Page 8 of Gingers Can Do Maths

More tears.

More anger.

“When I got to campus and you weren’t fucking there?”

“I’m sorry,” she wails.

“For what? For making me think you wanted this just as badly as I do? As I did?”

Her tears run faster as she reaches for my jacket but I jerk away, watching her hand fall to the empty space on the bench between us.

“You know what? Maybe all those fucktards whose opinions you care so much about are right. Maybe you were just... distracting me.”

A strangled sound leaves her throat and I snap as I watch her bite her lip again. Without thinking I take my thumb and pull her bloody lip from between her teeth.

She doesn't get to hurt herself. She doesn't get to make me worry about her.

I'm fucking hurt.

Me.

For once, I get to be a selfish bastard.

“You could’ve told me. At any point, you could've confessed and I could've taken my head out of your ass and worried about things that mattered to us both. Like the space you so desperately need.”

“Han, that’s not—”

I pull from her reach again and jump to my feet. She doesn't follow me, like her legs are too weak for her to stand. Still, it takes her a second to drop her hand and I eye her sparkly fingernails. Those pretty fingers that used all the pens and highlighters I got in her favourite pastel colours to help her concentrate. To help her in the best ways I knew how.

Because that's what I thought I was doing. I thought I was helping.

But I was pushing her too hard. Smothering her.

It hurts so fucking bad, all I want to do is hurt her too. Hurt her so badly that we hurt together.

I've always given Sin whatever she wants. Now she wants space?

I'll gift her the entire stratosphere.

“When you touch me, all I feel is distracted. By your eyelashes. Your scent. Your lips. Your laugh. Your sweet promises that are utterly worthless.”

Another snob racks her shoulders.

“And I won’t be distracted by you anymore.”

Sin

3 years later. 18 years old

Shit.

I’m running a few minutes late.

Maybe stopping for two lattes and croissants for my new maths tutor and me wasn’t the smartest idea, but I wanted to make a good first impression. We have a two-hour study session ahead of us and seeing as it's six thirty a.m. on a Saturday, I'm sure there are a trillion other things he'd rather be doing.

He.The pronoun alone makes me nervous.

The entire Bradley for Boys campus makes me nervous as I've been surrounded by copious amounts of oestrogen for almost three years at Hortace for Girls. Seeing clusters of boys my age in every corner that I turn is both exhilarating and nerve-wracking.

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