Lies Twist The Way We Think

Chapter 24 - One step forward, three steps back

Emily.

The name suddenly gives everything a whole new dimension. But as things are, I have no time to further investigate. Instead, the unfortunate circumstances are that I am a student attending a school that doesn't take absences well.

Aisha is only staying for the week. I don't know how Alisa has arranged things for her, but she attends our school with her very own schedule, and I am left wondering what else rich people can do.

I spend most of my free time at Country Day in the library. Aisha is in class and Avery has just left with Xander; apparently, they are doing perfectly average things, God save me from ever discovering what those are.

The library is usually empty; I share my space with only one other girl. Her name is Rebecca, that much Xander has told me. She has red hair and a sad but calculating look in her eyes. That tells me everything I need to know about her. Or so I think.

"Thea must have scared you," she says quietly. At first I hesitate, not knowing whether she is speaking to me or not, but I decide to wait. "She doesn't mean it, though. She's a good person."

"Yeah," I say cynically, "Noted."

"I'm Rebecca." Her voice is soft. "Laughlin." She sees the shift in my expression when she says her last name and confirms my thoughts. "My grandparents work at Hawthorne House."

Her grandparents run Hawthorne House, and neither one of them are overly enthused about the prospect of working for us.

"Camille Diante," I say and offer her my hand. She shakes it uncertainly and again I wonder why she doesn't talk to anyone.

A notification pops up on her tablet screen and I see the background. She has a photo as her wallpaper. In it, Rebecca looks off to the side, while another, amber-haired girl laughs directly into the camera. They have the same eyes.

"Is that your sister?" I ask.

"Was." Rebecca closes the cover on her tablet. "She died."

My ears roar, and I suddenly know, with the odd certainty that makes you know your dead. "Emily?"

Rebecca's emerald eyes catch on mine. I regret my words. I should have offered my condolences. I should have said something. That I get her. That I lost half of my heart too.

But Rebecca doesn't seem to find my response odd. All she says, pulling her tablet into her lap, is, "She would have found you riveting."

Oren speaks from the front seat and I shake my thoughts off. "We're here."

We've arrived at the Hawthorne Foundation. It feels like it's been an eternity since Zara offered to show me the ropes. As Oren exits the car and opens my door, I register the fact that, for once, there isn't a reporter or photographer in sight. The feeling is like a burden falling off my shoulders. I cherish my privacy greatly.

I step into the lobby of the Hawthorne Foundation. The walls are a light silvery-gray, and dozens of massive black-and-white photographs hang on them, seemingly suspended midair. It's beautiful.

"Camille."

I turn to see Grayson. I wonder how long he has been watching me, and I wonder what he has been thinking in that time.

"I'm supposed to meet Zara," I say defensively. I feel like I always have to be defensive when it comes to him.

"Zara isn't coming. She believes you are in need of guidance, and that I should be the one giving it to you." Grayson's eyes scan my body and I feel exposed, despite the layers of fabric between us. I shouldn't. I've dealt with guys far worse than him, and I have always come out stronger than them. But for some reason, he is able to get past all my defense mechanisms and directly under all my carefully crafted layers of protection.

I hate it. I hate it so much that I can't think about anything else.

I narrow my eyes. "Your aunt must not have noticed that this," I point at him, and back at me, "is not working."

Grayson's lips twitch. "Zara doesn't miss much."

"You owe me an apology," I say coolly. I don't want to let him know that he got under my skin, although he probably already knows it.

"I won't apologize for being protective. This family has suffered enough. If I were choosing between you and any one of them, I would choose them, always and every time."

"You know, it's okay to admit you did a wrong thing," I say. "Don't be ashamed of being someone with a heart. We all make mistakes."

Grayson stays quiet and watches me. He doesn't move, like he's stuck in time. Then he says, "Why do you say that?"

"I know what it's like." I know what it's like to want to protect your family. To shut everyone out.

His eyes darken. "You don't know anything."

And there is is again. A wall, building itself between us. It seems that every time one of us approaches it and takes a brick away, the other adds three more. Brick by brick. We will never get along, Grayson Hawthorne and I. I feel that truth in the depths of my soul.

Grayson turns to the wall of maps, simply because there isn't anything else to be said. "I deferred college for a year to learn the ropes at the foundation. My grandfather assigned me to make a study of modes of charitable giving, with an eye to improving ours. I was to make my pitch in the coming months." Grayson stares hard at the map that hangs even with his eyes. "Now I suppose that I will be making my pitch to you." He seems to be measuring the pace of his words. "The foundation conservatorship has its own paperwork. When you turn twenty-one, it's yours, just like everything else."

That hurts him, more than any of the terms of the will. I think about Skye referring to him as the heir apparent. Grayson spent his gap year dedicated to the foundation. But his grandfather chose me. "I'm—"

"Don't say that you are sorry." Grayson stares at the wall a moment longer, then turns to face me. "Don't be sorry, Camille. Be worthy of it." His eyes meet mine and again, I am surprised to find that they're beautiful. It's a silly thing to be surprised about, but his eyes make up for all his harsh words and sharp edges, in some profound way.

"You can't be serious." My answer seems to shock him, but I continue. "We're talking billions here. I know you're aware of that, but as you said yourself: you grew up like this. I didn't. How am I supposed to be worthy of this?" How am I supposed to be worthy of anything?

My answer makes him smile. He is actually smiling, and I'm left desperately wondering why. "I can't teach you how to be anything. But if you're willing, I can teach you a way of thinking."

I grumble, "You seem way to happy about that." But maybe it's exactly because of my doubt that he is happier. Because I'm taking this seriously.

"Do you want this or not?"

"I'm here, aren't I?"