Everything: A Singed Wings Novel (27 page)

“I’m not lying to you, Everett. I didn’t kiss him.” A fresh set of tears welled up in her eyes, and the way they pulled at my heart just pissed me off even more. “Jonah was my high school boyfriend. He wanted to be an actor, so I moved to LA with him after we graduated for him to follow his dream. I thought we were going to get married and live happily ever after, but things didn’t work out and I moved back home. So yes, I did love him, but it was nothing like what I feel for you.”

Whatever was left of my mangled heart crumbled to pieces as she admitted to loving him, leaving a vast, dark space that quickly filled with hate and spite. “All right, let me get this straight,” I sneered, my tone low, dripping with malice. “You latched onto this guy in high school, thinking he was going to be your ticket to the high life, but when that didn’t work out, you thought you’d try again with me? I mean, you had what, five months from the time we met to make me fall in love with you before I went on tour? And it’s what, late March? Wow, good work.”

“What tour? What in the hell are you talking about?!” she screamed, throwing her arms up in the air.

I rolled my eyes and turned away from her. “Oh, don’t give me that shit. You expect me to believe you didn’t know Singed Wings was about to go on tour with my dad’s band?”

“How was I supposed to know? It’s just another thing you never told me!”

The floor vibrated as she jumped off the bed and stomped across the room. Flinging open the closet door, she tossed her suitcases out, followed by all of her clothes and shoes.

“What do you think you’re doing?” I growled.

“I’m fucking going home. What does it look like I’m doing?!” she shrieked, while violently throwing her stuff inside the bags. “This is bullshit. I understand you’re mad about the picture, and I know how bad it looks, but I’m telling you the motherfucking truth about what happened. I haven’t seen or talked to that piece-of-shit in three years before last night, and you’ve gotta be crazy to think I would ever forgive him for what he did to me. You can choose to believe me or not. Right now, I don’t fucking care.”

She disappeared into the bathroom for a minute or two with some clothes, and then I heard her hurling more shit around. I stood frozen to the ground. I had no idea what to think, what was going on.

When she reappeared, changed into jeans and a wrinkled t-shirt, her voice had lowered to a scary calm. “I get why you didn’t tell me about being a virgin, even though it wouldn’t have made a difference. If anything, it would’ve made me feel more special, more loved. But what
does
make a difference is you accusing me of using you… for what, I’m not even really sure of, since I had no damn clue you were going on tour or anything else related to that in the first place.

“Yes, I know you’re a talented musician. Yes, I think you’re good enough to be a star someday. But do you really think I would risk going to prison for who-knows-how-many years — to be a convicted felon for the rest of my life — all because I’m trying to ‘latch on’ to someone I think is going to be rich and famous? You think I worked my ass off in LA for over three years so that my boyfriend, who was cheating on me the entire damn time, could go to auditions that didn’t amount to shit, all because I cared so much about living the ‘high life?’ You’ve gotta be fucking kidding, right?”

She dropped all of her toiletries into a bag then bent down and zipped them both up. Standing, she grabbed the handles on the suitcases and stormed toward the door.

“Wait! You can’t just leave!” I argued, my pulse spiking. Everything was happening too fast. I wasn’t sure up from down, right from wrong, the truth from lies. I just didn’t want her to leave like this.

Whirling around, her blazing dark gaze pierced me. “Sure I can. It’s time to grow up, Peter Pan. This isn’t fucking Neverland.”

The door slammed. And she was gone.

NUMB
.

So fucking numb.

I felt so much that I couldn’t feel a thing. Like my brain shifted into self-preservation mode, knowing the devastation would be too much for me to take.

From the moment I fumed out of the hotel room, everything became a blur. The taxi ride to the airport. Buying a ticket home. Waiting at the gate. The eleven-hour flight to Houston. All of it was so surreal, my body moving on autopilot. The dream of all dreams ending in the worst nightmare of all.

Foolish.

I was so damn
foolish
to think that Everett… well, that he could be what? The one? My forever? Someone I was going to spend the rest of my life with? He was a kid! As he proved very clearly when he wouldn’t let me explain. When he wouldn’t just listen. When he spouted off all the ugly he did.

After landing close to midnight on Saturday, it was well after one in the morning by the time I went through customs and got my luggage. I contemplated calling Lindsey to come pick me up, but that would’ve meant turning my phone back on and seeing the onslaught of calls and messages from people who had seen the story about me and Jonah, or possibly seeing no missed calls or texts from Everett, proving that we really were finished, and I just wasn’t ready for that yet. I would assure my parents and Lindsey that I was fine
— even though I was as far from
fine
as possible —
and would explain everything when I returned home. I couldn’t take the constant reminder of what had spurred all of this to begin with.

Jonah Jennings had now managed to ruin my life twice.

I caught a cab to my apartment and lugged my suitcases one at a time up the stairs until finally, after nearly twenty hours since I’d woken up in my own personal Hell, I was home and alone. No drivers, no airport workers, no fellow travelers.

No Everett.

