He’s not here. He doesn’t know where I am, but still, I catch myself scanning crowds, tensing whenever I see a black SUV, waiting for one of my dad’s stone-face security details to materialize and drag me back to Southern Collegiate.
Not going to happen.
Not when I have the St. Michael’s campus map staring at me from my computer screen. Classes start soon, and I’m still wondering if I’ll have the balls to show up at the school where Zach Evans is considered football royalty.
Three days. I’ve got three days until the classes start, and I need to be officially transferred.
I want to be here, Ineedto be here.
So what’s stopping me from pressing the button?
“More coffee, hon?” The waitress—Sandy, according to her name tag, hovers with a pot. I don’t have the heart to tell her it tastes like battery acid, so I nod my head, instead.
“Sure. Thanks.”
She refills my coffee with a pitying look. Yeah, I know. I’ve been here long enough to become the furniture, but can’t she tellwhat willingly walking into the fire and burning your life to the ground looks like?
As she walks away, I drag my finger across the mouse pad and pull up the St. Michael’s transfer application. I’ve been working on it since I found out where Tiff was. Everything is complete. The references are in place, the transcripts are loaded up…I just haven’t clicked the button.
One click. That’s all it will take to go nuclear and destroy whatever remains of my relationship with my father. I’ll be the first ‘Nicks’ not to complete my degree at Southern Collegiate. The first not to make partner by thirty-five. The first not to marry the girl they’d lined up for me.
Just one click and poof… it would all be gone.
My finger hovers over the submit button.
Do I dare?
I’ve got to do it at some point, so why not now?
Buzz. Buzz. Buzz.
I wince at my stupid phone. It’s not my father this time.
Asher calling
Ah, yes, Thatcher ‘Asher’ Hastings has been trying to call me since seven this morning, and every time I’ve forwarded it to my voicemail. Asher has always been one of my closest friends, but he’s part of the life I want to get away from.
The privilege comes with a power I no longer want.
Still, the phone buzzes and I know he’s a persistent motherfucker. If I don’t answer, he won’t stop, and honestly, I could use a distraction.
I click accept and bring the phone to my ear. “Yeah?”
“Finally.” Asher’s deep voice comes through sharp with frustration. “I’ve been calling you all morning. What the hell, man?”
“Been busy,” I mutter, staring at my laptop screen, rereading the transfer application that I know by heart.
“Busy doing what? Jerking off to your tragic life choices?” His tone drips with mockery. “Because your dad won’t stop blowing up my phone asking if I’ve heard from you.”
I lean back against the vinyl seat, making it squeak. “And what did you tell him?”
“That you’re probably being a dramatic asshole somewhere, which - surprise—seems accurate.” He pauses, and I can almost see him running a hand through his perfectly preppy hair. “Look, you know I love you like a brother, right?”
“Here we go.”
Asher ignores me. “Well, as yourbro, I’m asking you to call your dad. Soon. I’m tired of making excuses for your sorry ass.”
A bitter laugh crawls up my throat. “That’s fucking rich coming from you.”