One-Eighty (Westover Prep 1)

“There are assholes everywhere,” she mutters.

“There seems to be a much higher concentration in Westover.”

“Will you stay the night?”

I grin. “That’s a quick change of subject.”

I’m stalling. The last thing I want is to be stuck in her house with Dalton just across the hall all night. I already can’t get him out of my head when I’m at home. I know it’ll be pure torture on my psyche to be mere yards away from him.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” I tell her when she just watches me with hope-filled eyes.

“Please? We can make popcorn and watch scary movies,” she offers.

“I hate scary movies.”

“Then romantic comedies.”

I cringe. “I hate those even more.”

“We can watch whatever you want. Your pick.”

I don’t know much about Peyton, but I know I haven’t seen any of her friends come over this week. I don’t know if that’s intentional because she’s trying to focus on passing her math test so she doesn’t have to repeat the eighth grade, or if it’s because she’s in low supply of friends.

“Fine,” I agree.

As much as I don’t want to be near Dalton, I can admit that I’ve had fun tonight and I don’t really want it to end.

“Yay!” Peyton claps her hands excitedly. “I’ll grab you some pajamas.”

While she rummages in her dresser for clothes, I put away the makeup and hair products.

“You can change out here. I’ll change in the bathroom, then we can grab snacks and binge watch something.”

I agree with a head nod, only stripping out of my still-damp swimsuit and shorts after her bathroom door clicks closed—only she’s faster at getting dressed than me. I have the t-shirt over my head, but I’m just pulling up the pajama pants when she reenters the room.

I don’t have panties to put on, but when her eyes focus at the center of my body, I know she isn’t shocked that my lower half is naked. What surprises her are the tiny lines slashed in my upper thighs. Some are white and silvery, while others are still angry and pink.

“Piper?” She looks up at me, and tears glisten in her eyes.

“It’s nothing,” I assure her as I finish getting dressed.

“It’s not,” she replies.

“Please don’t tell anyone.”

“You hurt yourself?”

“Not anymore,” I lie. Well, it’s sort of a lie. I haven’t cut in a couple of weeks, but I’d be remiss if I thought I’d never do it again. I do have a year of torture at Westover Prep to get through.

“Don’t tell anyone,” I repeat.

“I w-won’t.”

I don’t believe her, but there’s nothing I can do about it right now. Maybe if I show her how happy I am, she’ll believe that the self-harm is over.

“How about those snacks?” I’m gleeful to the point it’s bordering on manic, but it doesn’t work the way I hope.

She’s quiet and reflective the entire time we’re in the kitchen popping popcorn and loading up on sugary things. When we make it back upstairs, I give in and choose a comedy, praying it will take her mind off what she saw.

She laughs at the right parts, but the joy she expressed after I agreed to stay the night never returns.

She falls asleep before I do, and with the way my brain is running wild right now, I don’t think I’ll ever sleep again. If she tells my parents, I’ll probably end up in a psych ward. My father, as a pediatrician, is well aware of the process of making that happen since he’s involved often with teens who are on the very edge of a mental breakdown.

I worry the edge of my lip until I taste blood, and that only serves as a reminder of the rusty taste in my mouth the night of the accident.

A noise in the hallway distracts me from my thoughts. The household went to sleep hours ago, so the noise is startling. Maybe I should sneak out and head home?

The noise happens again, and it’s not like a thump but a soft patter. Making sure not to jostle Peyton, I climb out of bed and slowly make my way across the room. I hear the noise again when I press my ear to the door.

There’s low mumbling, but I can’t decipher the words. After minutes of listening, I determine that it’s one person in the hallway having a conversation with themselves. Does Preston sleepwalk?

Afraid he’s going to fall down the stairs, I slowly open Peyton’s bedroom door. Only it isn’t Preston pacing the length of the hallway, but Dalton.

His eyes snap up to mine when he notices me.

“What are you doing?” I whisper-hiss at him.

Is this part of the head trauma? Just what I need, more guilt to feel if he has insomnia because of the accident.

“I was contemplating knocking on the door.”

I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from smiling.