Montana and Natasha were inseparable. Until the day they weren't.
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Montana Belmonte-Rowe sees her acceptance into Harvard as a fresh start. Still haunted by the tragic death of...
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CHAPTER FIFTEEN
ALWAYS MAKE THE SAME MISTAKES
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I DON'T WANT TO SOUND DRAMATIC, BUT I'VE HAD ENOUGH OF THIS. I look at Blake and he returns it, glaring at me all the way from his desk before focusing back on his coursework—though I doubt he had been particularly interested in it up until this point, if he felt my eyes on the back of his head—and I sink into my mattress, fixing the blanket wrapped around my trembling shoulders.
Everything about this is just so . . . unfair. I have done absolutely nothing wrong and, above all, nothing that could possibly justify this sort of reaction from him, especially after a month. Whatever happened between him and Avery has nothing to do with me, as I've reminded him countless times since then, but he keeps arguing I should have told him she was here and I resort to falling silent, not wanting to drag things any further.
It's frustrating, too.
Sighing softly, I roll to the side and curl into a ball, flipping through the pages of the Vogue magazine I borrowed from Juliet. When Blake stretches his arms above his head, yawning, his sweater's sleeves roll down and I see the tiny crescent moon tattooed on the inside of his wrist. I'm not a tattoo person, but, with Bishop being the only other person I know with a tattoo, I know that's one of the places where it hurts the most.
My brain immediately thinks Blake could have punctured a vein, or something, while getting that tattoo done and I shudder, with bile burning my throat. I used to think I knew him, but, as time goes by and we grow further apart, even if we're still sharing this dorm room and this suite, I fear I might be losing him.
"Blake," I finally call, not wanting this to keep dragging on for much longer. He throws me a discreet glance over his shoulder, but goes back to pretending to be studying because it's what all of us are good at, despite our many differences. We're surfers, runners, readers, lawyers, liars, but all of us are pretenders. "Can we talk?"
"About what?" His voice is sharp, like nails scratching a chalkboard, and I shrink. Mother had always said we don't need to carry people when they're weighing us down or when they simply don't want to be picked up from the floor, but she also didn't raise me to be a quitter, hence why everything about this always confused me a little bit. "I don't think there's anything—"
