We Don't Talk Anymore (The Don't Duet #1) - Julie Johnson Page 0,34

I head back to the house, climb into bed, and don’t move — not when my alarm begins to blare, not when Flora comes to check why I’m not downstairs in my uniform, ready to leave.

“I’m sick,” I tell her, my voice muffled beneath the heavy duvet. “I’m not going to school today.”

I must sound as terrible as I feel, because she doesn’t push me. She doesn’t even take my temperature. A gentle “Okay, mija” drifts to my ears before the door clicks closed. I’m grateful for the privacy. The last thing I want to do is explain why my eyes are so red and puffy.

I strain my ears, listening for the telltale rumble of a truck engine, for the distant click of the front gates that assures me Archer is gone for the day. All I can hear are birds chirping outside my window, building summer nests in the weeping willow trees.

Exhaustion clutches at me, a relentless suitor. I let it pull me under, thinking I might escape my misery with sleep. But I only dream of things that make my heart ache — narrowed caramel eyes, full lips spitting cruel words.

It’s time to move on.

I jolt awake, eyes watering.

Flora comes up with lunch on a tray for me. I send it away untouched. I have no appetite. I feel half alive. Hollow. Like someone’s taken a commercial fishing hook and gutted me, right through the stomach.

I tell myself I’m not waiting for Archer to text me. To call me. To show up at my door and apologize. To beg forgiveness for being such a jerk, plead temporary insanity, and assure me he’s back to his normal self.

He does none of those things.

Crazy as it sounds, even after everything, a small part of me was hopeful he’d try to mend things between us. Every hour that ticks by without hearing from him, I feel a little more of that hope wither inside my chest.

Eventually, I summon enough energy to pull my laptop beneath my sheets. I click on The Great British Bake Off, losing myself in the comforting monotony of strangers competing to create the best blueberry custard tart. The light outside fades, shadows lengthening as the day wanes from afternoon to evening and finally to full night.

Flora brings more food for dinner. It grows cold on my bedside table before she takes it away.

My laptop runs out of battery halfway through episode eleven. I don’t bother locating the power cord. I curl more deeply beneath my cocoon of blankets, close my eyes, and, for the first time, allow myself to consider what the following day will bring.

Today, I got away with avoiding everything; tomorrow, that free-pass officially expires. I’ll have to go to school. To face my life.

To face him.

And if I want to get through the day without dissolving into pathetic tears in front of the wolves that roam the halls of Exeter Academy of Excellence…

I’m going to need a contingency plan.

Chapter Ten

ARCHER

Fuck.

My.

Life.

Chapter Eleven

JOSEPHINE

Tuesday morning dawns clear and bright.

I blink awake six minutes before my alarm. Kicking off my duvet, I practically vault out of bed and race for the bathroom. I speed through my shower, leaving my damp hair to dry naturally. No time for blow dryers, today.

I throw on my uniform — pleated green and black plaid skirt, coordinating blazer, crisp white shirt. My stockings have a tear, which delays me a bit rummaging around for fresh ones, but a glance at the slim silver watch on my wrist shows I’m still on track.

With a heavy stack of textbooks pressed to my chest, I creep down the grand staircase, grimacing at every creaky step.

Historic houses make sneaking around a varsity sport.

At the bottom, I pause, straining to hear any sign of Flora in the kitchen — faint humming, the clatter of pans, a refrigerator clicking shut. But there’s nothing.

All clear.

I step off the landing, round the atrium corner, and slink down the hall to my father’s study. Inside, it smells of old leather-bound books and fresh furniture polish. I find it odd that there’s no dust; that the imposing mahogany desk shines brightly even in its neglected state. I suppose Flora still cleans in here, even if my father isn’t around to appreciate it.

The top desk drawer isn’t even locked. And the key fobs are exactly where I thought they’d be — in plain view, nestled in a small box. Mine for the taking.

I grab one at random, caring less about my mode of escape