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Tate. Coleson. The best friend that I ever had. Who then became the worst friend that I ever had.
The other one has his head ducked towards the door, eyes alight and molten, with a grin tugging at his lips. My heart shivers with pleasure as I rush towards the library. Tate Coleson just smiled at me.
“What are the little tabs for?” His eyes are back on the book stacks, much to my horror. “I tab the useful bits of information. Vivid and grotesque murder scenes, for example.”
“Tate cannot see you like this,” Mitch says. “In fact, Tate cannot see other people seeing you like this. He’s going to go insane.”
At the top of the stairs, wrapped up with a little ribbon, there is a tiny perfect wooden bookcase.
“Why do you keep saying that I ruined everything for us? How can you say that? I would have done anything for you.”
And I know more than anything that his deepest fantasy involves getting a nice girl to say I do by a church altar and then pumping her pregnant for the rest of her life.
I should never have believed him, I think to myself. I knew that this was too good to be true. My trust. My faith. My fault.
“Because you turned eighteen yesterday, baby,” he says softly, “so I had to come and get my girl.”
