Page 38 of Crash into me
He tenses at the use of his racing name, his eyes turning an even darker shade of obsidian. “I don’t want to be somebody you used to know.”
Bile rises in my throat as I say it, “You aren’t even that to me.”
A grim expression lays on his face. “I’ll tell you who I am, Skyler Johnson. I’m your protector, your biggest fucking cheerleader. My heart solely fucking beats for you!”
I have to get him to leave, I can’t … I can’t do this anymore. It’s ripping me apart as much as it is him. “The butterflies.”
Foster squares his shoulders, his nostrils flaring. “What about them?”
“They’re … they’re gone.”
His angered face morphs into something far off, like brutal rain on a summer beach day.
He doesn’t speak.
He doesn’t blink.
He simply turns and walks away past two dying trees that remind me of my heart. Twisted vines suffocated the tree until it had nothing left, chipping bark that flakes off at the slightest sign of wind.
I fall to the dead leaves, holding myself together with my arms wrapped around my shaking body on the cold, unforgiving ground.
17
My phone chimes, and I pull it from my clutch. ‘Get back.’ It reads. Unknown number.
‘Who is this?’
‘Warren. Auction is about to start. Meet me by the fountain.’
The charity benefit is about to begin, so at least they’re doing something good. I wipe my tears and dust the dirt from my gown to meet him by the flowing water.
Everyone is lined up around the gazebo, with an auctioneer rambling off prices. “Whose is all this?” I recognize a few paintings, but there are a lot more items that aren’t ours.
“My dad’s.” He gestures to the other stuff. “At least he’s giving to charity.” Warren shrugs.
“That’s what I said!” I sigh. “At least something good will come out of tonight.”
He nods his head back to the forest. “How was that?”
“Awful, dreadful, tiring,” I describe.
He slides a comforting arm around my waist, holding me up from falling. I can’t believe how much my opinion on him has changed within an hour.
All of the buzzing workers this morning make sense now. Everything has come together. Our backyard is always magnificently, strikingly perfect. Never a blade of grass out of place, and the décor tonight matches that flawless theme. Stringing lights lay lazily overhead in a starlit daze as they battle with the stars.
Classical music flows through the air, dancing over everyone’s ears. I spot a few familiar faces in the crowd. Brett’s mom chatting with a group of giggling women. Kent with his arm wrapped around my mother, doting around his perfectly primped wife. Envy leaning against a table, laughing into the night.
What the fuck?
I stomp in her direction. Why is she tormenting me? I slam my palm onto the table, and as her eyes meet mine, they brighten. She wraps her arms around me, and that’s when I feel it … or actually, when I don’t.
My hands reach for her flat stomach, making my own churn. “You … you’re not …”
She brings a glass of bubbling champagne to her scarlet lips. “You tell Foster and you’re dead,” she hisses like a snake, but a perfectly faked smile lays on her face. I recognize that look anywhere. I’ve practiced it in the mirror my entire life.
A flowing Prada dress, sleek Christian Louboutin heels, an overpriced Birkin bag.
I almost didn’t recognize her without the strips of neon green that always adorn her hair. She notices my eyes roaming around it. “Extensions, Blue.” She calls me what Callum does, and it makes my ears bleed.