The Dare - Elle Kennedy Page 0,79

glance around the massive room in approval. Huh. This place is starting to look halfway presentable. Tables arranged. Banners and decorations hung. We might actually pull this off.

“Meet you back here at eight?” Sasha says to Eric.

“Yes ma’am. See ya then.” He gives her a kiss on the cheek and waves bye to me as he leaves.

My head swivels toward her. “Um. I didn’t know he was your date,” I accuse.

She shrugs. “I was gonna go stag again, but this way I have someone to get me drinks while I DJ.”

We cram the empty donut boxes in a trashcan, then head off in search of the alleged cooler where supposedly there’s bottled water for everyone. We try the kitchen first, where eight freshmen sit in the dark amongst piles of white cloth napkins, hunched and weary. It’s like a fucking sweatshop in here and we back away quietly. Freshmen are scary.

“What about Conor?” she asks as we walk down another corridor.

What about Conor… It seems like since I met him, that question has consumed a little more of my life every day. The two of us have been caught in a constant evolving state of uncertainty.

“I don’t know,” I reply honestly. “He’s canceled our plans for the last two days.”

A frown mars her perfect lips. “Have you talked at all?”

“A little. Text messages mostly, and he doesn’t say much. Just that he’s busy, dealing with something, yada yada. And of course, he’s always sorry.”

“He wouldn’t just…not show up tonight, right?” Sasha watches me closely, as if monitoring for some sign or signal that I might snap into a rage or have a total nervous breakdown.

“No way,” I say firmly. “He’d never do that.”

“Hey, Taylor.” Olivia comes around the corner from the loading dock. “You left this outside. It was buzzing.”

I take my phone from her, and relief slams into me when I notice a missed call from Conor. Finally. I need to know if he’s picking me up or meeting me here.

“Speak of the devil,” Sasha says.

I’m about to call him back when a text comes through.

CONOR: I’m not gonna make it tonight

I stare at the screen. Then I type a response with shaky thumbs.

ME: That’s not funny.

HIM: I’m sorry

“What’s wrong?”

I try calling him.

Straight to voicemail.

“He didn’t,” Sasha says, her voice grim as she reads my expression.

I ignore her. Call him again.

Straight to voicemail.

ME: Talk to me

ME: What the hell is going on?

ME: Fuck you Conor

I wind my arm back to hurl my phone across the room, but Sasha catches my wrist before I can let go. She grabs the phone out of my hand and fixes me with a stern look.

“Let’s not make any rash decisions,” she advises, before pulling me into the restroom across the hall. “Talk to me. What did he say?”

“He’s not coming. No explanation. Just, sorry, bailing on you again,” I say, seething, gripping the edge of the sink to stop from putting my fist through the mirror. “I mean, what in the actual fuck? He didn’t just decide this today, he couldn’t have. He’s been blowing me off all week. Which means he knew he wasn’t coming. He could have just told me! Instead he waits until the last second to really drive the knife in.”

I let out a scream and punch the stall door instead. Not quite as satisfying when the door just flies open from the force. It still hurts, but at least I didn’t shred my knuckles.

“Okay, She-Ra, settle down.” Sasha corrals me in a corner with her hands up, as if she’s settling a cranky rhino. “You really think he’s doing this to hurt you?”

I push away from her. I can’t stand still. “What other explanation is there? This is probably all part of some long con he was running on me. Maybe I was the dare all along. Some bet with his teammates. Now the game’s over and they’re all laughing at me. Poor pathetic fat girl.”

“Hey.” Sasha snaps in front of my face to stop my furious pacing. “Shut the fuck up. You are not pathetic and there’s nothing wrong with the way you look or the shape of your body. You’re beautiful, funny, kind, and intelligent. If Conor Edwards has some fucking malfunction, it isn’t your fault. It’s his loss.”

I can’t hear her. Not really. There’s a white-hot ball of rage in my gut and it’s building with every second that I don’t have an answer.

“I need to borrow your car,” I burst out, holding out my