Page 2 of Fault Line

Oh God, as is her right.

My sister, Sofia, is what I like to call a terminally spoiled serial monogamist. She’s also aseriouslyselfish person, with a penchant for dumping her long-term boyfriends at the first sign of trouble. Exhibit A: Elio’s brother, Luca, the now-famous NFL linebacker for the Carolina Bobcats.

The two of them were high school sweethearts who started off as middle school friends. I consider their relationship to be her most stable, loving one to date. In fact, they were together for three whole years before she dumped him one night on a visit home, seemingly out of the blue. I’d call it a one-off, except then she moved right on to his best friend, Daniel.

When he was drafted after graduation, she once again decided that she couldn’t manage the long distance. She’s gone through two other “serious boyfriends” since then.

Now, I wouldn’t typically give a shit about my sister’s dating history, I swear, but everything she does ruffles my feathers these days.

“Who isn’t?” I finally manage to ask, not bothering to mask my contention.

“Ah.” The corner of his lip lifts. “So you two are fighting again, then?”

“I’d rather not talk about Sofia right now.” I shake my head, clearing my spiraling thoughts. “Also, we’ve somehow strayedso faroff the topic of me getting railed this weekend.”

It’s been a long time coming for me, now that I think about it. I haven’t been with anyone since the fall term of last school year, back before I caught my ex cheating on me with his TA. I didn’t even like him that much, truthfully, but it still fucking stung.

“Kaia.” He clamps both hands over his ears, nose scrunching in visible distaste.

“Fine.” I roll my eyes, flipping onto my back to scroll through my phone. “If you won’t talk to me about it, then at least finish your fucking homework so I can check it over.”

“Know-it-all,” he mutters under his breath.

I turn up my nose. “That’s right.”

* * *

I’m runningon approximately two hours and fifteen minutes of sleep today. After Elio left, I stayed up way too late trying to rework my research proposal. Once I finally crawled under the covers, I tossed and turned in my bed for ages, rifling through thought streams until I could find one pleasant enough to fall asleep to.

My usual coping mechanisms—my weighted blanket (perfectly proportioned at 10 percent of my body weight), my sound machine (playing exactly the right decibel of brown noise), and my 2:00 a.m. snuggles with a body pillow (which I’m fairly certain was designed for a pregnant woman)—were all wildly unsuccessful.

It’s okay, though, because I’ve been expecting this to happen for a long time. On even the best of nights, I have a difficult time shutting off my brain. Last night, one of the worst nights, I let myself ruminate on all the disastrous ways I could screw this up.

This—otherwise known as one of the most important days of my life.

There are only fifteen minutes left before my presentation time starts. I’m about to stand in front of a panel of department heads, academic advisors, and esteemed professors. But for now, I’m lingering outside of Weyerhaeuser Hall, tears streaming down one side of my face. Ugly, fat tears that are dripping onto the collar of my Milano silk blouse—the single most expensive piece of clothing I’ve ever owned.

My palms are sweating, there’s an awkward, stabbing ache in my thoracic spine, and I’m about to pop a blood vessel in my left eye. Due to my nearly debilitating lack of sleep last night, it won’t stop fucking twitching. This led to me incessantly rubbing and dabbing and blinking, which has caused the situation to spiral so far out of my control.

“Shit, shit, shit.” I murmur the words under my breath like some sort of twisted mantra, angrily swiping the tears from my chin. “This is ridiculous, Kaia. Pull yourself together.”

I stare at the ragged cobblestone pathway beneath my feet, straining to use my one good eye to focus. There’s a faded pattern that I mentally trace, taking three solid, deep breaths while I do.

In through my nose. Out through my mouth.

Calm down, girl. You’ve got this.

I don’t even know how long I’ve been zoning out when I hear a throat clear. It’s an abrupt, ragged sound that forces my head to dart up, left eye still pinched shut.

“You good, Karras?”

Oh, hell no.

Not now. Not any time, really, but especially not now.

Of course, golden boy Becker would be here to witness my moment of weakness—with his beady brown eyes, his perfect head of sandy hair, and his extremely annoying smile.

Seriously, though, why are his teeth so fucking white? It looks like he bleached them before he rolled out of bed this morning, then sauntered his way through the quad to grace me with his presence.

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