London Falling. Chanel Cleeton
won’t. What are you going to do?”
“I don’t know.” Tears welled up in Fleur’s eyes. “I can’t talk about it. I can’t talk about the miscarriage. I can’t talk about any of it. You don’t know what it was like. No one does.” A sob escaped. “I just want to move on. I want to put all this behind me and move on. I thought it would be easier with Costa gone. But no matter how hard I fucking try, I feel like my life is defined by this one thing.”
I hurt for her. I joined her on the bed, wrapping my arms around her while she cried.
“It’s going to be okay,” I whispered. “We all have your back. You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to. You’re right—what happened is no one’s business. But you have people who love you, and you aren’t alone in this.”
Fleur wiped at her eyes, pulling away from me. “Thank you. I know. It’s just hard.” She sighed. “Do you think I don’t know people talk about me? That every time I enter the room everyone whispers about how I’m the girl who overdosed last semester. They all think the worst of me. They all think I’m just some party girl who deserves everything that’s happened.”
Fleur wasn’t well-liked, and she definitely had a reputation. It was tough. She was easily the most beautiful girl at the International School. Add in the gobs of money that kept her in Manolo Blahnik and Fendi, and she wasn’t exactly the most sympathetic figure. And Fleur knew she was gorgeous. She walked around campus like she owned it. Even with the current gossip going around, I’d yet to see her duck her head or give an inch. If not for the fact that she was currently sobbing in my arms, I never would have imagined anyone could hurt her. Which was silly, of course. I knew better than anyone—the most painful scars were the ones we didn’t show the rest of the world.
“The people who love you—me, Mya, Michael, Samir—we’ll always be here for you. I promise.”
“Thank you,” she whispered, offering me a weak smile.
“For what it’s worth, I think you’re the strongest person I know.”
Fleur laughed. “I find that really hard to believe.”
“No. You are. You face the world head-on. You don’t apologize for yourself; you don’t let life get you down. You’re human. You make mistakes. Bad shit happens to you. But every morning you wake up ready to seize life by the balls—and you look fabulous while doing so. You’re an amazing friend. And I love you.”
I didn’t say “I love you” a lot. I told my grandmother I loved her, and that was really about it. My dad had never said it. Maybe my mom had when I was younger, before she’d left without looking back. I didn’t really remember. But in that moment, I knew I loved Fleur. On the surface we were so different. She was everything I wanted to be at times—strong, confident, fearless—and yet I saw so much of myself in her. She got me as very few people did. I was close to her in a way I would never be with Mya.
Fleur and I shared an understanding. Because underneath all of the differences, on a fundamental level, she knew what it was like to not feel worthy of being loved.
And I, better than anyone, knew how much that could fuck you up.
CHAPTER NINE
Samir
I HESITATED, MY HAND pressed against the wood-paneled door. Walk upstairs. Do not go into the common room. Don’t. Just don’t.
We were both night owls. I knew how much Maggie liked to hang out in the common room watching TV. I had a TV in my room, and yet last year I’d always found myself down here. This year, I’d been trying to avoid it. There was an intimacy to hanging out with Maggie at night. An intimacy that started out on a couch and ended up in bed.
It had been hours since I’d seen her on the steps, and I couldn’t get the image out of my mind. She’d looked lost, and whatever was bothering her seemed to be wearing on her.
I pushed open the door, striding into the one room I’d avoided since coming back to London. In part because of the danger of being around her like this, and in part because I wasn’t sure I wanted to confront the memories. This was where everything had changed and it all hit me at once.
Just being in the common room reminded me of that night. Made me remember what it felt like to have her. It reminded me of the feeling of her legs wrapped around me, her ass in my hands, her tongue in my mouth. But the memories weren’t the only reason I’d been avoiding this room. The other very big reason sat curled up on the couch, dressed in a sweater and shorts, her legs bare.
Her surprised gaze met mine, and for a moment a flash of unease crossed her face.
“Hi.” Her voice was soft and smooth, filled with just the barest hint of the Southern accent I knew she hated, but I secretly loved.
“Hi,” I echoed. It was 2:00 a.m. We had the common room all to ourselves. A wiser man would have turned and left. My feet carried me toward her.
“Can’t sleep?”
She shook her head, wrapping the sweater tighter around her body. She was so little that the fabric all but swallowed her. It was ridiculously cute and sexy at the same time.
“You?”
“Same.”
I didn’t add that I couldn’t sleep because I’d spent the last hour in my bed, reliving the memory of her there. It was torture having the same room I’d had last year. Absolute torture.
“Are you just going to stand there? Or do you want to sit?”
Actually, I’d like to bury myself in your body.
“Sure.”
I sank down on the couch next to her, careful to keep some space between us. It hit me at the exact same moment that a blush spread across her cheeks—
This was our couch. This was the couch that had started it all.
Minutes passed with silence between us. It wasn’t comfortable silence. It was agonizingly awkward, but I literally couldn’t think of one thing to say to her.
She ran her hand through her hair, the silky strands slipping through her fingers. The scent of her shampoo filled the air. She smelled like vanilla and cookies. I was instantly hard and strangely hungry.
“How is everything?”
I struggled to concentrate on her question. “Fine. Good.” Better now. “I was surprised I didn’t see you in any of my classes.”
Maggie grinned. “I have mostly morning classes.”
“That explains it, then.”
“Is it weird, knowing this is your last year of university?”
“I don’t want it to end.” I laughed at my words, realizing how big a cliché I was. The boy who didn’t want to grow up.
“I know what you mean.”
I hated the sadness in her voice. “Rough time at home this summer?”
“I don’t know. It wasn’t one thing. It was just...everything. I felt so trapped there. I love my grandparents. I mean, seriously, they’re amazing. But I can’t be myself. I’m this other person. This girl who doesn’t rock the boat and says ‘yes, ma’am,’ and ‘no, sir’ and plays by the rules. And it’s not that I want to cause trouble for them—I just sometimes don’t want to have to be that person. I don’t want to have to pretend everything’s fine when it’s not. That I’m not angry, when I am.” Her voice was raw. “I’m so tired of pretending. So tired of working so hard to be good. It’s exhausting pretending to be someone you’re not.”
Her words gutted me. With each word, something unraveled within me. I’d never heard anyone say exactly what I always felt. I knew what it was like to feel trapped in your own body, like you were playing a role you desperately