Pretty When She Cries - Black Mountain Academy

“What the fuck—” He follows my gaze, and in an instant, the heat in his eyes is snuffed out by an arctic chill.

I don’t know what to say. What to think. But he’s already thinking it for both of us.

“You’re a virgin?” His voice is tinged with disbelief. “All this time, you were acting like I… what the fuck, Kail?”

“I… I don’t know what’s happening,” I answer. “It doesn’t make any sense.”

“The money,” he murmurs so low I can hardly hear it. “It was always about the money.”

Abruptly, he gets up and turns away.

“Landon.” I sit up, frantically searching for something to cover myself with. “We have to talk about this. I don’t know what you think, but—”

“I can’t believe you would actually do this.” He tosses the condom into the rubbish and yanks his jeans back on. “You made me believe…” He shakes his head and lowers his voice. “You’re just like everyone else. I can’t trust a word you say.”

“That’s not true!” I cry out, but he can’t even hear me right now. The only thing I know for sure is what I saw when I woke up at that party. We were all practically naked, and the condoms… none of it makes any sense.

“Landon, please don’t go!”

He freezes in the doorframe. The muscles in his back are so rigid I know this is the end. He’ll never believe me. He’ll never let me in again, regardless of what I say. We got too close, and Landon doesn’t let anyone get close. Everyone hurts him, and now I have too. I can already hear the door slamming in his heart. If there was a key, he just threw it away.

“You win, Kail. Sell your story to whoever you want. Tell it to anyone who will listen this time. Because this is the last chance you’ll ever get. You and I are done.”20KailaniHe’s turned me into an obsessive stalker. A heartsick fool who stares out the window all night, waiting for him to come home. I text him so many times I lose count. Until the status icon changes, and I realize my messages are no longer being delivered.

He blocked me.

I want to puke. My stomach is in knots, and all I can think about are his last words to me. You and I are done.

If we could just talk this out, I’m sure we could find some sort of understanding. There has to be something that makes sense. I feel so desperate with the need to see him that I find myself standing on his lawn in the middle of the night.

I’m not this girl, am I? What happened to being strong? What happened to hating him until the day I die? Truthfully, I don’t know what the hell I’m doing anymore.

I scrub my hands over my face and groan. He never even came back here. I know because I heard the rumble of his Porsche a minute after he left me in the pool house. So, why am I here?

I peek at the handle on his back door. It’s taunting me. Surely, he wouldn’t have left it unlocked. But then again… he did plan to come back here tonight. Maybe, just maybe…

I wrap my fingers around the handle and twist. To my equal delight and dread, it opens. Now I’m standing on the threshold, asking myself how this could possibly help. But he does it to me all the time. He comes to the pool house unannounced, sneaking through my window or an unlocked door. It’s pretty much the same, right?

Except I know I’m not welcome here anymore. It’s an undeniable fact.

I go in anyway. The door quietly clicks shut behind me, and I listen for the sound of life. I’d hope his mother would have more sense than to come back here tonight. After a few long moments, I’m satisfied that I’m alone.

I don’t have a plan. For a while, I just wander around the bottom floor, taking everything in. It’s clean and tidy, which I attribute to the housekeeper I’ve seen coming and going. Right now, the place almost looks like one of those model homes. It would be easy to think nobody lives here. In the darkness, it feels so empty.

In the kitchen, I examine the contents of his cupboards. There are boxes of healthy stuff like granola and oats, and glass containers filled with grains. I was sort of expecting Pop-Tarts and chips, but there aren’t any. The fridge is more of the same. Glass containers filled with ready-made meals. When I examine the contents, I realize my mother must have made them. It warms me to know that he isn’t going hungry because of her.

I check the clock on the wall. It’s after midnight now. Where is he?

I wander up the stairs to the second floor and hesitate in front of the door to the guest room. The last time I was here, I avoided it. But now, I’m wondering if I should have. Is there something in there that could jog my memory?