Page 76 of Say It Slowly

“Sure, I’ll show you to your room.”

As Ash leads me into his huge house, I realize I don’t have any of my things—toothbrush, makeup, pajamas—it’s all at Rush House.

Ash leads me upstairs and down a long hallway. He opens a random door. “This is my older brother’s room, but he’s in Morocco until January.”

I step into the room. It’s pretty minimalistic with an ocean view, white linens, and teak furniture. Very sleek and modern with only a few framed photographs to give it a more personal feel. It’s freezing in here though, and I wonder if it's the absence of Roman that I’m feeling more than the actual temperature.

With a sigh, I toss my phone onto the bed. “Thank you, Ash. I really appreciate it. I won’t be here long, I promise. I just need to figure a few things out.”

Ash steps forward and clasps my upper arms. “It’s no problem, really. Might be nice to have someone here. My brothers come and go so frequently, I hardly see them.”

“Cool, thanks,” I say, stifling a yawn.

The second the door clicks shut, I practically launch myself at the bed, kicking off my shoes, then crawling beneath the thick comforter. It feels strange to lie in someone else’s bed. Oddly, Roman’s bed never felt strange, but I try not to think about that or him.

Shifting my body, I adjust the feather pillows beneath my head, and grab my phone, turning it on. No new texts. Nothing. I was half-hoping Roman would text me, even though I know that’s not what’s best for me right now.

Pulling up his contact entry, my finger hovers over the block option. A heaviness comes over me as I stare at that one, lonely word. I don’twantto block him. I want to yell at him. Hit him, maybe. Then fall into his arms in a puddle of tears, and cry as he holds me.

You’re fucked up, Lux. He just killed someone.

Yeah.

I hit theblockoption, thensave,and then with a heavy breath, I toss my phone onto the mattress next to me. I need to sleep. I can think more clearly once I’ve slept. Closing my eyes, I drift off to sleep with surprising ease. But minutes, or hours, or days later, I don’t know, I’m jolted awake by my phone ringing.

Blindly feeling around on the mattress next to me, until I bump up against the hard plastic shell of my phone. I don’t even look at the screen to see who's calling before answering.

“Hello?” I say, groggy, eyes just barely open. What time is it, even? Did I miss my class?

“Hi, baby.” My grandmother’s gentle voice drifts over me, and I sit up. “I haven’t heard from you, so I thought I’d check-in. How are things going at college?”

I blink, my brain freezing. I hadn’t told her about Bree, because a) there’s really nothing she could do to help, and b) I didn’t want to worry her. We’ve both been through so much over the last year, I just couldn’t bring myself to add this to her already long list of worries.

“Um, yeah, everything is going great,” I lie. “The classes are a bit tough, but I’m managing.”

“You’re not failing, are you? You know you’ll lose that scholarship if you fail any of your classes,” she chides.

Ugh.Two minutes in and she’s already lecturing me.

“Yeah, I know,” I say dismissively. And before she can start quizzing me about my sleep schedule, I make up an excuse to getoff the phone. “In fact, I have class in a couple of minutes, and I can’t be late. I’ll give you a call later.”

“Okay, but be sure you do. I want to know how you’re doing.”

“Will do,” I say curtly. “Love you, grandma.”

I end the call before she can say anything else, and I immediately feel guilty. My grandmother is the only person who's been there for me, unconditionally, through everything. But, yeah, I just can’t answer a million questions right now, and pretend everything is okay. And if I’m being honest with myself, I’d rather avoid her than outright lie to her.

Blowing out a breath, I glance at the time. I slept for a good chunk of time, and I have about forty minutes before my class starts.

Stretching, I tumble out of bed and head downstairs for a glass of water. The house is so clean and so quiet, it feels like I’m walking through a museum.

When I get downstairs, I see the maybe-butler folding tea towels on the kitchen island. He glances up at me with an aging smile. “Good afternoon, Miss Anderson.”

“Oh, good afternoon,” I reply. “What was your name again?”

Actually, I don’t think he ever told me what it was, but to be polite, I feign ignorance.

“Please call me Hall,” he says. “I’m Mr. Ashford’s personal butler.”

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