Shatter (True Believers #4)(4)
Author: Erin McCarthy

“Oh my God,” he said, standing up and picking up his messenger bag. “You’re dangerous.”

I wished. “To be dangerous you have to be evil or super-smart and I’m not either.”

“Those aren’t the only ways to pose a threat.”

Suddenly I was afraid to hear what he might say. So to distract myself, I looked at my phone, and was immediately sorry I had. I had a text from Nathan.

I love you.

My smile evaporated and I shoved my phone in my pocket. I didn’t want to see that. He kept coming at me like that, trying to apologize, begging me to take him back. But how do you trust someone who not only hooked up with your friend, he spent the next two months trying to repeat it?

He didn’t love me. You didn’t treat someone you loved like he had me.

Resolutely, I put a smile on my face and looked at Darwin/Jonathon. “Thanks again, Jonathon. Have a good night.” I started to walk away, wanting a private moment to myself.

“I’ll walk out with you,” he said easily, falling into step beside me.

Damn it.

“Are you okay?” he asked, as he held the door open for me.

Cold air hit me the face. I winced. “Fine. I’m stressed, but I’ll do the best I can on the exam. If I fail, well, at least I tried.”

“I’m not talking about the exam.”

Puzzled, I glanced over at him, hovering on the sidewalk, not sure which way he was going. “What do you mean?”

“Whatever was on your phone upset you.”

That it was that obvious made tears instantly rise to my eyes. “No, it’s fine.” I gestured to the left. “I’m this way. Have a good night.”

“You’re walking?” He frowned.

“It’s just a block.”

“It’s dark. I’ll walk with you.”

“No, no, it’s fine.” I started walking, anxious to get away from him. He was being too nice and I felt vulnerable, like a loser. I couldn’t keep a boyfriend or understand basic chem. What he considered chemistry for dummies.

But he continued to walk with me. “You’re a junior, right?” he asked casually, like I wasn’t struggling not to cry.

I nodded.

“What is your major?”

“Education. I want to be a kindergarten teacher.” I gave him a wan smile. “I don’t need to know chemistry to teach that.”

“I bet you’d be good with kids.”

“I love kids.”

There was silence between us as we walked, the heels of my boots sounding extra loud in the dark, the street, which was normally filled with students, mostly empty. It was a bit of a creepy walk at this time of night and I’d known a girl who had been mugged. I would pee my pants if I were mugged and if I wasn’t feeling so bummed, I would be more grateful for him walking with me. But mostly I just wanted to get home.

Then I realized what I was going home to—a dark, silent room.

And the tears I’d been holding back fell along with a sob that burst out unbidden.

We were in front of my building and I just about ran to the door, digging in my bag for my key.

“Kylie.” Darwin/Jonathon touched my arm. “Hey. Look at me.”

I shook my head.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

I shook my head harder.

But then, because I’m not someone who stuffs my feelings down, and because all my thoughts come out like a toddler commentating from their car seat on every car, cow, and house they see out the window, I blurted out, “My boyfriend cheated on me with my best friend.”

“What?” He sounded horrified. “Are you f**king kidding me?”

It gave me a sense of relief that his reaction was so strong. “That’s what I thought. I mean, it’s like the worst thing ever.”

“I hope he is your ex-boyfriend.”

“He is. Because the thing is, okay, so it was a drunken hookup which is really bad, but I don’t know, maybe I could have forgiven him for that. But I found the texts he sent her for months afterward, creeping for a repeat. He said it was the best blow job he’d ever had and that she had a . . .” I shook my head. “Never mind. It just was obvious he wasn’t even remotely sorry.”

“Wow. That’s rough. He sounds like a complete ass**le. I’m sorry.”

My shoulders fell as my breath expelled. I ran out of words for a second. It was the right thing for him to say, but every time I heard someone offer sympathy, I just felt worse. Because while they were all genuinely sorry for me, they were also a little bit glad it hadn’t happened to them. “Thanks.” I finally found my key and I noticed my hand was shaking a little as I tried to unlock the exterior door to my building.

Darwin/Jonathon put his hand over mine to steady it. For a second, I just stood there, drawing in a breath to calm down. He waited then helped me turn the key to the right.

He was close behind me when I looked up at him, my hip shoving the door open. “Thanks,” I whispered.

“He’s an ass**le,” he repeated, his voice serious, eyes earnest.

“Do you want to come in?” I asked, because I really, really didn’t want to be alone. My thoughts were too scattered, my anxiety high. Failing chemistry, moving out of my old apartment, hating my jealousy over my friends’ relationships . . . it was hitting me hard. I didn’t want silence.

His eyes shuttered for a minute and I felt silly. He was like twenty-five years old, a grad student with labs and research and probably a brainiac girlfriend who did physics for fun. Why would he want to spend the rest of his night with an undergrad who didn’t know biochemistry from her butthole and kept threatening to cry? “Sorry, I don’t know why I said that. I’m sure you have better things to do. Things that don’t involve me boring you with my pathetic love life.” Shame wasn’t an emotion I’d felt a lot in my life, but the last three months it had become a familiar feeling. One I hated.

I stepped into the vestibule, intending to close the door behind me, letting Darwin off the hook. But he came with me. “I’d love to.”

Oh, God, he totally felt sorry for me. The shame increased, but at the same time, I still didn’t want to be alone, so I didn’t hold firm and send him home like I should have. I trudged up the stairs to the second floor and he reached out and put his hand on the small of my back when I stumbled a little on the third step.

Darwin was clearly a nice guy. Whatever he was getting paid by the university to tutor wasn’t enough. How many hours a week did he spend coaching crying undergrads? Probably half the freshman class was failing chemistry. Yet here he was, being pretty damn sweet when it was obvious he could be doing about a million more interesting things.