greater chance of getting away if he lunges for me.

A long breath rushes past my lips when I realize he’s not going to leave until I give in. Since that’s never going to happen, I need to figure out a way to make this boy understand that forgiving him isn’t something I’ll ever be capable of.