"Do I look like a fucking therapist to you?" I asked grumpily, grabbing the bowl of freshly washed grapes from the fridge before moving to the counter where my laptop was set up. The moment my ass hit the barstool, my sister stole the bowl from my hands and retreated to the other side of the counter where I couldn't reach her. "River."

"Sebastian," she replied similarly, pointing an index finger at me and scowling. "I swear, you're the most heartless person ever to walk this earth. Do you feel anything?"

I did feel something, but feigning otherwise sounded easier than putting to words the unexplainable feelings I experienced. The violent tapping of my fingers against the counter matched the thrumming of my heart. Two weeks. An entire two weeks later, I was still thinking about Nailea. I blamed my run-in with James last week.

Instead of having supper with our parents, he'd invited me over to his penthouse and proceeded to cook. Of course, our time together wasn't void of gossip or his attempts at giving advice. The more swigs of bourbon I took, the looser my tongue became, and I'd found myself agreeing to a lot of what my stupid stepbrother had to say.

Smoothly, I swept the vehemence of my thoughts underneath a metaphoric rug and put my efforts towards schooling my features in front of my nosy sister. I shrugged. "No. Can I get my grapes back now?" She aggressively tossed one at my head. I watched it land on my notebook, leaving behind a wet stain and causing the inked words to smudge. "I fucking hate you. Give me the grapes."

But she didn't budge, her face slowly reddening to the point where her freckles were blanketed altogether. So instead, she began pacing, her posture stiff as hell. Then she spoke through clenched teeth. "I can't believe you haven't asked her yet. It's been, what? Over two weeks?"

"I guess."

"You guess?" she practically screeched, placing the bowl on the sink and then spinning around to glare at me. "Bash, I thought we agreed–"

"Don't you have a prom date to find or something?" I questioned, shifting my attention back to my laptop and the final draft of my essay. River was silent as I began typing, and I had a hunch that her left eye was twitching. I suppressed my smirk, not wanting her to know that I was amused with myself.

River was in her senior year at an all-girls boarding school, and her prom was quickly approaching. The problem? She didn't know any guys besides my friends and me. And it pained her, made her blush like a tomato every time one of them offered to be her date–jokingly, of course. I'd hoped she'd scurry off to her room in mortification, leaving me the fuck alone. The silence persisted, prompting me to glance at her finally. She was tugging at her hair, the pin-straight red strands falling from the once neat braid it'd been in.

"We're not changing the subject," she eventually said, her mossy green eyes pleading, pleading, pleading until they were no longer green.

No, they were a shade of hazel, and she was no longer River. She was Nailea, gazing at me with eyes I knew I couldn't even begin to comprehend or fathom what was buried there. Brown and green, the colours zipped behind my lids until it was all I could see. A hazel gaze so desperate for help yet simultaneously masking itself behind quick flutters of long lashes and squinted smiles.

Holy fucking hell. I was never going to drink bourbon ever again because whatever was in that shit practically cemented Nailea in my brain. James had to have something to do with it, and I wondered if he'd performed some sort of ritual with the crystals he kept in his fucking bathroom.

It took a few blinks to rid myself of the stupor I'd found myself stuck in. "It's none of my business–"

"But aren't you the least bit concerned?" River argued further, stepping closer and placing her hands inches away from the laptop. Then, when I still wouldn't meet her gaze, she slammed the device shut, nearly catching my fingers. "The girl had a literal breakdown on your front lawn, and you don't care?"

The thumping in my chest was back, so brutal and so clamorous; I was terrified River could see it fighting to smash through my fucking ribcage. She shouldn't have brought it up because now it was all I could think about. I could still see it so clearly, Nailea bawling her eyes out on my front lawn. She'd probably shown up to talk to Nyx about what was troubling her but hadn't even made it to the door.

I'd seen it all. And so had Beckham; from his window.

The information had stayed between the two of us.

Until a few days ago, when we'd had supper at the Hunts' place. Grayson had said he'd heard a sound from the other side of the door after Aunt Helen had ushered the guys to Beckham's old room. Beckham and I hadn't heeded Grayson's words then, too focused on getting the story out to him so he could mother hen and give us advice.

At least, Beckham had needed advice. He was still torn between telling Nyx her best friend wasn't doing too well, and keeping it to himself in case Nailea didn't want anybody to know. I hadn't really cared (the lie I persistently told), not wanting to involve myself in something that had nothing to do with me. Beckham and Nyx caring made sense. Me? Not at all. But did that stop me?

I'd stood firm against my mom's messy divorce, against River's sobs when my dad had missed recital after recital, and against the arrival of an unexpected and flawless stepbrother. But all of a sudden, the sight of the resident campus princess weeping had my fingers jerking to create a fist and hit whoever had had the gall to make her cry. The intensity of my anger took me by surprise.

No, it was best if I didn't care at all.

And I reminded myself, again, to stay away from bourbon.

I sighed. "You shouldn't eavesdrop, Riv. It makes you do things like this."

"Things like what?"

"Confront me because you think I'm a good person."

The finger point was back. "That's not what I'm doing. I just think you should ask her since Beck hasn't even done anything yet. You're both idiots. Has she made any changes?"

"I'm gonna pretend I understand so we can end this conversation."

"Did she get a haircut?" River clarified, speaking slowly. The insult was clear; she thought I was stupid. "Did she dye her hair? Oh my God, did she give herself bangs? Those are top signs something's wrong, I'm telling you." She waited for answers from me, answers she wouldn't get.

My sister had succeeded in one thing today; she forced thoughts of Nailea back into my mind. It happened in an explosion of brief flashes; a motley of memories seamed together, nearly sending me to my knees.

Ruffled, I stood up and retrieved my stolen bowl of grapes. "I come home for some peace, and you make me talk about Nailea Rubio's hair?"

