She turned to her friend. Oh, Tiffany . . . why didn’t you tell me? she asked silently.
There’s nothing to tell. She’s stronger than you think, Tiffany responded.
Scarlett nodded, playing along, but they both knew better.
“Veronica and I were just reminiscing,” Marjorie broke in, speaking in a false, overly bright voice.
“Yes, we were discussing the importance of sisterhood. As you near the end of your life, it becomes incredibly clear what—and who—matters.” Mrs. Beckett’s words were warm, but her tone was icy. Scarlett looked at the two women, wondering at the tension between them.
“I’m sure Tiffany’s glad you could be here to see this. She did a wonderful job,” Scarlett said, trying to shift the mood.
“She certainly did,” a familiar voice said behind her.
Scarlett spun slowly, forcing a smile as her sister, Eugenie, leaned in to kiss her cheek. Hooked on her arm was a new man, but that was hardly surprising. Eugenie went through dates the way debutantes went through ball gowns.
“I figured this was your doing,” Eugenie said to Tiffany. “Scar would never have the imagination for it.”
Scarlett stiffened. Her best friend rested a placating hand on her arm.
“Actually, Scarlett’s had her hands full this term initiating five new Ravens. That’s more than either of the years you were in charge, isn’t it, Eugenie?” Tiffany’s smile could cut diamonds.
Scarlett resisted the urge to kiss her friend. Even in her darkest hour, Tiffany was still protecting her.
“You should have heard Dahlia at the ceremony,” Tiffany went on. “She couldn’t stop talking about what a great job Scarlett did with the pledges. She’s a shoo-in for president.”
“That’s my daughter,” Marjorie said with an approving smile.
Scarlett shot Tiffany a look of gratitude.
“Well, good luck locking it down, sis,” Eugenie said quietly as Marjorie excused herself to talk to the provost of the college. “My money’s still on Tiffany.”
Before Scarlett could respond, Mason gestured at her. It was subtle, just a tilt of his head and a one-shouldered shrug. They’d developed that deceptively simple signal long ago at a mixer at Epsilon Omega Tau, the broey-est frat on campus, when Scarlett had gotten stuck talking to a pledge about beer pong for an entire hour. It meant: Get me out, now.
“Don’t fret, Eugenie,” Scarlett said just before she left. “One of these days, you’ll manage to lock down a man for more than three dates.” And with that, she ducked away to snag Mason, Tiffany’s soft snicker ringing in her ears.
She steered him toward the bar, letting out a sigh only once her sister was safely out of earshot. But a part of her was still with Tiffany. She felt like a total asshole for being bothered about Tiffany not including her in the party decorating when Tiffany clearly had bigger concerns.
“Thanks for the rescue,” she murmured. “I needed that.”
“Actually, I was asking for me.” Mason’s mouth flattened at the edges. “I hate the way they talk to you. Family or not, no one gets to talk to you that way.”
“Tell that to generations of Winters. Passive-aggressiveness runs in our blood,” Scarlett said sarcastically, expecting a laugh, but Mason looked serious.
“You get to choose what kind of Winter you’re going to be,” he said gently.
Before she could ask him what he meant, the crowd of people waiting to get to the bar suddenly parted, the way crowds always did when Ravens arrived, thanks to their subtle mental suggestions.
Mason, however, waved for the nearest couple to go ahead of them.
“Why do you always do that?” Scarlett asked, feeling more annoyed. She needed a drink stat after her chat with Eugenie.
“I just don’t like skipping ahead in lines all the time.” He nodded to where the line had slowly re-formed. “We should wait our turn like everyone else.”
Scarlett laughed. When he didn’t join in, though, she stopped. “What’s with you tonight?”
“Nothing.”
“I’m not an idiot, Mason. I’ve known you for two years. I know when something is off. You’ve been weird all night,” she replied. She took a step toward him, but he mirrored her, backing away.
“Scarlett, we’re at a party. Let’s just try to have fun and we’ll talk about it later,” he said, looking at the bar, at a couple dancing, at anything but her. “I don’t want to do this right now.”
Her heart skipped a beat, fear flooding her veins. Dimly, in the back of her mind, she was aware of a few Thetas side-eyeing them, watching the show. Fuck off, she thought viciously, and almost instantly, every single person within a ten-foot radius turned away from them.
“Look, I know things haven’t been completely normal between us lately,” she said, trying to stay calm, trying to reason with him. She could save this. She was Scarlett Winter, after all. “You were gone all summer, and I’ve been distracted with the new members’ education. But we’ll get back on track. We’re great together. You know that.”
Mason took a deep breath and ran a hand through his hair. His nervous tic. His poker tell. One she’d always found adorable until right this very second. Because when he did that, she knew.
Such a tiny gesture to snap her heart in two.
He moved closer, and despite her throat squeezing shut with panic, she held his gaze, like a drowning woman who wanted one last gasp of air before she went under. He put his hands on her shoulders, his touch ever so careful. Like she was something fragile, breakable. Like she was a stranger.
“I care about you, Scar. I always will. That hasn’t changed. But I have.”
This was really happening. He was using all the words and phrases of a bad romantic comedy. He was a breath away from saying, It’s not you, it’s me . . .
He shook his head. “I don’t think our futures are as compatible as our pasts. And deep down, I think you know that too.”
No, Mason. I don’t know. Explain it to me, she wanted to shout. She wanted to shake him until he said something that made sense. But she could already tell his mind was made up. Maybe it had been for a long time, and she’d just been too busy, too oblivious to notice. “You don’t mean that, Mason. You love me and I love you. We are supposed to be together.”
His face fell. She knew what he was thinking—he didn’t believe in “supposed to” anymore. But it really didn’t matter which words she used. She could see that from his resolute face and his squared shoulders. This wasn’t a spell, where if you said the right things and held the right cards, someone would love you the way you wanted him to. There were love spells, yes, and it would be possible to woo him back magically, to force him to act like someone in love. But that was all it would be: an act. You could bend a heart to your will, but underneath, it still beat to its own rhythm. There was no changing that.
“I’ve given this a lot of thought,” he was saying. “And I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to do this here, tonight. I love you, Scar, but I think we’d be better off as friends.”
Her throat was thick with unshed tears. Friends. Screw that. She took a stumbling step back.