Page 33 of Oblivion

Well, that’s how it used to be until Starling cut the tracker from Bunny’s neck so she could escape Hunter.

I guess it makes sense that Evan wouldn’t bother tagging me when he knows that I know how to remove it. But why is he trying to claim me now anyway? He’s had a year to stake a claim or even show that he had any intention of pursuing me, and he hasn’t.

We shared a house, ate every meal together, hung out, partied, did everything together as a group for twelve months, and yet apart from that one night, he’s never done more than stare at me longingly.

So why is he here now? Why all of a sudden has he decided to make a move, to become the unhinged crazy person I’ve always known he was capable of being?

A giggle bursts free from my mouth, quickly followed by another. What the hell is going on? For over a year, I’ve lived half in, half out of the crazy world my friends are all a part of. I’ve watched Starling and Sebastian engage in fucked-up games in their toxic controlling relationship. I’ve watched Clay be forced to marry a stranger, then treat her like absolute shit, only to fall in love with her after he stalked and toyed and controlled her every move. I watched, albeit from a distance, Hunter manipulate and blackmail Bunny into marrying him, only for her to run away and hide from him in her desperation to get out from under his control.

None of this is normal behavior. My friends aren’t normal. Their lives aren’t normal. Their relationships aren’t normal. None of it is normal, and yet I’ve never run from them or called the cops. I’ve been a part of their world, their group, but never close enough to be more than an observer of all the crazy shit they’re capable of until now.

More giggles burst from my lips, and soon I’m laughing so hard tears are forming in my eyes. How did this happen? How did I get ensconced in this world where crazy shit like this happens and my first thoughts aren’t I’ve been assaulted, and I should call the cops.

Him tattooing me without my knowledge or permission does feel like a violation, but there’s a thoroughly fucked-up warmth that pulses inside of me every time I look at his initials on my finger. He’s claimed me in a really visceral way, and I don’t hate it anywhere near as much as I should.

A part of me feels like I should barge into the house across the street and demand to know what he’s playing at. But I have a feeling that’s exactly what he expects me to do. So instead, Ishower, get dressed, and have breakfast. After a quick Google search to learn how to care for a tattoo, I cover the ink in the salve that has been conveniently left out on my dresser and then cover it with a Band-Aid.

Putting my laptop, pens, a legal pad, and the rest of my daily essentials into my burgundy leather Cambridge satchel that January and Clay had brought me when they were in England, I slip my feet into my knee-high leather boots and zip them up over my jeans.

Pulling my jacket on, I hook my satchel across my body, then leave the house, refusing to even glance in the direction of the house Evan is staying in as I make my way to my car. My family and I flew from DC to Massachusetts, but Drew arranged for my new car to be delivered here, and as I climb inside, I try not to allow the now familiar sense of disappointment I feel every time I have to drive it to show on my face.

My mama was practically bursting with excitement when my new Tesla-shaped engagement present was delivered to the house. She gushed over how wonderful Drew was, and how exciting it was that he’d bought me such a sensible gift.

But all I could think of when I saw the car was how much I preferred my sporty little white Mercedes. My car, which is still parked in the underground parking structure back at Kingsacre, was a present from my parents when I graduated high school. It’s a convertible, fun, fast, and so perfectly me.

I know that being given a brand-new Tesla and being disappointed makes me sound like a spoiled brat. But although it’s probably a car most people would drool over, it’s just not really very me.

Just like my engagement ring, the car is classy and beautiful, but just a little boring.

Pressing the start button, I program the address for the administration offices into my GPS, then pull away from thecurb, checking behind me every few seconds to see if Evan is following.

By the time I park my car in the visitors’ lot, I’m feeling both confident that he’s not following and disappointed that he’snotfollowing me. I’m distracted and disgruntled by the time I push open the door to the building and step inside. This isn’t my first time on the Harvard campus. My parents and I came with Drew and his parents to view the school when we were writing our college applications.

It’s a beautiful campus, and back then, I could easily see myself going here, but now that I’m here, all I can do is compare it to Kingsacre. The two schools are as different as they are the same. Both are set on sprawling campuses with gorgeous old buildings and hundreds of years of celebrated history. But where Harvard feels like more of a mecca for educational excellence, Kingsacre feels like a breeding ground for business, connections, and money.

Kingsacre is home—washome—but despite being here, I’m not sure that Harvard will ever feel the same. Pulling back my shoulders, I suck in a deep breath and push into the building, inhaling the scent of worn wood and warmth as I traverse the corridors until I find the admissions office.

A reception desk takes up half of the space, with a handful of desks filled with people working on computers behind it.

“Can I help you?” a smartly dressed woman asks, pushing her glasses up her nose as she gets up from her desk and comes toward me.

“Hello, my name is Samantha Hartley. I’m a transfer student from Kingsacre University in California. This is my first day. I need to sign my transfer paperwork and pick up my schedule.”

“Welcome to Harvard. Let me find your paperwork,” the woman says, pulling a stack of files out and methodically flicking through them.

Plastering a practiced smile onto my face, I wait patiently, not fidgeting as she comes to the end of one pile and then pulls out a second and starts to sort through that one. My smile feels slightly crazed by the time she comes to the end of the second pile and still hasn’t found anything.

Her brow furrows, and she replaces the second pile and pulls out the original pile, going through each document carefully before she lifts her head and looks at me.

“Samantha, could I take your email address and some details from you, as I don’t seem to have your transfer information here.”

“Of course,” I say, feeling my chest tighten. After giving her all of the information, I pull out my cell and start to search for the email confirmation of my transfer that I received. After searching my inbox and even scrolling back to the date I received the acceptance, I still can’t find any record, and my heart starts to pound in my chest.

“Miss Hartley,” the woman says, her lips pulled down into a frown. “I’ve found your transfer application and the acceptance offer we sent out, but I’m afraid there seems to have been some kind of miscommunication because your offer has been marked as rejected. We received an email from you last week advising us that you no longer wanted to transfer to Harvard and that you would be continuing your education at Kingsacre.”

“That’s not possible. I accepted the place. I’ve declared a major. I live here now,” I ramble, my breaths becoming shallower with each word.

“I’m sorry, Miss Hartley, but I have a copy of the email you sent to us,” she says, sliding a piece of paper across the desk to me.

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