Sebastian takes me out to breakfast— well, lunch, actually, since we’ve spent most of the night awake and most of the morning sleeping it off. I’m incredibly sore from him, relegated to taking tiny steps down the brick-paved streets. It obviously pleases Sebastian, once he realizes I’m not in serious pain; he walks alongside me slowly, arm slung around me, ignoring the points and stares that we get over the fact that Sebastian Slate is clearly with freshman girl who isn’t even especially busty or especially blonde.

“I don’t really care what they think,” Sebastian says, shrugging over the plate of pancakes in front of him. There’s enough food there to feed a medium sized army. Even if I were the kind of girl who worried about eating in front of guys, I don’t think I’d have any qualms about downing a few carbs in front of this eating machine.

“Seriously? I’m a freshman. Like, a true freshman,” I say, taking a bite.

He shrugs again. “People will always find something to judge me for. To judge anyone for. I don’t care that you’re a freshman.”

“I literally can’t even legally drink.”

“That just makes you a cheap date,” he says, and nudges me under the table as I roll my eyes at him. “Do you want to go get clothes at your place after this?”

“Like, change clothes?”

“Get clothes,” he says, shaking his head. “So you can stay with me again tonight.”

“You are actually trying to kill me, aren’t you?” I say with a laugh, before realizing what I’ve just said. My aunt flashes into my mind, and I look down at my food as guilt swims through me.

If Sebastian connected my words to his father in any way, it doesn’t show, because he just makes a satisfied growl deep in his throat, and says, “I’m actually just unable to take my hands off you for long, Ashlynn. Besides, if you’re still sore, I’m sure I can find something else you’ll enjoy that doesn’t involve my cock in your pussy.”

I flush that he just said something like that in a public place— what if someone heard him? But when I look up at him, I can see that Sebastian isn’t worried. In fact, Sebastian is already planning on how he’ll undress me, from the looks of the gleam in his eye. I shake my head at him admonishingly, but the truth is, all it took was that look from him and I’m also wondering how he’ll undress me…

Sebastian pays for our meal and we wander off, walking casually through the downtown area rather than heading straight back to his car. Saturdays are always sleepy and beautiful and bright; the scent of spilled beer from last night’s partying is everywhere, but so is the scent of freshly baked bread, warm coffee, and the peppery scent of cleaner. People are out and about, eager to spend the day doing something other than studying— which is how I’d likely be spending my day if I weren’t leaned up against Sebastian. We make our way to the park and sit down on a bench. I’m not usually a PDA person, but when Sebastian pulls my legs up onto the bench and encourages my head onto his lap, I don’t fight it. It’s nice, the smell of him, the feeling of him beneath my head. My eyes begin to drift shut to the sound of idle chatter and birds chirping; when Sebastian begins to stroke my hair, I’m done for, and sleep comes at me quickly.

I don’t hear Sebastian’s phone ring— I just wake up to his voice. He’s talking quickly, almost worriedly, and grimaces when he sees he’s woken me. He tries to convinced me to lay back down (via a series of gestures and wanting looks), but it’s no use— I’m up, and I can tell something serious is happening.

“Just put him on the phone. Stop panicking,” he says calmly. Except I know it isn’t really calm— because even though the tone and cadence is the same as his calm voice, there’s a kind of panic in his eyes that is new to me and, frankly, a bit frightening.

“Ok, good, good,” Sebastian says with a deep, full-bodied breath. “Hey, Dad? Mom says you’re saying some stuff that scares her.”

My blood freezes. Dad. He’s talking to his dad. The man who murdered my aunt is on the end of that phone line, and I’m holding Sebastian’s hand, so it’s like I’m connected to Dennis Slate and oh my god— I pull my hand away, justifying the move by brushing my hair behind my ears and picking at my cuticles.

“I know it’s intense, but Dad, you can’t talk about hurting yourself in front of mom. You shouldn’t talk about hurting yourself, period. We’re going to get through this.”

Breathe. I need to breathe. Dennis Slate isn’t really here. And Sebastian isn’t Dennis. Sebastian and I are pretending, after all, like the entire murder never happened. Like we’re fine. Like everything is fine—

“Because you’re innocent, Dad. I know that. Everyone knows that. You’re not going to jail, because innocent people don’t go to jail— or they shouldn’t, anyway. No, no, you won’t. Because you just won’t!” Sebastian’s voice is growing more frantic, though he keeps it steady enough that passersby don’t seem to notice the tenor of the conversation.

I feel sick. Sebastian might be right— hell, he probably is right. His father won’t go to jail. The man who killed my aunt will just get to live the rest of his life, will get to meet people and eat waffles and go to weddings and meet grandkids and meanwhile, my aunt will stay dead, all because of him. Because she was having an affair with Dennis Slate, and was going to tell Dennis’s wife. Something that, in the end, the wife learned about anyway— which means he killed my aunt for nothing at all. She died for nothing, and he might very well never see the inside of a jail cell again, and from the sounds of it, that’s exactly what Sebastian wants—

“That was the situation which shall not be named,” Sebastian says, and rises. “I need to get in touch with my brothers. I think I should drop you off at your place—“

“No, no, it’s fine. I mean, it’s…” It’s far from fine, but I don’t know how to explain that right now. “Look, honestly, maybe this is for the best.”

“What?” Sebastian says, looking stunned. He’s midway through offering me his arm, presumably so we can hurry off to his car.

“I should have told you last night,” I say, biting my lip, hands shaking, eyes wobbling, I have to do it, I have to tell him—

“What?” he asks again, lowering his hand, eyes going cool.

I dig deep for the need to say it, for the need to tell him who my aunt is. I need to say it, even though it’ll hurt him. Even though if I say it out loud, I’ll more or less be saying that I think his father is a murderer and deserves to be in jail. That his father— who, rightly or wrongly, Sebastian is clearly worried about— is a monster. My words will hurt Sebastian, because for whatever reason, he cares about me. He wants me.

And I told him we could pretend. I convinced him to hold me again, to trust me, and I’m going to shatter that if I tell him the truth now.

“I should have told you that the project I’m working on with the student advocacy group is all about ending New Recruits Week,” I say, opting to chicken out and only tell part of the truth. “That’s how I got into the party last night, even— another girl in my group hooked me up with Juliet. I was literally only there to spy on football players and report back.”

Sebastian looks alarmed, but not angry— more like he can’t understand why this is coming out now, of all times, or why it’s making me tear up and shake and quiver. He opens his mouth, but I cut him off. “My point is, this is all just a huge conflict of interest. So we should go ahead and end things now before we get too…you know. Attached.”

“Too attached?” Sebastian says— almost growls. “It’s way too late for that, Ashlynn.”

I take a step back and wrap my arms around my waist, like I’m protecting myself. “More attached, then. We should stop before we get more attached. Look, you need to go talk to your brothers— I need to go. It was…nice. It was great, okay? But we can’t do this.”

“Ashlynn—“ he starts, taking a strong step toward me. I prance away, and then keep going— walking, then jogging off as quickly as I can without drawing attention. The tears really start flowing as soon as he’s out of my line of sight. What was I thinking, being with him? Not the sex, even— the being. Getting a meal with him. Falling asleep on his lap. Letting him stroke my hair like that. What the hell was wrong with me?

Except, the more I cry, and move away from the Sebastian, the less certain I am what exactly I’m crying over: That I fell for a Slate boy, or that I walked away from one.