Page 51 of Forbidden Lyrics

“Yeah. I, uh…”

“Please?” The word is low and gritty and hits me like a wrecking ball. It isn’t fair how much the guy owns me, even after he’s made his intentions with our relationship crystal clear. But I can’t help it. I want to please him. To make him happy. To not disappoint him the way I’ve always disappointed people.

Chewing on my thumbnail, I rest my hip against the counter and close my eyes. “What time?”

“Thirty minutes?”

I check the clock on the microwave. “Fine. I’ll be there.”

“Thanks, Dove.”

“Don’t mention it.”

Click.

“Hey, who was that?” Maddie asks from the couch as an old episode of Friends plays on the television screen.

“No one,” I lie.

Her silence is stifling. Like she knows I’m hiding something from her. But how does she expect me to be honest when I know she’ll wind up biting my head off for it?

With a sigh, I smooth down my white T-shirt, grateful to see it splatter-free from my soda. “Something came up, and I have to go. Do you need anything?”

“Nope.” She pops the ‘P’ at the end, then turns up the volume on the TV.

Subtle, Mads. Really subtle.

Grabbing the keys and my purse on the counter, I slip on a pair of flats next to the door and head to my car without a word.

She knows.

She definitely knows.

And she’s mad at me for it, which makes me feel like crap because I hate disappointing people. I hate the look in their eyes. The way they avoid my gaze like they can’t even look at me. The way their voice sounds numb. Indifferent. The way they can barely string two words together, clearly dismissing me for not living up to their expectations.

I hate all of it.

And it isn’t fair.

Em wasn’t my friend, so Madelyn has no right to be mad at me. Especially when Gibson has made it very clear that nothing will ever happen between us. So, why should I feel the need to tiptoe around my sister? I shouldn’t have to. But logic has never been something that Maddie takes into consideration when manning her emotions. She’s a grudge holder. And she won’t be letting this go anytime soon, regardless of whether or not I actually open up to her and explain that he’s already rejected me, and our friendship will never be anything more.

But if that’s the case, why do I feel so dang guilty?

* * *

“Hey,” Fender greets me, swinging open the door with way too much enthusiasm for a guy with a black eye.

“Oh.” I freeze. “Hi.”

Where did he get a black eye? And who gets a black eye these days, anyway? It looks like it hurts, all swollen and purple like that. I cringe, barely refraining from reaching out to touch the thing.

Ouch.

He taps his forefinger along his cheekbone beneath the damage, then bounces his eyebrows up and down. “You should see the other guy.”

“W-what happened?” I blurt out, my face pinched with sympathy.

“Honestly, I don’t even remember.” He laughs, opening the door the rest of the way, stepping aside. “Come on in.”

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