My Darling Arrow (St. Mary's Rebels 1)

So, I’ve come to a decision. It has two parts.

The first part includes getting him to apologize to me.

Yes, I’m forcing him to apologize and be nice. Because I can’t live in a world where Arrow Carlisle is a grade-A asshole.

I cannot accept the fact that the guy I’ve been in love with for eight years is mean and cruel. So I’m going to force him to be decent.

And the second part is ending his pain once and for all.

I know my sister has asked me to not interfere. I know that.

But I’m going to.

Because he’s hurting and she must be hurting too.

Breakups are tough and if I can do something to curb their pain, then I will. Besides, this is the least I can do after betraying my sister in secret for years.

Although I’m not sure how I will accomplish this big feat. But I’m working on it. For now though, I need to make him apologize to me.

I look for him all day at school but I don’t see him anywhere. He’s not in his office either; I went and checked. I even wanted to ask Coach TJ about him but I stopped myself lest I appear overly familiar and step over any more of my boundaries.

When school is done and night falls, we sneak out again.

This time it’s my idea.

Because like a fool, I think I might see him again at the bar like last week. I might find him there, looking for his next distraction.

My chest squeezes when I think that. When I think of him looking for a way to get rid of all his anger.

Will you be my rebound girl, Salem?

I wanted it, didn’t I?

God, how badly did I want it.

I would’ve said yes. I was going to say yes. I was going to say yes to becoming his distraction, an object that he uses, just because I’m so crazy in love with him.

If only he hadn’t said those words. If only he hadn’t been a giant fucking asshole.

Anyway, we’re at the bar now.

Like the last time, I have lipstick on. It’s called Dream Broken Darling, a melancholic and dark shade of coral and brown, which suits my mood perfectly.

Just like the song that’s playing overhead: “Sad Girl” by Lana Del Rey, the queen who makes music for doomed and heartbroken girls like me.

My mind is on the song and my hips are already swaying to it, and probably that’s why I don’t see the obstacle in front of me until I’ve crashed into its back.

It’s Wyn.

Who in turn crashes into Poe, who bumps into Callie.

Coming out of my melancholy, I frown. “What’s up? Why are we stopping?”

Wyn shrugs, rubbing her shoulder. “Because for some reason Callie has turned into a statue and won’t move.”

We’re standing just a few feet inside the door almost in a line and Wyn is right; Callie, in the front, has stopped moving. The rest of us break away from our formation to go stand beside her.

“Callie, what’s up?” I ask, touching her elbow tentatively.

“Nothing,” she says, her eyes focused on something, her lips barely moving.

“Then why aren’t you moving?” Poe asks.

Callie mumbles something indecipherable and I follow her gaze to find myself staring at a guy.

At a gorgeous guy, actually.

For the first time since yesterday, my mind is thinking about something else. And that something else is this guy that Callie is staring at.

He’s got dark hair that’s kind of spiky and messy at the top, as if he has a serious habit of running his fingers through it. And dark-colored eyes.

Gosh, those eyes are so sparkly and uncanny. Like black gems.

He stands directly opposite to us, among a group of people. From what I can see, this guy seems to be at the center of it.

Everyone – mostly guys and a couple of girls – is somehow talking to him at the same time. Everyone is looking up at him at the same time, as well.

Probably because first, he’s taller than everyone in the group, and second, because he looks bored. Or maybe that’s his resting face, looking arrogantly bored by everything around him.

Well, not everything.

Because in a matter of seconds, his dark-colored eyes have fallen onto the one thing that does interest him.

My friend, Callie.

His smooth features change. They buckle and morph to show slight surprise before a frown appears between his brows.

He clenches his smooth jaw too – much smoother as opposed to his messy hair – with what I can only describe as disdain.

Confused, I look away from him and back to Callie, and when I find the same expression on her face, things suddenly click.

“Is he… the guy because of whom you’re at St. Mary’s?” I ask her, remembering the story she told us about how she ended up at St. Mary’s.

So one night, over dinner, they all shared their stories of how they ended up at St. Mary’s.