Spring (Evermore Academy #2) - Audrey Grey Page 0,116

my facedown phone, back to me. “Friend trouble or boy trouble?”

“Both.” I wipe my sleeve over my cheek, collecting the tears.

A knowing look dawns on her face. “Nick said Mack’s been struggling this year. He thinks it’s his fault, that they’ve pushed her for so long that she doesn’t know what she actually wants.”

“He said that?” I forget that Zinnia and Nick have each other on speed dial and gossip about us constantly.

“Yes, he’s been worried sick about her. It must be hard for the sweet girl, especially when you know exactly what you want to do after you graduate, while she’s . . . confused. I told Nick he should step back and let her make her own choices.”

“I always thought she wanted to work at her dads’ firms.” As soon as the words leave my mouth, I think back on all the times we discussed our majors. While I blabbered on and on about finding a job to help protect mortals from the Fae and make our lives better, she was always strangely quiet.

She’s never once said she wants to be a lawyer, and when we discussed Guardian jobs after school, she always changed the subject.

Zinnia reaches over and hands me my glass of iced tea. “Now tell me about this boy. Is he cute? Does he have nice parents?”

Cute? Nice parents? Titania save me, how do I explain Valerian Sylverfrost? I take a long sip of my drink, the tea so sweet my teeth ache, and say, “What if it wasn’t a . . . boy?”

Surprise flickers in her eyes. I wait for the condemnation I know I would feel in her position, but there’s only worry. “He’s a Faerie?” I don’t even have time to answer before she says, “Are you being safe?”

I nod. “We haven’t—didn’t get that far, but I was prepared.” Eclipsa found me the herbs mortal women need to keep from getting pregnant from a Fae.

“Did he hurt you?” she asks, her voice harder, making it clear she wouldn’t hesitate to rain hell on him if he did.

“Does my heart count?”

“Ah, I see. The heart’s trickier than flesh.” She takes a slice of banana bread, munching it as she thinks. “So you’re in love with this Faerie?”

How does she do that? I nod again, wishing I could deny it. The Fae killed her family. Loving one feels like a betrayal.

“But he doesn’t love you back?”

“No.” My chest aches, and I settle back on the bed. “He wanted to take things to the next level physically, he even pissed off his dad and possibly endangered his life for me, but . . .” I clear emotion from my voice. “But he couldn’t love me. Not the way I wanted.”

“Ah.” Finished with her bread, she dusts her hands off, still deep in thought. “Did I ever tell you that my daughter had a different father than my late husband?”

I shake my head, glad for the shift in conversation.

“I got pregnant with her right out of high school. Unfortunately, her father wasn’t a very nice man. When I fled to Vi’s with a shiner and marks around my neck, Vi finally told me if I stayed with him, she’d kill him. The day I left with Grace and a trash bag of my belongings was the best day of my life. A few years later, I met Paul. That kind, quiet man took over as her daddy, even if she never called him that word.”

“I wish I could have met Grace.” I think of the portrait of the happy girl in equestrian riding gear downstairs. Her vibrant eyes and mischievous smile.

“I do too.” Her lips press together, as if torn between pride and anguish over her memory. “When Grace and Paul disappeared, they weren’t at a cattle auction with Vi’s husband and boys. I tell people that because it’s easier than the truth.”

I shift on the bed, barely able to hide my surprise.

“The truth is, Grace’s deadbeat father had asked to meet her. He hadn’t been in her life for five years. I let Grace decide, and she chose to meet him. So my husband, the man who had taken care of another man’s little girl knowing she would never call him dad, offered to drive her fifteen hours to meet him. He explained that he would stay as long as it took, because when that man broke his little girl’s heart, he was going to be there to pick up the pieces.”

“Zinnia, I’m . .

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