Things We Never Said (Hart's Boardwalk 3)

“Doing what?”

“A jewelry designer,” I announced. I’d been loving my silversmithing classes and was leaning more and more toward jewelry design. However, I hadn’t wanted to admit that to my mom yet in case I failed. I was always blurting shit out around her I didn’t mean to.

She scoffed. “A jewelry designer? Oh my God, your head is so far up your ass in dreamland. Do you know how many people succeed as jewelry designers?”

I clenched my fists at my sides. “I’ll be one of them.”

“Why? Because you’re special? It takes more than a little creativity to make a career out of jewelry design, Dahlia.”

“Jesus Christ, Mom,” Davina snapped.

I narrowed my eyes. “I know you don’t think much of me, but I’m good at this stuff. You don’t get into MassArt if you’re not, Mom. I know you didn’t think it was a big deal I got in, but it is.”

“A big deal? Getting into Harvard is a big deal. Getting into art school is a waste of your life. Why am I always the bad guy here? All I’m trying to do is talk some sense into you. You’re wasting your life, Dahlia. On that guy and on this school. You need to—where are you going?”

“I’m not sticking around to listen to this shit.” I grabbed my keys, my coat, and hauled open the front door.

“Don’t talk to me like that and don’t you—Dahlia!”

“Why do you do that to her?” I could hear Davina shout as I hurried down the porch stairs. “You’re always on her back!”

Always, I hissed, drawing back the tears that threatened to spill. Only my mom could make me feel like utter garbage.

Fingers trembling, I called Gary, but he didn’t pick up, which made the tears spill over. Fuck, I hated crying! I ducked my head and hurried down the street. My thumb hovered over my contact list, wondering who I could call.

I knew who I wanted to call.

But he was probably working.

And I shouldn’t call him.

Michael.

I’d been dating Gary for six months now, and in that time the feelings I had when I first met Michael hadn’t gone away. If anything, they’d only gotten stronger. Michael was funny like Gary but more … he was also mature, and I could talk to him. When we were at parties, when he wasn’t chatting to some pretty girl, and Gary was off being an idiot with his friends, Michael and I would talk.

I felt this weird electric awareness around him, but I also felt like I could tell him anything.

There was something comforting about him.

Something safe.

I shouldn’t call him for comfort.

I shouldn’t.

Trying Gary again and getting nowhere, my thumb moved with a mind of its own and pressed Michael. The phone rang in my ear and with every ring my heart thudded harder and faster.

He picked up on the fifth ring, and I belatedly wondered if he was working.

“Dahlia, you okay?” he answered.

I hesitated, tears choking my throat. I never cried. I was not a crybaby. But after the altercation with my mom and the realization that the one person I wanted to talk to was my boyfriend’s best friend, I was feeling pretty vulnerable.

I should not have called him.

“Dahlia?” Michael sounded worried.

“Hey,” I choked out. It came out all croaky.