Chapter Eight

NAJWA POV

I slip into the bathroom before class for a quick hair and makeup check. I've never cared before if I looked like I just rolled out of bed, but knowing Zain will be sitting inches away from me for the next hour has me more concerned than usual.

The fluorescent lights are unforgiving. The bags under my eyes tell their own truth about last night. Just looking at my reflection, all I see is a girl who stayed up way too late worrying about the guy who promised her a date but never showed.

Mike left with his friend Jon while I was in the shower yesterday, getting ready for him to take me out for the first time in over five months. Despite the fact that neither of them was home, the house was still full of people. I stayed up worried about him until I couldn't keep my eyes open anymore. When he finally crawled in bed, then proceeded to crawl on top of me, I was so pissed I just started crying.

He didn't even notice. Or he didn't care.

I cried the entire time he was on top of me, fucking me like he didn't give a shit who was under him, as long as someone was under him. When he finished, he rolled over and fell asleep without a single word. Not an apology. Not a thank-you. Not an I love you. He just rolled over and fell right to sleep without a single thing on his conscience. I rolled over and continued to cry.

I cried for the fact that I allow him to do what he does to me. I cried for the fact that I feel like I have no other choice. I cried for the fact that I'm still with him, despite the person he's become. I cried for the fact that I have no way out, no matter how much I want to leave. I cried for the fact that despite everything horrible about Mike, I was still worried sick when he didn't come home. I cried because I realized that no matter who he's become, a part of me is still in love with him...because I don't know how not to be.

I turn away from my reflection and head to class, because I don't want to look at myself anymore. I'm ashamed of who I've become.

Zain is already seated at our table when I walk into Spanish class. I can see him watching me out of the corner of my eye, but I refuse to look at him.

After spending an hour with him in class the other day, I think it's safe to say I developed a slight crush. The thought of getting to spend time with him three days a week had me giddy; a feeling that had become all too foreign to me. But seeing him in my house, with Mike of all people, crushed any fantasies I may have had. I never intended for anything to happen with Zain. How could it have? There's no way I can get out of the situation I'm in with Mike, and I'm not a cheater. I was simply looking forward to having a crush. Looking forward to flirting a little bit. Looking forward to feeling desirable.

Knowing now that Zain is more like Mike than I could have imagined, I don't want any part of it. Any part of him. The fact that he's now another constant fixture at our house makes him even more off limits. If Mike even had a suspicion that another guy was speaking to me, that guy would be dead. I'd like to say that isn't a literal statement, but it is. Seeing as how he doesn't seem to have a conscience, I one hundred percent believe that Mike is capable of murder.

Which is exactly the reason I'm not putting Zain in that situation. I keep telling myself that Zain is just another Mike, in different clothing. Not worth the risk. I treat this situation with Zain exactly as it is: another roadblock to my eventual escape.

I glance around the room for a vacant seat that isn't next to his. I must have spent too much time in the restroom, because the class is almost full. There are two seats on the second-to-top row that are empty, but they're directly in front of the seat Zain is occupying. I avoid his gaze and walk to the empty seats with my head tucked down. I don't know if I can pull off pretending I didn't notice him, but I'm sure as hell going to try.

I take one of the seats and sit down, then pull my books out and place them on the table in front of me. I hear a sudden commotion coming from the top row and can't help but turn around. Zain is scooting across the table behind me with his backpack in hand. He hops off the table and pulls the empty chair out next to me, then plops down into it.

"What's this all about?" he asks, twisting in his chair to face me. "What's what all about?" I ask, opening the text to where we left off on

Monday.

I can feel him staring at me, but he doesn't say anything. I continue to pretend-read, and he continues to silently stare at me until I can't take it anymore. I turn to face him.

"What?" I ask, irritated. "What do you want?"

He still doesn't say anything. I slam my book shut and turn my body toward his. The fact that our knees are pressed together doesn't go unnoticed. He glances down at our legs and I can see a hint of a grin playing at the corners of his mouth.

"Well," he says. "I sort of liked sitting by you the other day, so I thought I'd do it again. I take it that's not what you want, so..."

He begins to gather his books and a huge part of me wants to rip them from his hands and make him stay here, right where he is. But an even bigger part of me is relieved that he's taking the hint.

He shoves his notebook in his backpack and I keep quiet. If I say anything, I know it'll be nothing but a pathetic plea for him to stay put.

