Heartland (True North #7) - Sarina Bowen Page 0,30
for several hours, and I try not to think about why. Maybe Dylan doesn’t care that much that she cheated.
They’re probably having makeup sex, which Cosmo insists is the best kind.
Anyway, I’m buried in homework. I thought things would start to feel easier, but the opposite is true. I’m only taking four classes, but the work keeps piling higher. Entire books to read between lectures. Quizzes. Essays.
It’s hard to just stay afloat.
Then Wednesday afternoon approaches again. It’s my algebra day with Dylan, but I haven’t heard from my tutor.
“Did Dylan happen to call?” I ask Kaitlyn when she emerges to use our bathroom. She’s probably left me another so-called note. This one might be penciled onto the bottom of my shoe.
“No, he didn’t.” She stops right in front of me, her eyes suddenly angry. “And thanks so much for rubbing my face in it, you little bitch.”
My first reaction is to take a fast step backward. I lived too many years in a house where people slapped faces. Except this isn’t the Paradise Ranch. And that’s crazy talk even for Kaitlyn.
“What is your problem?” I demand.
“Don’t pretend like you don’t know! He dumped me, so thanks for that.”
“What?” I yelp. “I didn’t even know. And it has nothing to do with me.” But I’ll bet he has his reasons. Like your cheating.
“You know plenty that you don’t let on,” she says in a deadly whisper. “Maybe Dylan can’t see through you, but I totally can. And—news flash—you’ll never get what you want. He’s never going to look at you the way he looks at me. He doesn’t go for the whole ‘poor girl next door’ vibe that you’re rocking. If he did, you’d already have him. So dream on and enjoy your little math classes. Because he’s never going to be the numerator to your denominator.”
She stomps away, leaving me blinking. And for once I don’t have any trouble understanding a mathematical concept. Because it’s all too clear that Kaitlyn sees deep inside my hungry little soul.
I could have avoided that whole conversation, because when I turn the corner to enter the reference section of the library, I spot Dylan in our usual spot. With his elbow on the table, playing with a curl of his hair, he looks deep in thought.
My heart swells a little as I take him in. His broad shoulders look a little resigned today. And as I approach, he looks up, showing me circles under his eyes.
“Hey, Chass,” he says. “You’re right on time.” But he doesn’t smile. “Sorry I didn’t call to confirm. But…” He rubs a broad hand across his chin and fails to finish the sentence.
“Are you okay?” I ask, because I can’t help myself. He doesn’t look okay.
“Of course,” he says. “It’s just…” Another unfinished sentence.
I sit down beside him on our padded bench against the wall. I think of this as our spot. But now I realize that’s ridiculous. Kaitlyn was right. I meddled. And for what? Now Dylan is sad.
“October is not my favorite month,” he says finally. “And that damn bonfire is this weekend.”
“And the service,” I add quietly. “That’s the part you actually hate, right?”
He props his chin in his hand. “Is it that obvious?”
“Anyone would hate it,” I point out. “It’s just sad.”
“Yeah, I don’t really get the whole ‘celebration of life’ thing. Especially on that day,” he says. “There are three hundred and sixty-four other less awful days for it.”
“See, that’s one thing the cult got right,” I say. “If you die there, you get one dreary funeral, and then that’s it for you. No party. No annual reminders. There’s no budget for that kind of sentiment.”
He barks out a laugh. “No kidding? At least they got something right.”
“How old were you when he died?” I ask. “Fourteen? Fifteen?”
“Fourteen. Freshman year of high school. Right in the middle of soccer season.”
“Soccer?” I try to picture a fourteen-year-old Dylan in those tall socks they wear. “I didn’t know you played soccer.”
He shrugs. “I never played again. That was a lost year for me. We were all in shock.”
“I can imagine,” I say. Although my own father was fifty-nine when I was born, and he rarely said a word to me before he died when I was nine.
“It was me who found him,” Dylan says quietly.
“You…” It takes me a moment to understand what he’s saying. “The day he died?”
He nods, miserable. “In the tractor shed. I was supposed to be helping him that afternoon, but I