Spider

I snatch my phone off the table and text him. My heart is racing. I need to get out of here.

Please come get me. I need you. I’m at the house.

Anne sighs and stands to take her glass to the sink, where she washes it out then sets it on the drying rack. A sad grimace is on her face when she looks at me. “He isn’t going to reply.”

My head snaps toward her. “How do you know? What’s going on?”

She stares at her nails. “Robert texted me a while ago. Spider is leaving for LA. He doesn’t want you.”

I sit down. No, that can’t be right. He asked me to come to LA with him. He wants me as much as I want him.

“When?”

She shrugs. “Soon.”

An incoming text vibrates my phone and I pick it up, my heart soaring when I see it’s from him.

I read it, and my heart drops.

I can’t. Goodbye.

Rose

BY MONDAY, IT’S BEEN THREE days, and I haven’t heard from Spider again. Somehow I’ve managed to keep myself from texting him or going by the penthouse. I’m angry with him for the cryptic goodbye and I’m still livid over Anne’s interference. She’s called me and texted me numerous times, but I refuse to answer.

I trudge along at Claremont Prep, pushing them both out of my head.

But I can’t focus.

My head goes to Spider in each class, my brain and heart drunk with thoughts of his edgy, dangerous looks. The way his eyes follow me wherever I go. The way his body feels pressed against my naked skin. I want that. I want him.

He’s on drugs.

He uses girls.

I play back all the things Anne has told me.

My heart doesn’t care.

Where is he?

Why hasn’t he texted me?

What did I do wrong?

As soon as the bell rings for us to head to our last period, I dodge past the onslaught of students and walk out the double front doors like I have every right to. No one notices, and I heave out a sigh of relief.

I hop in my car and drive out of Highland Park, headed toward the penthouse. I’ve done my best to pretend like everything is fine, like I’m not thinking about him every second, but it’s a lie.

After a twenty-minute drive where I jam out to his music, I find a place to park on Bandera Avenue, a few blocks from his building. Still wearing my blue and green plaid school skirt, navy knee-high socks, and a white Peter Pan collared shirt, I jog to the park across from his place.

It’s a sunny day, but a dark cloud shadows the sun and dread pools in my gut.

The air feels ominous.

I look up at the top of the building and my eyes land on the balcony. I stand there, feeling stupid and second-guessing coming all this way, half-expecting him to just know I’m here and waltz out.

But he doesn’t. No one comes out to the balcony and waves at me.

If he wanted you here, he would have said so, a part of my brain reminds me, but I ignore it. He told you goodbye.

But I don’t care.

Life is about taking chances, about saying how you feel, fuck the consequences. I mean, how will you know it’s the wrong decision if you never make it in the first place?

I text him, my hands nervous and wet from sweat.

Are you still here? It feels like you are.

No response as I pace around a park bench.

Half an hour goes by and the sky darkens.

Just walk in there, I tell myself. Ask the bellman to announce you.

But, I don’t have the nerve to go inside . . . so I wait.

If he wants to tell me goodbye, it’s going to be to my face.

I type, I’m outside your apartment and I’m not leaving until you see me.

I groan at how needy I sound, but I think it’s too late to care. I’m too far gone to care how I sound to him.

Just then a black limo pulls up to the curb and a pretty girl in her early twenties gets out wearing a pale pink mini skirt, white stiletto heels, and a soft white sweater that clings to every curve. Her brown hair is up in a ponytail and tied with a polka-dot bow.

I wonder who she is as a ping hits my phone.

Go home, Rose. I can’t do this with you right now.

He is here. I knew it.

You feel something for me, I reply.

There’s a twenty-second delay before he responds. I know because I’m counting, my heart racing.

No, I don’t.

I feel like he’s slapped me. I stumble back to the bench and watch as dog walkers pass by. Affluent women eye me carefully, and I know what they see—a schoolgirl with a phone clutched to her chest as if it’s a lifeline.

I focus back on my phone.

Not buying your bullshit. There’s something big between us. What’s wrong with admitting it?

Five long minutes tick by as hopelessness and anger stir inside me.

God.

Why don’t I just leave?

Why am I here again?

To talk to him.

To tell him goodbye to his face.

To make him tell me goodbye to my face.

He doesn’t want you, Rose.

He does.

I type another text. I have to be at work tonight, but I’m not going, not until I see you.

Half an hour later and the air has chilled as a breeze blows. I shiver as I rub my arms.

A couple walks out of the building, the first people I’ve seen come out, and my senses jump to alertness. It’s him! His hair is a beacon and my eyes drink him in, taking in the confident stride as he walks next to the girl in pink who exited the limousine earlier. The doorman is behind them, pushing a suitcase and carrying his guitar case.

From across the street, I feel his gaze brush over the area, but it doesn’t stop on me.

He’s ignoring me.

I jump up from my seat just as he tosses an arm around the pretty girl. Her fingers clutch the belt loops on his jeans as if she owns him, and as I watch, she smiles up at him, a bemused expression on her face.

He turns her to face him and kisses her on the lips. Her hands roam over his back, pressing him close.

I can’t breathe.

My chest hurts.

My eyes get hot as tears form.

It’s then that I notice other things about her. Her hair is down from the ponytail and is mussed as if hands have raked through it.

Her skirt, although it’s hard to tell from here, appears to be on backward, with the slit in the front, as if it has been hastily pulled back on.

I want to rip out every single strand of her ugly brown hair.

I want to drag my nails across her face.

He . . . he . . . fucking kissed her on the lips.

I inhale a sharp breath, feeling winded. I press my hand to my chest to rub away the pain. I run out into the oncoming traffic and horns blow at me as I dodge the cars to get to them.

I stumble across the curb as I jog over. I know how I must look by now. My braid is coming apart and little wisps of untidy hair float around my face. I wear no makeup because I’ve rubbed it all off. My shirt is untucked, and my saddle oxfords are scuffed from beating them against the bench. I’m a total mess, and I don’t even care.

“Rose?” he says my name as if he is surprised, but I don’t think he is—even though there’s an ashen look to his face.

I dart a quick glance at the girl, and she’s sporting a blissed-out grin.

I want to vomit.

“You know this girl?” she asks him, her hand neatly finding his back pocket and tucking it in. A small giggle comes from her. “You have a stalker already? Kinda young, don’t you think?”

“New stepsister.”

Her eyebrows shoot up. “Oh.”

“What do you want?” His eyes roam over me and I swallow, realizing he’s never seen me in my school uniform.