Page 3 of Vicious Desire (Fallen Royals 4)

I chuckle. “Yeah, well, it just fell to the wayside. You know how things go.”

She certainly does. Caleb came into her life—or rather, back into her life—like a wrecking ball.

The fact that Eli is all the way up in Maine eases some of the anxiety in my chest. He’s gone. No wrecking ball boys for me—he’s done enough damage to last a lifetime, thank you very much.

Whenever I think of him, I imagine dumping his things across his living room floor.

That was the last time I actually spoke to him.

Did he try to speak to me after that? Yes.

Did I listen? No.

I’ve held strong… and I even went so far as to make sure he never tries to beg for forgiveness. What Eli Black did was unforgivable.

So I did something unforgivable back.

“...coming home for Thanksgiving.”

I frown, taking a moment to berate myself for letting my thoughts slip. It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out what she was saying, though.

“That’s months away,” I protest. “You’re not coming home any sooner?”

“Our colleges—both of them—advised that we not go home on weekends. Apparently it is detrimental to becoming adults.” She snorts. “I wish I could make that shit up. Don’t they know Caleb and I already…”

I tilt my head, straining to hear in the background, for the reason she would’ve just stopped. Caleb and Margo live in New York City, but they go to different schools. I’m hoping to join Margo at NYU next year, if...

“Dad’s coming over for dinner,” she tells me. “I’ve got to go.”

“Oh, okay.” Disappointment is hard to swallow.

“We can talk this weekend, okay?”

In a way, I’m the girlfriend who got left behind.

I shove the emotions away and fake a smile. Mom once said a fake smile will make your voice brighter, even if you don’t mean it. And I definitely don’t mean it now, when all I’d like to do is scream at Margo to come home.

Stop it, Riley.

“This weekend is great,” I say. “Have fun!”

“You, too. Go meet a cute nice boy or something.”

My stomach inexplicably twists. “Will do.”

I’m not a broken person. In fact, I’ve come a long way since last year. Just a few months from now will mark a full year of being single.

I shower quickly, unable to allow even that time to feel sorry for myself. It’s easy to cry in a shower—that’s common knowledge—but the truly difficult part is holding yourself together. It’s torture in a way.

Instead, I focus on school. Everyone’s been leaving me alone since Eli graduated. I dropped off the radar, plain and simple. I need to stay off the radar and concentrate on my grades. It’s the last push before I send in my NYU application…

That, and my personal essay.

What sort of devil invented the personal essay? Who likes talking about themselves? Not only that, it has to be interesting and individual. Unique.

There are over seven billion people on the planet.

I’m not unique.

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