I opt for picking up my feet and jogging past her instead, far enough that I can then pivot and stop her right in her tracks, just as she turns the corner.
Inches away from smacking into my chest, Honey comes to a screeching halt. She tilts her head up to me, those bright baby blues flaring, speaking her frustration as she stays silent.
‘You know, I’m not used to girls running away from me,’ I joke, flashing her my signature smirk. The one that Iknow brings out my dimples—because if there’s one thing I’ve learnt about girls, it’s that they aresuckersfor dimples. Especially mine.
Honey’s throat bobs as she drags up a restrained smile. She releases the straps of her backpack, letting her hands fall to her side as she silently regards me, annoyingly unmoved by my cheeky smile. I don’t miss the way she folds the hems of her cardigan sleeves under her fingers either, like she’s terrified I’m going to yank them up and show everyone at school the bruises lying beneath.
Fuck. I let my eyes quickly trail down her body, noticing how little skin is on show. Legs covered by thick tights, dress almost at her knees and up to her neck, cardigan encasing her shoulders and arms. I guess I always thought it was because her family was super religious, her clothes reflecting their traditional views. But it’s still pretty warm for September, and she might as well be dressed for winter.
My smirk instantly drops.
‘May I, um—may I help you, Sawyer?’ she asks, her voice soft and buttery, despite her country drawl being thick enough to rival mine. Blonde lashes flutter as she glances away each time someone passes us.
It’s like she’s worried somebody is watching. A boyfriend, maybe? The thought of another kid at our school being responsible for the bruises on her arm makes my blood boil, the heat causing my skin to itch.
Even more since I don’t like the way she’s looking at me. I don’t like the fact that she seems anything but excited to be in my presence, not like most of the girls at school. Even the other quiet ones’ eyes still sparkle when I flash a grin at them.
I’m anxious to put it right. To make her smile. To getsomesort of reaction from her. I’m Sawyer Nash—underperforming isn’t in my nature when it comes to girls.
Honey plays with her fingers in front of her as she awaits my answer. Her eyes stay trained on her hands, only flicking up a couple of times to meet my confused stare, before shyly darting away. Like it would be dangerous to hold my gaze for too long.
I’d put all my money on it being a guy who did this to her.
‘Um, yeah. Hold on,’ I finally say, slipping my backpack off my shoulder and zipping it open. I plunge my hand inside, rummaging around.
When I finally yank out the concealer, her face crumples. It’s kind of cute how taken aback she looks—the little divot appearing between her brows, and the way her blue irises swallow up her pupils as they focus on the object, whilst her full lower lip pouts out just a little.
I take advantage of the sudden distraction to indulge in admiring her. Don’t get me wrong, Honey’s always been attractive—her beauty is the effortless kind—yet she insists on keeping herself hidden and, after a while, everyone just kind of let that happen.
Except, now I’m wondering why. Now I’m able to really appreciate the parts of her that get lost amongst the crowd. The way her light-blonde brows stand out against her golden skin, the smattering of faint freckles atop the apples of her rosy cheeks, and her heart-shaped lips the colour of the cotton candy from the summer fair. She’s a real country belle.
And those goddamn eyes. There’s so many different shades of blue swirling through them, like her pupils are the stones dropped into a lake, her irises the rippling water.
‘I don’t understand,’ Honey admits, eyes snapping between me and the concealer I’m holding out toward her.
Carefully, I step closer, trying to make this exchange less visible. Because it probably is weird that the high school quarterback is giving the quiet choir girlmakeup.
Honey moves back though, keeping the same space between us.
‘It’s, um …’ Fuck, I realise now that I didn’t think this through. How do I do this without divulging my own secrets? Without letting her see how broken I am under my football jacket and bold smile?
Even my closest friends don’t know everything that goes on with my dad. They might take the blame for bruises I can’t explain, pretending it was from football practice or roughhousing, but I’ve never told them the whole truth.
It stops them from running then. Like Mom did.
It’s okay. I don’t have to admit to anything, really. Just let her know that she’s not alone. Because that’s what I wish I’d had. Someone else in my corner when I felt like I couldn’t escape. To tell me it’s not my fault that no one loves me.
I have to swallow before I can muster up the words. To try to drown out the faint ringing that’s started to build in my ears. ‘It gives really good coverage for dark marks and doesn’t wipe off easily. You know, on clothes. My … mom used to wear it.’
She’d only been around for the first time he grabbed me. But the next morning before school, the first thing she did was dab her expensive concealer over the marks darkening on my forearm with shaky fingers. The way she applied the makeup to my arm was like muscle memory, and it was thenthat I realised it wasn’t the first time he’d done something like that. Maybe to me, but not to her.
I hate her for leaving me with him.
I hate myself for not being enough to make her stay.
Bottom lip dropped, Honey blinks those bright doe eyes at me. The fact that she doesn’t try to brush the gesture off or throw that crumpled, confused look back on her face just confirms my suspicions. Someone’s been hurting Honey Goldman.
When she still doesn’t move, I motion the concealer towards her again. ‘Seriously, take it. I have more at home.’