“Ugh.” She sighs, rolling her eyes, playing with the tips of her scarlet hair. “That was nothing. Just a game we were playing.”
She’s avoiding eye contact, and something in the sound of her voice makes me wonder if there’s more to it than she’s letting on. But, Nat doesn’t keep secrets. She tells me everything.
Suddenly, there’s a knock on my bedroom door, and we both turn in the direction.
“We’re dressed, Dash. You can come in.” Nat giggles, snapping out of whatever that was. She’s been staying with me a lot, and Dash walked in on her undressing the other day. He still hasn’t recovered. That, coupled with the fact that I now know way more about his sex life than any sister should, he’s been extra skittish lately.
But it’s not Dashiell that walks through my door. It’s Whitley. Her black hair that’s usually sleek and flat ironed to perfection is in a frizzy ponytail, and her face is devoid of makeup. She twists her hands in front of her nervously. Once the initial shock of her standing in my bedroom wears off, Nat springs into action and stands in front of me, blocking Whitley’s view of me.
“You have two seconds to walk your Emo-Barbie lookin’ ass out of this house.”
“Your brothe
r let me in,” she says over Nat’s shoulder in a meek voice that sounds completely foreign coming from her. I make a mental note to punch Dash. Why in the hell would he let her anywhere near us?
I want to throttle her. To cause her physical, bodily harm for causing Asher more pain than he already had to endure. For setting this whole fucked-up thing into motion. How can one person be the root of so many problems? But something in Whitley’s tired, defeated expression has me listening to what she has to say.
“What do you want?” I ask through my teeth, and Nat still doesn’t move.
“I’m sorry.”
“For what? For having Asher sent away? For lying about sleeping with him? Or is it for sending me to the hospital with a concussion?”
“All of it,” she cries, swiping tears off her pale cheeks. “I know, I’m fucking awful. I don’t know why. I’ve always been this way. I’ve never had friends,” she says, and I roll my eyes, shaking my head.
“This is not the time to play the victim,” I inform her.
“I’m not,” she snaps, mindlessly scratching her forearm in a nervous gesture. “I’m just trying to explain. I see myself doing these horrible things—feeling this intense jealousy that consumes me—and I can’t stop. But when you wouldn’t wake up…” She leaves the sentence hanging in the air.
“You could have killed her,” Nat seethes. A little dramatic, maybe, but not technically false.
“I know. You just have everything. Asher, Dash, Adrian. People are drawn to you, want to protect you, take care of you. You have friends and people who love you. I had Asher for a minute, but then you took him from me. And then, I had nothing. It’s just so easy for you.”
“Easy?” I scoff. “Yeah, life has been a real treat these past few months.”
“I didn’t mean it like that. I just couldn’t understand why it couldn’t be like that for me. Is there something in me that makes me unlovable?” Whitley’s scratching intensifies, and she doesn’t even seem to be aware that she’s doing it. Her forearm is red and raw, and I’m realizing that Whitley’s issues are probably much more involved than I ever knew. “I just snapped. And I’m so sorry, Briar. For everything. I just needed to tell you.”
“Don’t be sorry for me, Whitley. Be sorry for you. I may not have Ash, but I can sleep just fine at night with the things I’ve done. Can you?”
It’s a lie, a flat-out fucking lie, that I sleep well. I’ve probably only slept a handful of hours total since that night, but she doesn’t need to know that. I go through the what-ifs night after night. What if I never went to that party? What if I tried harder to convince Ash to leave with me? But more than anything, what if I never kissed him in front of the window that night three years ago? But I can live with myself knowing I’ve never intentionally hurt anyone, and that’s more than Whitley can say.
“No,” she admits, with an edge in her voice. “But I’m trying to fix that.” Honestly, the fact that she still has an attitude—that she hasn’t had a complete personality transplant—gives me hope that maybe she will be better in the future. That this is genuine. Maybe it makes me a fool, but I believe her.
“Well, good luck,” I say, a little snidely, but genuine nonetheless. She nods before turning to leave, but pauses in the doorway, looking back at me over her shoulder.
“He’s always loved you, you know. I think I knew it before he did. I knew it because he looked at you the way I looked at him.”
My throat gets tight, and my eyes burn. But I won’t cry. Not in front of her.
“Bye, Whitley.”
Chapter 20
Asher
Another week has passed. Another seven days of not talking to Briar. Another one hundred sixty-eight hours of sitting around my dad’s house, taking care of everything he left behind. I’ve trashed most of the stuff that was salvageable, only keeping things of sentimental value. I’ve put off his room for as long as I could, saving it for last. I haven’t so much as set foot in it since I’ve been back, unprepared to face the memories of my mother.
I twist the cheap gold doorknob and push. I’m relieved to find that it’s nearly empty, save for a bed, their tall maple-colored dresser, and one small wooden box that lies in the middle of the floor. Curiosity gets the best of me, and I squat down to get a closer look.