Jessie Kensington thought she had escaped her troubled past when she faked her death and started a new life as Violet Arrowood. But three years later, she finds herself at Vanguard University on a scholarship, trying to build the future she always d...
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After Clara arrived, we painted our nails while watching Gilmore Girls. She had picked up my phone from my dorm earlier, but I haven't checked it much. As far as I know, there haven't been any new texts from Lexi, which is a relief. Georgie fell asleep after the first episode, which was three hours ago now. Ty came in to take her back to her room and left. But not before we all exchanged a strange look between us—one that seemed to mix discomfort with a hint of happiness. I couldn't quite place it, but it felt like he was both unsettled and content.
Since then, Clara and I have been watching Pretty Little Liars on her laptop. She's been unusually quiet, ever since she arrived— actually it's ever since the text at the gym. I can't shake the feeling that there's this tension between us, a silence heavy with words unsaid, I don't like it.
It's strange, because I want her to talk, and she knows I want to ask, but I don't want to pressure her. Because I know if I was ever pressured to talk about something I wasn't ready for, I would shut down even more.
The room is so still. We both lie on our backs, and behind the king-size bed we're sharing, a large double window frames the starry sky. It's almost too perfect, like a scene from a movie. The crickets chirp outside, reminding me of camping trips with Mikey. We'd ride our bikes for hours to find a safe spot to camp. It was always calm and peaceful and so quiet. The quiet was comfortable between us because Mikey and I never left anything unsaid.
"You like him, don't you?" Clara's voice breaks the silence.
"What?" I'm taken aback. Did I miss something here?
"You like—" She starts to whisper-yell, but I cut her off by pressing a hand over her mouth. Ty is only a few rooms away, and even though our door is closed, I don't want to risk it.
"No, it's—Ugh." I stumble over my words, caught off guard. "Ty doesn't like me like that, and neither do I. We're just friends, if you can even call us that." My voice trails off, and she laughs. "What?" I ask, a bit annoyed. The question feels more like an accusation.
"How do you know I was talking about Ty?"
Wait—what? I roll onto my stomach and bury my face in the pillow. Whatever. I can't like Ty.
"You like Tyyy."
"I don't!" My voice is muffled by the pillow. "He's infuriating. Honestly, I—"
"Like him!"
"Noooo. I don't." I protest, but those pesky butterflies in my stomach suggest otherwise. This is ridiculous. We just had a fight, and these butterflies clearly don't know anything.
I keep my face buried in the pillow, waiting for Clara's laughter to stop bouncing the bed.
"In all seriousness," she says, "I can tell he likes you. And by the way you look at him—and even the way your face looks right now—I can tell you like him too."
