How Sinners Fight - Eva Ashwood Page 0,29

of emotional stuff. “Even though I know you wanted to go back home, I’m selfishly really glad you stayed. How are you doing with your first Christmas away from your family?”

I can’t really relate to the traditions of family holidays. I never really had any of that growing up. But even though Max comes from what would probably be considered “the wrong side of the tracks” by everyone at this school, her family is super tight, and her parents love her. As far as I’m concerned, that’s worth more than money anyway.

“I’m doing okay. We talked on the phone this morning,” she says, but a small frown creases her brow. “I’m still bummed I couldn’t afford the plane ticket though. I wish it was part of the stipend for us scholarship students. Like, if they can afford to house and feed us for over two weeks during winter break, shouldn’t they be able to fly us home instead?”

“You should mention that to Dean Wells,” I say with a snort. The whiskey is finally starting to hit me. “You’d think they’d be glad to get rid of us for a while.”

“Right?” She laughs too, reaching for the bottle again.

Max and I spend the next hour finishing up the bottle of whiskey until she says something about sleeping in her own bed, and we somehow manage to get her to her dorm without falling over. My steps are heavy and my head spins as I make it the short distance across campus back to my room, sliding the key through the reader a few too many times before I get it right.

I’m coherent enough to brush my teeth and tug off my clothes so I can take a quick shower before I get in bed. Maybe it’s my drunken imagination, but I feel like I can still smell Gray on my skin, and I scrub off the outer layer of skin cells in an effort to banish that last remnant of him.

Stepping out of the shower into the steaming bathroom, I catch my reflection in the mirror. The hollow eyed, rough-edged girl who looks back is one I know all too well, only this time, there’s a weariness in her blue-gray eyes that I feel in my bones.

I need to sleep before I start thinking about shit, I think, flipping off the bathroom light and heading to the bedroom to pull a ratty t-shirt from one of the top drawers. As I pull the shirt over my head, my gaze snags on the marks on my body—a mix of scars and tattoos. I know where the ink came from, but I don’t know where many of the little jagged white lines came from.

There are secrets… I trace my finger over a particularly visible scar on my arm. There are secrets buried inside me. I know they’re in there, I just can’t grasp them yet.

I tug the hem of the shirt down, my head starting to spin a little. I don’t think it’s the booze so much anymore. Now it’s just exhaustion. Maybe even a little heartbreak.

Tugging the covers back, I crawl into bed, curling up as if I could somehow keep the whole world at bay.

There are secrets buried inside me. Will I ever manage to draw them out?

8

Hawthorne University obviously doesn’t believe in letting their students get too much time off. School starts just a few days after I get back, but I certainly don’t spend that time idly.

If Gray’s promise to get rid of me for good has done anything, it’s only increased my drive to do better here than anyone expected. After getting my class schedule and all of the books I’ll need for the semester, I’ve spent the past two days studying and prepping, doing as much as I possibly can to get ahead and be ready for the semester. I’m determined to kick ass in my classes and prove to everyone, not just Gray, that I can hold my own.

I’ve tried to paint too, but that hasn’t happened so easily as the studying.

When I was in the hospital—even when I was at Gray’s house—I wanted nothing more than to get back to my little studio in the corner of my dorm and paint out everything I was feeling. If I could get all the stuff whirling around in my subconscious out onto a page or a piece of canvas, I thought I might actually be able to make some sense of it.

But nothing comes.

I’ve tried to sit