"You're in my seat," a flat, monotone voice says.

Zain and I both look up to see a guy standing in front of us, staring down at Zain with an indifferent expression.

"I was just moving, man," Zain says, pulling his backpack onto the table.

"You should have never sat there in the first place," the guy says. "I sit there." The guy turns to me and extends his arm straight out, pointing at me. "And you don't sit right there. A different girl sat there on Monday, so you can't sit there."

The guy's expression is troubled. He's terribly disturbed that we're in different seats today. I feel sorry for him, recognizing features of one of my own brothers when I look at him. I start to tell him we'll move—that he can have his seat—but Zain's anger intercepts my response. He stands up.

"Get your finger out of her face," he says to the guy.

"Get out of my seat," the guy replies, turning his attention back to Zain.

Zain laughs and drops his backpack on the floor. "Dude," he says. "What is this? Kindergarten? Go find your own fucking seat."

The guy drops his arm and looks at Zain in shock. He starts to reply, but snaps his mouth shut and walks toward the back row, defeated. "But that's my seat," he mumbles, walking away.

Zain pulls his notebook back out of his backpack and sets it on the table in front of him. "I guess you're stuck with me," he says. "No way I'm moving seats now."

I shake my head and lean in toward him. "Zain," I whisper. "Give him a break. I think he has Asperger's, he can't help it."

Zain snaps his head in my direction. "No shit? Are you serious?" I nod. "My brother had Asperger's. I know the signs."

He runs his hands over his face. "Shit," he groans. He quickly stands up, reaching for my hand when he does. I stand up with him.

"Get your stuff," he says, pointing to my backpack and notebook. He turns around and throws his stuff on the table behind him, then reaches for my backpack and does the same. He looks up at the guy and points down to the seats we were just occupying. "Sorry, man. I didn't realize they were your seats. We'll move."

The guy quickly walks back to the row we're in and claims his seat before Zain changes his mind. Realizing most of the class is probably watching the commotion between the three of us, I still can't help but smile. I love that he just did that.

We both walk back to the seats we occupied on Monday, then unpack our stuff onto the table.

Again.

"Thank you for doing that," I say to him.

He doesn't respond. He gives me a half-smile, then looks down at his phone until class starts.

Things are a little awkward once the lecture begins. Not wanting to sit by Zain has left him questioning me. I can tell, because it's written clearly in front of me in black ink as I stare down at the paper he just scooted toward me.

Why didn't you want to sit by me?

I chuckle at the simplicity in his question. I pick up my pen and write a response.

Dude. What is this? Kindergarten?

He reads my response and I swear I can see him frown. I was trying to be funny, but he missed the humor, apparently. He writes something down, something long, and slides the note back to me.

I'm serious, Cloan. Did I cross some sort of line the other night? I'm sorry if I did. I know you're with Mike and I respect that. I honestly just think you're fun and want to sit by you. Cpanish bores the hell out of me and sitting next to you makes the urge I have to gouge my own eyes out a little less imminent.

I stare at his note for a lot longer than it actually takes me to read it. He's got incredibly impressive handwriting for a guy, and an even more impressive way of making my heart race.

He thinks I'm fun.

It's a simple compliment, but one that affects me way more than I wish it did. I have no idea what to say in response, so I press my pen to the paper and don't even think when I write.

People in Wyoming don't really exist, and I can never find the right outfit to wear when I shop for penguins.

I slide the paper back to him and when he laughs out loud, I put my hand over my mouth, covering my smile. I love that he gets my sense of humor, but hate it at the same time. Every second I spend with him just makes two more seconds I want to spend with him.

He slides the paper back to me.

Mosquitos whisper sweet nothings into my barrel of monkeys that took too long to bring me the pizza I ordered.

I laugh, then clench my stomach. Seeing the word pizza reminds me of just how hungry I am. I was too upset to eat dinner last night, so it's been over twenty-four hours since I've eaten anything.

Pizza sounds good.

I lay my pen down but don't slide the note to him. I'm not sure why I wrote something down that I was actually thinking this time.

"It does," he says aloud.

I glance up at him and he's looking at me with a smile that actually hurts. He's everything I want, and everything I don't need, and it literally, physically hurts.

"After class," he whispers. "I'm taking you for pizza."

It comes out of his mouth so fast, it seems like he knows he shouldn't be saying it, much less doing it.

But I nod.

Dammit, I nod.