Unloved: Chapter 8

My entire plan hadn’t helped.

Texts unanswered, or with quick, apologetic responses—but I’m still alone in this house.

Mostly everyone I’d usually invite over for company was busy doing other things, being with their friends—enjoying the ease of the beginning of the semester.

I’m glad they’re busy, but it doesn’t make the slight feeling of abandonment hurt any less.

Even now, as I heat up microwavable bacon and scramble several eggs in the one pan Bennett allows me to use, I hope that I’ll return to excited responses on my phone. At least one “

” or “

” to mend the hollow ache starting to grow in my chest.

I slam my bedroom door shut behind me and the echo of it sounds in my head.

I’m alone. The house is empty. Rhys comes back tomorrow, and Bennett isn’t here—he never came home last night. Still, I feign ignorance to dampen the sting as I sit in my empty room.

Forcing a quick smile like it might liven my spirits, I eat everything on my plate before curling up under the covers and trying to sleep. Even as voice plagues me again.

.

I’m on time today, a rarity for me, but I’ve barely been able to think of anything except this upcoming tutoring session—be it in the form of anxiety or anticipation, or both.

She asked me to meet her in the coffee shop on the third floor in a shortened email only minutes after my desperate run from our last meeting. It’s the first day of fall semester, so the library is relatively empty—most everyone has no reason to be here this early at the start, apart from perpetual strugglers like me.

Still, I barely slept, deciding to spend my morning at the sports complex gym, which means I’m wearing shorts that show a bit too much thigh and the last of my clean T-shirts—I desperately need to do laundry—from my current collection in the backseat of my car.

I spot Ro before she sees me, seated in a corner booth. She’s still as pretty as the first time I saw her, if a little more buttoned up today. A sweater vest top like a tank that looks more professional than her comfortable style from last time. But she’s still got a funky clip—chunky with embellished cherries on it—in her hair, which makes me feel a little lighter. There’s a pencil pressed to her lips, and she rolls it mindlessly across them before it on her mouth. It’s distracting enough that I stop for a moment and watch her.

Like I’ve announced my presence, her eyes leave the papers spread in front of her and lock on mine—but not before gazing a little too long at the butterfly tattoo on my upper thigh. I flex the muscle a little on my next step, a brazen smile taking over, the need to perform for her in some way almost overwhelming in intensity.

People watch me all the time, run their eyes over my body like it’s on show just for them. But the way Ro watches me feels different. Not covetous, but inquisitive, like she’s trying to see something deeper.

The grin on my face falters slightly at the unbidden thought, but I manage to shake it away physically with a quick jerk of my head as I step up to her alcove.

“Hey,” I say, dropping my voice. The effect is immediate, her skin flushing rose gold. My smile only widens; I that I have an effect on her.

“Hi.”

Ro’s hazel eyes, wide and wonder filled, drop to my thigh again before darting quickly back to my gaze.

“Have a seat,” she says, voice sterner than her expression shows. I follow her instructions happily, leaning on my forearms as she starts to speak again. “So, I double-checked your schedule and cross-checked it with—”

“Cross-checking? That’s illegal.” The joke is pathetic at best, and anyone else might groan in annoyance or ignore me completely. But as usual, is different.

Ro grins like she can’t really help it. It’s like pouring gasoline on a fire for me, and I’m desperate to pull another smile or laugh or any positive reaction she’ll give me more than I care to pay attention to whatever she’s trying to show me.

“Funny,” she says.

“I’m Her brow furrows slightly, “No. I—” She clears her throat and looks up at me hesitantly. “I’m sorry. I just… I really don’t know what happened last Friday. I don’t remember.”

Her words pull the warmth from my skin and replace it with a cold, clammy flush.

Ro looks like she’s waiting for me to fill in the gaps and I freeze, smiling despite the little ache at the reminder that she doesn’t remember anything.

What’s a nice way of saying, “

”? Or maybe, “

”?

Instead, I smile and shake my head. “Don’t worry about it. Please, continue. I promise not to interrupt.” I make a show of zipping my lips closed, locking them and tossing the key over my shoulder, before straightening my back stiffly, hands clasped. The picture of a perfectly attentive student.

“Anyway…” She’s still smiling as she points to the papers she’s laid out in front of me. “It looks like these dates in pink are the best ones for us to meet. I put the times on them as well. Once I get a better hold on what your hardest subjects are, I’ll break it down further to focus on what we need to tackle first. Make sense?”

I swallow hard. “Sure.”

“Okay,” she continues. If she notices I’ve barely glanced at the papers, she doesn’t say. Ro hands me another printout, this one thicker and stapled together. “These are the topics for today’s pretest. I put a mini break under each one as a refresher, mostly because I don’t want you to be overwhelmed. What you score on the pretest doesn’t matter, obviously, but it will help me know what our starting point is.”

Looking at the paper, I bounce my leg beneath the table. The amount of text is staggering, enough to have me giving up before I’ve even started.

“Yeah.” I nod, skimming my eyes over the document. “All looks good. Should be fine.”

Shoving the paper back toward her, I plaster a smile on my lips before looking up. She’s less relaxed now, brow furrowed as she looks back and forth between me and the paper.

. I skimmed too quickly; I’m usually pretty good at fake-reading, covering my own ass for years when it comes to these moments. But I’m too nervous around her. She read the list in my file: dyslexia, dyscalculia, ADHD—but no one ever knows how severe the dyslexia is for me, how I struggle to read my hockey schedule, let alone a textbook on biology.

We both stare at each other, my gaze jumping more than her clearly focused one, and the moment feels like it passes for an eternity before her hand spins the paper back to face me.

“Okay, well,” Ro says, voice serene. “It’s a requirement to go through these together, for my team. So if you don’t mind, I’m gonna just read them aloud to you.”

There’s no way in this is a requirement from her team—now that I know her team consists of Tyler and Rodger and anyone else who’s tried and failed to help me. I bite my tongue to avoid offering some snarky version of exactly that in rebuttal.

But she’s lying because she wants to help me. Without embarrassing me or calling me out.

“Okay.” I nod, swallowing tightly. “I’m listening.”