Shadow Me (Shatter Me #4.5)(2)

Warner almost smiles, but he looks unhappy. “Would they be here if they weren’t?”

“Right.” I sigh. “Good point.”

“Meet me downstairs in five minutes, and I’ll fill you in.”

“Five minutes?” My eyes widen. “Uh-uh, no way. I need to take a shower. I haven’t even eaten breakfast—”

“If you’d been up at three, you would’ve had time for all that and more.”

“Three in the morning?” I gape at him. “Are you out of your mind?”

And when he says, without a hint of irony— “No more than usual”

—it’s crystal clear to me that this dude is not okay.

I sigh, hard, and turn away, hating myself for always noticing this kind of thing, and hating myself even more for my constant need to follow up. I can’t help it. Castle said it to me once when I was a kid: he told me I was unusually compassionate. I never thought about it like that—with words, with an explanation—until he’d said it to me. I always hated it about myself, that I couldn’t be tougher. Hated that I cried so hard when I saw a dead bird for the first time. Or that I used to bring home all the stray animals I found until Castle finally told me I had to stop, that we didn’t have the resources to keep them all. I was twelve. He made me let them go, and I cried for a week. I hated that I cried. Hated that I couldn’t help it. Everyone thinks I’m not supposed to give a shit—that I shouldn’t—but I do. I always do.

And I give a shit about this asshole, too.

So I take a tight breath and say, “Hey, man— Are you all right?”

“I’m fine.” His response is fast. Cold.

I could let it go.

He’s giving me an out. I should take it. I should take it and pretend I don’t notice the strain in his jaw or the raw, red look around his eyes. I’ve got my own problems, my own burdens, my own pain and frustration, and besides, no one ever asks me about my day. No one ever follows up with me, no one ever bothers to peer beneath the surface of my smile. So why should I care?

I shouldn’t.

Leave it alone, I tell myself.

I open my mouth to change the subject. I open my mouth to move on, and, instead, I hear myself say— “C’mon, bro. We both know that’s bullshit.”

Warner looks away. A muscle jumps in his jaw.

“You had a hard day yesterday,” I say. “It’s all right to have a rough morning, too.”

After a long pause, he says, “I’ve been up for a while.”

I blow out a breath. It’s nothing I wasn’t expecting. “I’m sorry,” I say. “I get it.”

He looks up. Meets my eyes. “Do you?”

“Yeah. I do.”

“I don’t think you do, actually. In fact, I hope you don’t. I wouldn’t want you to know how I feel right now. I wouldn’t wish that for you.”

That hits me harder than I expect. For a moment I don’t know what to say.

I decide to stare at the floor.

“Have you seen her yet?” I ask.

And then, so quietly I almost miss it— “No.”

Shit. This kid is breaking my heart.

“Don’t feel sorry for me,” he says, his eyes flashing as they meet mine.

“What? I don’t— I’m not—”

“Get dressed,” Warner says sharply. “I’ll see you downstairs.”

I blink, startled. “Right,” I say. “Cool. Okay.”

And then he’s gone.





Two


I stand in the doorway for a minute, running my hands through my hair and trying to convince myself to move. I’ve developed a sudden headache. Somehow, I’ve become a magnet for pain. Other people’s pain. My own pain. The thing is, I have no one to blame but myself. I ask the follow-up questions that land me here. I care too much. I make it my business when I shouldn’t, and I only ever seem to get shit for it.

I shake my head and then—wince.

The only thing Warner and I seem to have in common is that we both like to blow off steam in the gym. I pushed too much weight the other day and didn’t stretch afterward—and now I’m paying for it. I can hardly lift my arms.

I take a deep breath, arch my back. Stretch my neck. Try to work out the knots in my shoulder.

I hear someone whistle down the hall and I look up. Lily winks at me in an obvious, exaggerated way, and I roll my eyes. I’d really like to be flattered, because I’m not modest enough to deny that I have a nice body, but Lily could not give fewer shits about me. Instead, she does this—mocks me for walking around without a shirt on—nearly every morning. Her and Ian. Together. The two have been low-key dating for a couple of months now.

“Looking good, bro.” Ian smiles. “Is that sweat or baby oil? You’re so shiny.”

I flip him off.

“Those purple boxers are really working for you, though,” says Lily. “Nice choice. They suit your skin tone.”

I shoot her an incredulous look. I might not be wearing a shirt, but I’m definitely—I glance down—wearing sweatpants. My underwear is nowhere in sight. “How could you possibly know the color of my boxers?”

“Photographic memory,” she says, tapping her temple.