He grins. It’s a lazy, careless grin that makes my ribs ache. “Not looking for romance, Davies. Just a passing grade.”
That night, I sit on my bedroom floor with a notebook. I write the truth no one will ever read: I am seventeen years old, and I am in love with a boy who thinks of me as a convenience. A ride to school. A source of free coffee. A pair of ears that listens to his stories about other girls. hayley davies pov
And then I hear it. The muffled laughter from downstairs. His laughter. He grins
I feel a familiar twist in my stomach. Liam mumbles something I can’t hear, and they both laugh again. I want to go down there. I want to walk into that kitchen like I own it, pour myself a cup of coffee, and act normal. But normal is the problem. Just a passing grade
I pull a copy of The Great Gatsby off the shelf and hand it to him. “Short. Tragic. Rich people being sad. You’ll like it.”