Page 143 of Promise Me Nothing
“So you’re saying you need a ride?”
I pause, realizing I’m obligating her to spend time with me. But ultimately, I nod.
She huffs and storms off into the parking lot, towards where Lucas’ car is parked in the distance.
Instead of following this time, I wait at the curb. I’ll go with them if they decide it’s okay. If not, I’ll Uber. Even if it costs two hundred bucks.
Surprisingly, a few minutes later, Lucas pulls up next to me, and I climb into the backseat.
“Thanks.”
Hannah snorts. “If it was up to me, we’d leave you here. Lucas is the one who wanted to give you a ride.”
I can hear Lucas rolling his eyes as he says, “That’s not at all how the conversation went, but okay, we’ll go with your version.”
And then we pull out of the parking lot and head in the direction of home.
"Hannah can I talk to you for a minute?”
My question is met with the back of Hannah’s head as she walks into the house.
“She hasn’t forgiven me either,” Lucas says, tucking his sunglasses into his collar. “And I’ll be honest, I don’t know if she’ll ever forget what happened.”
I sigh.
The ache in my chest continues to grow.
I should be focusing on my sister.
On my family.
On figuring out what else I can do to help Ivy now that our one little light has been all but extinguished.
But the constant on my mind right now is Hannah.
I’m in love with her and she won’t talk to me. Can barely look at me. And the worst part is that I know I completely deserve it.
“I’d argue to give her more time, but I didn’t give her any and she at least looks at me.” He shrugs. “Maybe get in her face a little more. Make her listen to you?”
I shake my head. “People in her life have been taking away her choices since she was a kid. I can’t do that to her now.”
To say I’m surprised when my father shows up at the guest house garage the following morning is the understatement of the century.
I’m punching the shit out of my kickboxing bag, trying to exhaust myself and get out all of the pent up emotions that I don’t seem to be managing well. And suddenly, Calvin Calloway comes walking around the corner, wearing that same kind of fancy ass suit and tie combo I saw him in at the yacht club.
As much as I hate to admit it, he cares about his image just as much if not more than mom.
I guess they’re both plastic.
“What do you want?” I ask, gritting my jaw and refusing to break my concentration from the bag in front of me. What I’d really like to say isunless it’s an emergency, get the fuck out.But I don’t add that part, even though it’s taking everything in me to keep my mouth shut.
“You haven’t been answering my calls,” he says, his voice like nails on a chalkboard.
I hate how he sounds when he speaks. So many people think the patriarch of the Calloway family is charming, handsome, charitable and kind.
If only they knew who he really was underneath that mask he likes to wear.
“Usually when someone doesn’t answer your calls, it’s because they don’t want to talk to you.” I keep my voice flat, disinterested. It’s the only way I know how to communicate to him just how little I want him here.
