One-Eighty (Westover Prep 1)

“Where are you going?” he asks when I turn away from him and head toward the stairs.

I don’t answer him, and as I predicted, he follows me up the stairs. I’ve never had a boy in my room before, and that isn’t lost on me when Dalton follows me into my private space.

Like a fool, he smiles as he looks at my coral curtains. His eyes glisten like there’s some inside joke I’m not privy to. It only serves to frustrate me more.

“My dad will kill you if he catches you in my room,” I mutter as I fling my backpack onto my unmade bed.

He doesn’t say a word as his eyes skate over everything in my room. I almost hate that I’m not a tidier person. I shuffle around, scooping up dirty clothes and straightening the things on my desk.

“It smells nice in here.” His nose tips up as he takes a deep breath. “What is that? Lavender? Lilac?”

“Really?” His head drops back down, and the heat in his stare forces a wave of goosebumps down my arms. I ignore them, just like I ignore the way his tongue traces his lips. Why does he have to be so good-looking? “You know notes of my body lotion, but you can’t remember your family?”

His brows furrow. “I know my family. I mean, I know who Mom and Dad are. My memories of Peyton are a little off since she’s no longer a baby.”

“You don’t remember Preston at all?”

Sadness fills his eyes, and the flash of pain on his face makes the walls around my heart lose a little fortitude. It also makes the guilt ramp up to its highest yet. He can’t remember a primary person in his nuclear family because of what I did. His memory loss is more than just forgetting what a jerk he was. It’s wiped out entire people. That wouldn’t be so bad if the only ones on that list were Kyle, Bronwyn, and the rest of the evil minions, but knowing he can’t remember his brother makes my heart ache.

“What’s that look for, Piper?”

I swallow thickly, breaking eye contact with him.

“Wh-what look?”

“I don’t want you to feel sorry for me.”

“I don’t.” It’s a partial lie, but that’s the thing about accidents—you can’t pick and choose what the suffering will be.

“Forgive me.” It’s not a question or really a demand, but the repetition of his insistence reminds me why I came up here to begin with.

Instead of refusing him once again, I turn toward my closet. The box I need is all the way on the top shelf, and just like every other time I’ve needed it down, I head back into the room to get the step stool in the corner of my room.

“Let me,” Dalton offers, cutting in front of me to stand in the middle of my oversized closet. “Which one?”

I point to the second box to the left, thankful that he reaches for it and hands it directly over. His efficiency keeps me from staring at the sliver of golden skin that’s revealed when he reaches up.

My hands shake as I take it from him, but I don’t know if it’s because I’m fixing to attempt to trust him with my secrets or if it’s because of the scent of his cologne and the warmth of his body with our proximity invade my senses.

I exit the closet as fast as I can and go to stand on the far side of my bed.

“What’s in there?” Dalton asks as he closes my closet door. “It’s not a weapon of some kind, is it?”

I huff. “Do you know how hard it would be to get blood out of my carpet? I’d never be able to hide it from my parents.”

I cringe with the words, remembering all the blood covering his ashen face as he was carried past me and put in the ambulance.

“You sound like you’ve spent some time planning my death.” He chuckles, but his statement hits a little too close to home.

“You’re not worth the prison time,” I mumble.

“Notebooks?” he asks, not bothering to hide the disappointment in his voice when I pull open the top of the box.

I chose the box that has my journals in it from the end of sixth grade through the summer before high school. This box doesn’t contain the most horrific things that have happened to me, but it will give him some idea of why I can’t do what he’s asking. I can’t forgive him for the things that will leave lasting scars on my soul.

“I want you to read these,” I tell him as I pull a stack of journals from the box and offer them to him.

“Read?” He shakes his head. “Why don’t you just tell me what’s in them.”

The manipulative smirk on his face as he barters is all too familiar.