trash. You are trash. Is she starting to see it, too?
She closes the door to my room, and I hear the shower start, the curtain slide open. Suddenly, music starts playing, and it takes me a moment to realize it’s Adair’s ringtone. I pull it out of her purse to look at the screen, but it’s gone to voicemail. Then it starts again, flashing Poppy’s face.
“Hey, Lucky?”
“Yeah?” she calls over the shower.
“Poppy is calling—”
“Shit!” Adair yelps. “I was supposed to call her when I found you!”
“Wait, do you mean there’s a search party out looking for me?” I know it’s stupid—that she was trying to look out for me—but I fucking hate the thought of a bunch of rich kids stooping down to my level to help me out. I didn’t fucking ask them to.
Adair did.
“Just Poppy and Cy,” she says. “Can you answer and tell her everything is fine?”
I swipe the icon on the phone, and as soon as the clock begins ticking, I hear Poppy’s voice, “We checked all the service roads around the club. There’s a big party on Greek row, so I’m heading there. Cyrus went by their room, but—
“Poppy, it’s Sterling,” I interject.
“Oh,” Poppy says, and I can picture her furrowed brow.
“We got caught in the rain in the Jag, we just got to my place. That’s why Adair hasn’t called. She’s in the shower, trying to thaw herself out.”
“I see,” Poppy says, and it reminds me of how Francie used to talk when she chose to leave her feelings on whatever stupid thing I had done unsaid.
And I guess, from the outside, she has her reasons. Her best friend had to leave a wedding because it looked like I went on a bender. But isn’t that the whole fucking problem to begin with? Poppy—an extremely nice person—sees more to complain about from my behavior than Angus MacLaine’s.
That’s how much money has warped these people. I’m a lesser being because my net value is in the negative. Poppy is nice, but she’s not asking if I’m okay. She was looking for Adair. She doesn’t give a shit about me. I’m Adair’s lost puppy. A stupid mutt they’re all putting up with.
But I don’t want her pity. I don’t want to explain myself to her. If she doesn’t get it, she can fuck off. An awkward silence hangs between us, and I decide I’ve had enough of talking to Poppy. “Do you want me to have her call you when she gets out of the shower?”
“Just tell her to call me if she wants,” Poppy says brusquely.
“Will do.”
I end the call as the water shuts off in the shower. I move closer to the door, placing my palm on it. One piece of wood separating me from her, but a world between us. Where do we go from here? How do I show her she needs to get away from everything she’s ever known? How can I even be sure she really wants to?
“I have some boxers and an undershirt when you’re ready,” I say, putting on the same ensemble myself.
“Just leave them by the door.”
I wish I knew the answers. I don’t. I just know I’m lucky to have her, and that—if she really means it when she says she’d give up everything to be with me—I need her to open her eyes about her family. Her friends. Her world.
She comes out of the bathroom looking as tired as I feel. The corners of her eyes are red and puffy, and I can’t tell if it’s because she’s been crying, or if that’s what it looks like after a girl takes off makeup with one of my cheap washcloths.
“Feel better?” It’s a stupid question. Of course, she doesn’t.
She hugs her waist, inadvertently stretching the thin fabric of my shirt until it’s nearly sheer. “Much better. I didn’t think I’d ever stop shivering.”
“You’re still cold,” I say, noting how pert her nipples are beneath my undershirt. There’s something I can do about this. “I can warm you up some more.”
“I want you to promise me something first,” she says, giving me the sense she has been screwing up her courage to tell me whatever it is she’s about to say.
I brace myself. “What would that be?”
“Promise me you won’t let anyone come between us.” She puts her palm on my chest, and looks up at me with eyes like a full moon. The bright hope there leeches away my anger. “I need something real, Sterling. Someone