“Kit.”
She holds up a hand. “You said we could pretend tonight never happened and we could go back to being enemies, remember?”
I open my car door. “Yeah, I remember.”
Her eyes become tiny slits. “Have fun enjoying the life that I'm supposed to be living with her. Enjoy having everything I ever wanted.”
When she gives me her back, I slide into the driver's seat and turn the key.
The engine roars to life and the headlights illuminate her form as I shift my car into reverse and pull away. It's only then that I notice two large angel wing tattoos on opposite sides of her shoulder blades.
A moment later, her small body starts shaking with sobs.
Check.
II
“Women are meant to be loved, not to be understood.” ― Oscar Wilde
It's all I can do not to walk over and bash their heads together as I watch them from across the cafeteria.
Both Landon and Asher, my best friend's exes, or whatever they are at this point, are practically salivating—sitting with their chests puffed out, like two dogs fighting over a bone as their eyes lock on Breslin.
Not that I can't understand why. Despite speculations around campus over the years, I've never been sexually attracted to her. Probably because I consider her more of a sister than a friend. That said, the girl is gorgeous. She's all curves for days, huge boobs, and fierce red hair with a fiery personality to match.
My gaze rests on Asher and I freeze. There's no refuting that he and his brother bear a strong resemblance to one another, deep dimples included. But while Asher is all light blue eyes and blond hair—giving him that golden boy vibe, Preston's features are darker...sharper—giving his appearance an intensity his older brother lacks.
And even though I prefer pussy to penis seven days a week and twice on Sundays, I can't deny—objectively speaking, of course—that both Holdens are good looking.
Good looking jerks.
Sighing, I focus back on my friend. “They're still staring at you.”
She stabs a piece of lettuce with her fork, and I wonder which one of them she imagines it is, seeing as they both did quite a number on her. “I know.”
I take a long sip of my soda, silently pondering if I should ask my next question, given it's none of my business. On the other hand, Breslin getting hurt again is my business and if what's happening between the three of them is what I'm thinking—Mamma Mia, things are going to get complicated.
“Okay, that's it,” I say because I'd rather focus on her drama instead of mine. “The suspense is killing me. What is going on? You haven't slept at the dorm the past two nights, and no offense, but you look exhausted.”
“I'm not exactly sure,” she says. “But I don't want to talk about it right now.”
Concern punches me in the gut, but when I open my mouth to tell her I'm here for her, I make the awful mistake of looking up.
Just like that, my concern for her rapidly turns to concern for Preston Holden...because he has the balls, and evidently the stupidity, to start walking toward me.
I have nothing to say to him—nothing good anyway—after what happened the other night.
My heart spasms when he sits down in front of us, his eyes solely glued on me.
Breslin makes to stand, but I reach for her hand under the table, silently urging her to stay because I don't want to be alone with him again.
Preston grips the back of his neck, and before I can ask him what the hell he's doing here... he pulls something out of his pocket and slides it across the table.
My breath freezes in my chest because I would recognize that jewelry box with my eyes closed.
It's my mother's engagement ring.
He looks at me then and I honestly don't know how it's possible to hate someone, and yet, want to hug them with everything you're barely hanging on to.
“Give this to someone who deserves it next time.”
His words are like a fist to the face. Not only because it brings me back to our conversation on the bridge...but it's a reminder of the situation we're in and why we can never be friends.
“How's the baby?” I ask when he stands up. The words feel like sandpaper in my throat, but I know no matter how much I hate him and Becca, I could never find it in my heart to hate or wish ill on an innocent baby.
A baby Becca and I once talked about having after we got married.
He looks around the room and lets out a sigh. “Baby's good. We had our first sonogram today.”
There's something significant in his eyes when he says that, almost like he's finally accepted this baby is happening...whether he likes it or not.
A bolt of pain shoots through me with my own acceptance. There's no way back from this. Becca is having a baby...with him.
The girl I love is going to have everything we were supposed to...with someone else.
I draw in a breath and nod, trying like hell to push through the ache. I can feel myself crumbling like cheap plasterboard with every beat of my broken heart.
“I'm sorry,” Preston says solemnly in my direction before he backs away, his tall frame becoming blurry.
The second he's out those doors, the fragile dam inside me breaks and I lose it.
I hate the idea of people witnessing my meltdown, especially since I gave them all quite a show last week, but I can't help myself.
I've never been good at controlling my emotions, and when I feel something, good or bad, I feel it with all my heart and soul.
Breslin stands up and wraps me in her arms before she ushers me into a bathroom.
“I'm so sorry, honey,” she whispers. “I wish I could take it all away.”
“Me too.” My fingers wrap around the jewelry box. “This was my mom's.”
It's my feeble attempt at trying to get her to understand how serious I was about Becca. I know Breslin had her reservations about her, and in the end, she was right, but I thought Becca was the one.
Our relationship wasn't perfect, and deep down I always felt like there was something about her I couldn't quite figure out, but I told myself it didn't matter. Because when I was with her, I was happy.
And it's been such a long time since I've truly felt that.
Almost nine long years.
But as it turns out, every laugh and smile between us was a lie—because she was a liar, a cheater—and all she did was take advantage of me.
The girl truly deserves an Oscar for her performance...because I fell for it. Fell for her.
Actually, that's not quite right—I didn't fall—because falling for someone implies they'll catch you.
Becca didn't. She let me hit the ground.
She let me crash.
And now, I have to muster the strength it takes to pick myself up again, but I don't know how to even begin to do that, because I'm still lying in the debris of the mess she left behind.
Choking back another sob, I walk over to the sink and wash my face, trying my best to find the will to breathe again. “I have to get to class.”
I don't mention that I have to do something I dread even more after class.
I catch my reflection in the mirror and cringe. It's that time of the month I freaking hate, and it has nothing to do with aunt flow coming to town.