And he’d ruined mine. Nothing of me would ever be the same.

“Don’t we all have our own personal albatross?”

–Dovey

“THE RIME OF the Ancient Mariner was written when this dude was on opium. How am I supposed to write an essay on drug-induced poetry?” Sebastian asked me as we sat desk to desk, outlining our five paragraph essays for Lit.

“Dude’s name was Samuel Taylor Coleridge, and you were supposed to have finished reading it last night. If you had, maybe you could figure out what to write.” I grinned to soften the blow. Bantering with him was fun. Plus it helped me forget about the couple who sat one aisle over.

He chuffed and tapped his pencil against his desk, annoying several other students around us, but he didn’t seem to notice. Sebastian did his own thing.

I liked him. We’d been sitting together for almost two weeks now, getting to know each other. Even though he fit all the criteria that usually made me run for the hills.

“Okay. I’m going with the penance theme. You could do the same?” I wanted to help.

“It’s like I hear you talking but you’re not making any sense. Wanna explain that penance thing?”

I popped him on the arm. He wasn’t dumb, but he did seem distracted. Probably some girl. I kinda wished it was Mila, but he never talked about her.

“Seriously, you want me to tell you everything? You gonna ask me to write your paper next?” I said.

He laughed, his eyes glittering. “Nah, Weinstein knows my handwriting.”

I grinned. “Okay, here’s the shortened version but listen good, ‘cause I’m not repeating it.” I cleared my throat. “Crusty old sailor kills the albatross. Oops. Now the ship has bad luck. The other sailors curse him, and tie the nasty bird around his neck—hence the saying ‘albatross around my neck’. Then they all die of thirst. It’s his fault, blah, blah, blah. He suffers and gets so thirsty he bites his arm to drink the blood—yeah, that's gross. He gets a visit from some supernatural beings that scare the bejesus out of him. In the end, he unconsciously blesses some slimy creatures in the ocean, therefore releasing the curse, and the albatross drops from his neck. Bam. He’s paid his dues. Penance is done. Over.”

“Poor dude. Ship happens, I guess,” he said.

I laughed loud enough that Cuba gazed at me, his eyes narrowed in on Sebastian’s hand on my desk. Suck it, I wanted to say. But that was completely juvenile.

Instead, my eyes couldn’t seem to stay off Cuba. Today, he wore Religion jeans and a navy shirt that clung to his chest. And of course, he gazed right back at me, an unreadable expression on his face. I wished I knew what he was thinking. If he really loved Emma or not. If they were planning to get married or get engaged or live together or whatever people did when they’re having a baby. Part of me, the crackbrained side, begged him to tell me I had it all wrong, that all the whispering they did wasn’t them planning a future. But I knew it would be a lie. It’s what he did best.

I dropped my eyes from his. Why was I so fickle about my feelings for him? I hated it.

I glanced up at Sebastian, noticing that his eyes kept darting over to Cuba and Emma too, which was so…

And before I could finish that thought, my phone vibrated on silent with a text.

Weinstein graded papers and Sebastian pretended to write, so I eased it out of my hoodie front pocket.

Dorchester Hotel. Bar. This Friday, 8 PM. Wear a dress.

My mouth dried as I read it over and over, but it didn’t change. I would be doing this.

“Hello, Tiny Dancer, you alive?”

“What now?” I snipped, my nerves frayed.

He twirled his pencil around his fingers. “Did you know we’re trying out Spider as our new guitar player?” He went on to explain that Leo was stepping down to manage the band for a while and focus on his gym.

Well. I hadn’t known that tidbit since Spider had been avoiding me. He ignored me in the halls and ate his lunch in the band room, according to Mila.

Two weeks ago, as soon as I’d walked through the parking lot Monday morning and seen his Range Rover pulling in, I’d gone over to talk, wanting him to know I appreciated his offer of monetary help, but I’d handled it in my own way. I’d also wanted to go off on him for chucking me out in the damn snow. My tires had been slashed. What if I’d frozen to death? Okay, maybe that was a stretch, but what if Cuba hadn’t found me?

When I’d reached his car window on Monday, he hadn’t looked right, eyes closed, head tossed back, his mouth open, sounds coming out I couldn’t hear. Moans, I’d deduce later when I was alone. As I raised my hand to get his attention, I saw the girl that bobbed up and down at his crotch.

Like glue was holding me there, I watched the spectacle until the end. I studied his weird sex face, feeling repulsed yet fascinated by what it told me about him. It wasn’t a voyeur thing, but more of an affirmation. A tiny part of my heart did belong to Spider, and who knows what could have come of it if I hadn’t met Cuba, but to watch him with someone else so blatantly, when he had told me he loved me. It hammered home the fact that he wouldn’t be faithful to me. He wouldn’t. Much like Cuba, he filled his life with empty moments, trying to numb himself or erase some pain I didn’t get.

And his sex face? It didn’t look happy. Not at all. It looked bitter and angry and hard. It reminded me of people in Ratcliffe who’d been there too long.

And then as he came, his eyes had popped open like he’d known I was there the entire time. And he hadn’t cared.