Just me and my thoughts, trapped in a place that reminded me of him everywhere I looked. The bed he slept beside me in, his scent still lingering in the sheets. The kitchen counter where he laid me out and enjoyed his dessert on numerous occasions. The couch where we cuddled together, watching movies and eating takeout. Even the damn bathroom held memories of our love beginning.

And that’s when I broke down.

Curled up in a ball on my bed, I bawled hysterically, letting out every ounce of heartache and frustration and anguish and outrage and despair inside me, for I don’t know how long. I
t could’ve been thirty minutes, or it could’ve been three hours; I just know I passed out from sheer exhaustion at some point before the sun came up.

Sunday, I didn’t get out of bed other than to go to the bathroom and get a glass of water to swallow some ibuprofen. I couldn’t think about eating without my stomach revolting at the idea, and I didn’t care about showering, even though I stunk worse than a homeless person under a bridge. Sleeping was the only way I could stave away the misery that settled deep in my bones.

By Monday morning, the pity party came to an end. Angry determination replaced the heartbreak and hopelessness, and despite the fact I’d already asked off that day from work, since we weren’t supposed to arrive home from Buenos Aires until Monday morning, I decided to go in anyway. Lying in bed all day or hanging out at my apartment would only allow me to dwell on the mess that was my life, as every time I turned around there was a piece of Everett lingering, including a bunch of his clothes in my closet and his toothbrush in my bathroom.

After gathering up all of his shit and not-so-carefully chunking it in a garbage bag out on my porch, I tried — and failed — to scrub the gloom and doom off my skin, but I at least smelled and looked presentable enough to go to work, where I’d hopefully be able to preoccupy my mind.

But I was dead wrong.

“MS. SLOAN, WHY
didn’t you tell us you were Jonah Jennings’ girlfriend?” a girl in my first period class asked, before I could even say good morning and welcome them back from spring break. Luckily, only about half of the students were there, thanks to the unofficial “Senior Skip Day” that was an excused absence for everyone who’d gone on the class trip.

I pressed my lips together and counted backward from five as everyone began murmuring about the picture that had been spread all over social media throughout the weekend. Since I had disconnected from the world not long after the photo was leaked — my parents and Lindsey weren’t expecting my phone call until later today, the day I was supposed to be coming back in town — I had no true grasp of how many people had seen it until I’d arrived at work to Principal Gentile waiting for me the moment I walked in, ushering me into her office, where I assured her that I was not seeing Jonah and that it was all a big misunderstanding that would blow over quickly. Then, every faculty member I passed on my way to my room commented about it, most of the females cheering me on.
Thank God Liam isn’t here today.

“I am not his girlfriend,” I gritted out through my clenched jaw, trying my hardest to not blow a fuse. “That image was altered to make it look like something it wasn’t.”

“But you were with him in Argentina, right?” another kid asked.

Shit. I wasn’t prepared for this. I couldn’t very well say why I was really in Buenos Aires, so I opted for the easy way out. “My personal life is not of any concern of y’all’s. I know it’s hard to believe, but teachers are regular people too, and what I do outside of these school walls is private. Though, I promise you, I am not dating Jonah Jennings.”

More chatter followed, but I did my best to ignore it, flipping open my lesson plan book to the day’s date only to have the words “Realism to Impressionism: Manet to Monet” staring back at me.
Of fucking course
. Slamming the book shut, I screwed my eyelids shut and dropped my chin to my chest. Coming to work was a terrible idea. I should’ve spent another day wallowing in my sorrows in bed, or maybe a bottle of wine. But this… this was awful.

I will not cry in front of them. I will not cry in front of them. I will not cry in front of them.

“Get out your tablets and your notebooks,” I announced, my voice shaky. “I want you to find a work of art from the 19th century
—
any medium, any artist
— that best depicts how you spent your spring break. Then, you need to write a journal entry explaining the piece and how it relates to your week off. Keep it PG-13 please, and take it seriously, as I’ll use this to replace one of your pop-quiz grades.”

I was grateful they did as I instructed, but as I sat at my desk and peered out at them, watching them work on the assignment, my gaze continually landed on the front-row seat that Everett usually occupied during sixth-period. A lump formed in the back of my throat, making it hard for me to breathe and swallow, as I replayed the events of the last few days in my head for the thousandth time. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t hold the tears at bay and ended up dashing out of the classroom to the bathroom until I could get my emotions under control.

As swollen, red eyes and mascara-streaked cheeks stared back at me in the mirror of the faculty restroom, I reminded myself that the higher you fly, the farther you fall. And damn, it was a painful landing.

The day dragged on, each class a repeat of the first, though thankfully I didn’t have any more tear-laden breakdowns. Lots of questions about Jonah from students, lots of sighs when I told them it wasn’t any of their business. At lunch, I hid out in my locked classroom with the light off, hoping anyone who stopped by would keep on walking, assuming I wasn’t there. And by the grace of God, I somehow made it to the final bell without bursting out into tears or completely losing my shit.

Hastily, I packed up my stuff and high-tailed it out of the building, keeping my eyes focused downward as I moved through the halls to avoid any unnecessary conversation. All I wanted was to get home and go to sleep. Sleep was the only place I was safe.