The Truth About Kian

03. Now in the morning I sleep alone

"Did something else happen? Like, were you a bet, or something?" I blurted it out without thinking, and Davina's mouth pinched in a tight line.

"I don't suppose that you've ever heard of a brain-to-mouth filter?" she asked, shoving her way through the set of double doors and heading into the parking lot. "But no, I wasn't." There was a forced calmness on her face, like she was trying to hide her feelings behind an inscrutable mask.

"He did something, though, that's why you hate him so much," I said, and instantly knew that I had gone too far. Her jaw clenched, her ivory skin flushing a blotchy red as she pulled out a slip of paper. Her fingers were visibly trembling.

"I can see why you don't have any girl friends," she spat, thrusting the paper at me. "Gale wanted me to give you this."

"I—" I looked down at the note where Gale has scrawled his number and CALL ME in dark pencil.

"And I don't hate him." Her footsteps grew fainter and when I looked up, Davina was stalking away, loose tendrils of bright hair fluttering in the wind.

"Not only have you managed to piss off most of the Inheritors, you're turning the other scholarship students against you too?" Liam's damp hair was plastered to his forehead, and his gym bag was slung over his shoulder, his basketball shoes dangling by their laces from his hand.

I glanced at my shoes, feeling the sting of Davina's words. She was right; I was the queen of no tact. It might have been the journalist in me. Because in the end, I knew that white lies and gentle words wouldn't soften the blow.

"So? It's not like I'm running for president or anything."

He rolled his eyes. "You never know."

"Oh, trust me, that's not going to happen," I said, glancing over his shoulder to see if Jules had pulled into the parking lot yet.

Liam gave me a thoughtful look as he shifted uncomfortably. The wind blew through my jacket, and I shivered. I would've bought a new coat with the monthly allowance my parents had sent me, but my old recorder was useless so I'd splurged on a newer model. I hadn't anticipated the cold spring, and I regretted my choice.

We stood together, huddled against the west wall of the school. The silence wasn't uncomfortable; it was just strange. I had never stood with an Inheritor who didn't consider moments spent without talking as wasted opportunities to insult me. "Did you need something?" I asked bluntly.

"You're still working on the feature article?"

I fiddled with the slip of paper. "In the two days since I got my assignment, nothing has changed."

"Have you talked to Stan yet?" he asked sticking his hands in his pockets.

"Yes." I glanced out into the parking lot where Jules was noticeably absent. "You know, I'm not going to slander Kian, right? So you have my word — is that all you need?"

"Is that why you think I'm talking to you?" His lips parted in confusion, and I shrugged.

"Why else would you be talking to future president? It's not like I'm famous yet," I joked, feeling my lips curve up in a crooked smile.

Liam snorted. "Unlike you, I actually like talking to people."

"I talk to people."

"Only when you want something from them — like information."

"Yeah," I said, watching Jules' old beater pull into a parking spot. "It's easier to be the one asking the questions, rather than the one answering them."

He frowned at me. "You don't mean that. Don't you like talking about yourself at all?"

I stared at him flatly. "I'm not a narcissist, if that's what you're asking."

"And neither am I, if that's what you're implying," said Liam. He narrowed his eyes. "Just because I have money doesn't mean that I always think about myself."

I looked away. "I never said anything like that." But the Lamborghini and the mansion tell a different story.

Liam sighed. "Reed, you're like an open book. I know exactly what you're thinking."

"Oh yeah? Then what am I thinking?" I challenged, lifting my eyes to meet his—a daring move that I wasn't sure if I would regret. I could count the number of times I'd made eye contact with an Inheritor on one hand since coming to St. Benedict.

The most memorable time had been when I'd locked eyes with Eva Cartwright for more than five seconds. The next day, I'd spent the majority of my day scrubbing pink goo out of my hair.

I held his stare for a few seconds before I ducked my head, retreating back behind the curtain of my long, dark hair.

A scholarship student making eye contact with an Inheritor?

It simply wasn't done.

A car horn honked, and my head snapped towards Jules who was poking his head out of the passenger window.

"That's my ride, Sinclair," I mumbled, hurrying past him and clambering into the seat beside Jules.

"What did Sinclair want?"

I shrugged, watching as Liam climbed into his car and drove away. "He was asking about the article again."

"He seems terribly concerned about that thing."

"That thing is my article," I snapped.

Jules grinned apologetically. "Just be careful, Reed. I don't trust that guy as far as I can throw him."

"So not very far, huh?" I teased, poking Jules' skinny arms. Laughing, he smacked my hands away as we pulled into my driveway. "Want to come in? I have brownies."

"Why do you even ask?" he said, following me as I unlocked the door. Jules sprinted to the kitchen without any hesitation. My split-level house in the poorer area of Scire was practically his second home, and while strangers could get lost in the maze of rooms, Jules knew his way around. I found him standing in front of the fridge, stuffing his face with my brownies.

Sighing, I shoved a plate in his direction and pushed him onto a chair. I grabbed two glasses and a jug of milk and set them onto the table. Grinning wickedly, Jules chugged milk straight from the jug.

It was nearly impossible to get mad at Jules. Times like these — where we were both happy — were few and far between. I was so used to the seeing defeated slouch of his narrow shoulders, the morose look in his dark brown eyes that it was strange to see the flash of white teeth as he laughed.

I picked up the paper that I'd left on the table that morning and began to absently flip through it. One piece in the obituary section caught my eye.

"Look, Jules," I said, thrusting the paper at him.

He adjusted his wire-rimmed glasses and leaned closer. "Funeral's this Saturday," he mused. "And I'm guessing that you want to go."

I tapped my fingers on the table. "Everyone who knew Kian will be there."

"Shouldn't you want to go because you're supposed to pay your respects to Kian?"

"That too," I said, flushing. "Can you drive me?"

Jules gave me a long, thoughtful look. "You really are desperate to finish that article, aren't you?"

"I don't need to give Meg another reason to kick me off the paper."

He nodded so quickly that I almost missed it as he shovelled another brownie in his mouth. "Don't say that I never did anything for you."

I smiled, but my heart wasn't in it. Kian had obviously taken great pains to leave his have-not past behind him. How would he feel knowing that I planned to bring everything to the surface?

***

Cover by playboystiles.