"But–"

"I'm gonna take a nap." I shoved the bowl at her for dramatic effect. She'd irritated me to the point where I didn't even want my grapes anymore.

Leaving my laptop and notes behind, I took the stairs to my childhood bedroom, hoping the familiar space would coddle me into that little boy again, a boy with no worries, no burdens and definitely no warring emotions. The walls were still a gunmetal grey, and the furniture was still the same because my mother tended to be sentimental about shit like that. In the corner of the room was still that faded blue rocking chair she'd used to put me to sleep as a newborn. She'd been freshly swept off her feet and moved from France by my dad, and they'd just started building their life together.

I didn't have a problem with the rocking chair, more so the thoughts it elicited whenever it caught my eye. Remembering your newborn ass being rocked to sleep whilst fucking your tenth-grade crush from behind wasn't what you'd call setting the mood. But my mom loved the chair, so the chair stayed. There was also a door that led to a small balcony, which I'd used to sneak out of the house in high school. An undesirable vision of Grayson swinging from the balcony by his underwear surfaced in my mind.

Back in middle school, his parents had been super strict, and he'd sneak out of his house to spend the night either at my place or Beckham's. One time, he'd been mid-shower in my bathroom when I'd yelled at him that his room light had suddenly gone on (because I could see his room from my window). In a panic, he'd hopped out of the shower–naked as a baby–and pulled on a pair of my underwear before throwing himself over the balcony.

There'd been a trampoline beneath it, but I enjoyed leaving that piece of information out because it was funnier that way. Unfortunately for him, he'd grabbed the underwear I could never wear because some lazy saleswoman hadn't removed the ink tag. And when Grayson had vaulted, the little metal tag had gotten caught between the thin railings. There he'd been, dangling from the balcony, wet as hell and with his little-dude penis wriggling in the wind.

A laugh bubbled in my throat, descending into a low groan when my shoulders tautened as I plopped myself onto the too-small bed. There'd been an ache in my left shoulder since hockey practice yesterday. Nyx, who'd been assisting the team during the Crosstown Cup, had returned to training after some time off, and both she and Coach Benson were working us extra hard. We had about five matches left against the UCLA Bruins, spanning across the next two months and ending on a tight deadline before final exams. Time was limited because we'd already had a late start to the cup due to not having a coach for the first three months of the school year, and all that.

We'd won three of the first five matches so far, which I supposed was good for guys working with a coach who'd known nothing about them. I could still remember how upset Beckham had been when he found out Benson only had experience coaching a kids' team. I'd found it funny then, and I still did now.

The thought of the long months ahead was enough to put me to sleep, and I chased after the rest that I desperately needed. Hazel, hazel, hazel. Sleep couldn't even save me from that haunting hue, and instead of resisting it, I allowed it to tug me towards what I hoped was a deep slumber.

Just as I was about to doze off, my phone rang. Biting back curses, I dug it out of my shorts pocket and heard Grayson's laughter in the background the second I answered. There was the strongest impulse to bring up his mortifying memory of levitating a few feet away from my room, just to piss him off.

But it was Beckham who spoke. "A bouquet of pink roses just arrived for you." Grayson cackled louder, pulling a snort from Beckham.

"I'm hanging up."

"I'm not joking," he pressed. "It's from some chick named Diana. There's a card and everything."

I scrunched my brows in confusion. As far as I was concerned, I didn't know a Diana. Though, it could've been the brunette I'd fucked in the back of my car last week. Or was her name Lilian? Fuck me; it wasn't like it mattered, did it? Lilian had agreed to keep it casual, but now I second-guessed our tumble between seatbelts. Her parting kiss had been a little off, now that I thought about it.

"Read the card."

"What if she's a booty call and she's complimenting your cock? And don't even lie to me and say you don't remember when that art student—what was her name again? I can't—"

"—Thea—" Grayson added amidst Beckham's ramble.

"—yes, Thea! When she had you lay down like a sexy French woman so she could paint your cock, and then she mailed it to our place? Do you remember that? Because I sure as fuck do—"

Grayson supplied with a small gag, "—so do I—"

"And the memory haunts me. What did we do with the painting—"

"Read the card, Beck," I grunted.

He sighed. There was some movement, the sound of crinkled paper and plastic, a sneeze from Grayson and finally, some words. "It says something about having had a crush on you for the past year." Grayson choked. "She hopes to see you at Daisy's Delicacies in an hour, where she'll be hanging out with some friends."

"Girl's got bigger balls than Sebastian," Grayson added with another laugh, and I could hear him slapping the table like a lunatic. "Does she even know you? No girl in their right mind would be crushing on you, no offence. You're literally the poster boy for nut and strut."

I sat up, clenching the phone in my hand. "I don't nut and strut."

"Oh yes, you do. You blow your load and hit the road," Grayson furthered his argument, though he sounded entertained. "Diana better have been living under a rock, else I'm gonna be disappointed in her choice of crush."

"Shut up, asshole," I grunted, tugging at the ends of my hair. "I don't know a Diana, anyway. And I'm fucking napping."

Grayson must've grabbed the phone from Beckham because his voice was suddenly way louder. "Diana's clearly hoping to run into you later, man. Let's not break her heart."

"She can hope some more."

"Sebastian–"

I scoffed. "You want entertainment? Turn on the TV. Or watch porn." Before they could say anything, I hung up and tossed my phone away.

A peaceful weekend. That's all I wanted before our sixth match this week, and I wouldn't let anybody ruin that. Not my annoying little sister. Not my unaccountable concern for Nailea. Not my socialite mother and definitely not my bored friends.

He said hopefully.

AN: Making up for the fact that i disappeared lol. vote, comment, and check out my fantasy novel!! kisses!!