Total pages in book: 136
Estimated words: 131789 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 659(@200wpm)___ 527(@250wpm)___ 439(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 131789 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 659(@200wpm)___ 527(@250wpm)___ 439(@300wpm)
“He told Fenn some story about joyriding in a teacher’s car,” Silas answers. “After meeting the guy, Lawson is suspicious.”
“Joyriding? Sounds kind of tame.” As far as offenses go, it’s hardly the worst.
“Or it’s flat bullshit,” Silas says with a shrug. “Covering for something worse. He was cagey. Not super sociable, either.”
“Yeah, I talked to him a little. He seemed awfully sure of himself for someone who has no idea where he is.”
“Wouldn’t be the first to show up in denial.”
He makes a good point. Everyone copes with incarceration differently. Some cling to their old lives, while others learn to embrace the suck. RJ struck me as someone capable of the latter, but he was a bit too chill about it all. A few weeks of dealing with Duke and his crew, and RJ might be singing a different tune. Sandover has the power to eat a guy alive if he doesn’t adapt fast.
“What else have you heard about him? Fenn give you the download?”
Silas flinches at the question, oddly put off. “Why do you care?”
“I don’t. Not really.” My brow furrows. “Why do you?”
“It’s just weird, is all. I didn’t see your name on the welcome committee roster.” He offers another shrug, this one teeming with apathy. “Like I said, the guy’s cagey. Evasive. I got a bad vibe.”
The groove in my forehead deepens. His reaction is especially strange because, as a rule, Silas likes everybody. Well, until they give him a good reason not to, and even that takes some doing. He’s put up with Lawson for years, and that guy’s a walking true crime podcast.
We stare at each other for a moment, as if we suddenly don’t recognize the other. An odd standoff ensues, before the awkwardness gets so torturous I open my mouth just to make it stop.
“Sorry I asked.” It’s my turn to shrug. “Anyway, I really don’t care about Fenn’s new stepbrother. I was just curious.”
Silas relaxes, and the subject shifts back to our summers, his time at the Vineyard. Except RJ lingers in the background, more unknowns now milling about in my head, kicking at the walls. It’s annoying as hell, the fact that we spoke for all of ten minutes and yet he’s gotten under my skin.
This guy’s already becoming more trouble than he’s worth.
Chapter 8
Silas
Sloane says I’m one of her best friends, but sometimes I wonder if she knows what that means. She’s one of those people who are hard to get close to. You think you know them, that you’re in there, but then they rearrange the furniture, and you realize you were only ever talking to a reflection of a reflection in a hall of mirrors, still totally out of reach.
Not that I want her within my reach. At least not in that way, I remind myself as I trudge down the path toward campus. Despite what Lawson thinks, I’m not playing a long game with the intention of getting in Sloane’s pants. Sure, I may have entertained the idea a time or two back in the day when we were at Ballard Academy. But Sloane and I never went there. She met Duke, and then I met Amy, and whatever attraction I felt had fizzled out.
I mean, obviously I still think she’s hot, but…whatever. Why am I even thinking about this right now? We’re just friends.
Back at my dorm, I get a text and know before I glance at the screen it’s Amy wondering why I haven’t texted her yet. Over the summer we developed a schedule, a routine of appointment texts and phone calls to appease the strain of distance. Which is fine. I don’t mind. Except lately I’ve run out of words to use. I cringe at myself repeating the same Pavlovian responses, unable to break the pattern. I’m like a robot scanning her texts for keywords and accessing a programmed reply.
AMY: Saw Sun today. She says hi.
ME: Hi.
AMY: She hacked all her hair off and pierced her nose. Looks like she did it herself with a bread knife and a knitting needle. I feel so bad for her. She’s going to get destroyed on Monday.
ME: That sucks.
AMY: Yeah, she’s in rebellion mode. Murphy sent her a dick pic meant for someone else. There was still lipstick around it. He tried to play it off, but…
I stare at the latest text, wondering why we’re dissecting the appearance and love life of some chick I barely know. I’ve only met Sun like once. What do I care?
The window rattles across the room. A second later, a girl in a short skirt and tank top tumbles inside. She picks herself up, giggling, as tiny bottles of liquor fall out of her hands and clatter on the wood floor like a melody of tinkling piano keys.
She gathers the bottles as if she’s shoplifting, then tosses her dark hair back to look up and find me watching her. I don’t know what I expect, but she smiles at me.