“So why’d you flake out on the party?”
“I wasn’t in the mood. I kept picturing you crying here alone and pity won out.”
“I’m not crying, jackass.” I point to the boring-ass milk documentary that’s flashing on the TV screen. “I’m learning about pasteurization.”
She stares at me. “You guys pay money to subscribe to a gazillion channels and this is what you choose to watch?”
“Well, I flipped by it and saw a bunch of cow udders, and, well, you know, it turned me on, so—”
“EW!”
I burst out laughing. “Kidding, babe. If you must know, the batteries in the remote died and I was too lazy to get up and change the channel. I was watching this wicked-awesome miniseries about the Civil War before cow udders came on.”
“You’re really into history, huh?”
“It’s interesting.”
“Some of it. Other parts, not so much.” She rests her head on my shoulder and I absently toy with a strand of hair that’s come loose from her ponytail. “My mom bummed me out this morning,” she confesses.
“Yeah? Why?”
“She called to tell me that they might not be able to leave Ransom for Christmas, either.”
“Ransom?” I say blankly.
“That’s where I’m from. Ransom, Indiana.” A bitter note creeps into her voice. “Also known as my own personal hellhole.”
My mood instantly goes somber. “Because of…？”
“The rape?” She smiles wryly. “You can say the word, you know. It’s not contagious.”
“I know.” I swallow. “I just don’t like saying it because it makes it feel…real, I guess. And I can’t stomach the thought that it happened to you.”
“But it did,” she says softly. “You can’t pretend otherwise.”
A short silence falls between us.
“So why can’t your parents come to see you?” I ask.
“Money.” She sighs. “Just in case you were cozying up to me because you thought I was some heiress, you should know that I’m at Briar on a full scholarship, and I get financial aid for expenses. My family is broke.”
“Get out.” I point to the door. “Seriously. Get out.”
Hannah sticks out her tongue. “Funny.”
“I don’t care how much money your family has, Wellsy.”
“Says the millionaire.”
My chest stiffens. “I’m not a millionaire—my father is. There’s a difference.”
“I guess.” She shrugs. “But yeah, my parents are buried under mountains of debt. It’s…” She trails off, and I glimpse a flash of pain in her green eyes.
“It’s what?”
“It’s my fault,” she admits.
“I highly doubt that.”
“No, it really is.” Now she sounds sad. “They had to take out a second mortgage to pay for my legal fees. The case against Aaron, the guy who—”
“Who better be in jail,” I finish, because I honestly can’t hear her say the word rape again. I just can’t. Every time I think about what that bastard did to her, white-hot rage floods my stomach, and my fists tingle with the urge to hit something.
Truth is, I’ve worked my entire life to keep my temper in check. Anger was the one constant emotion I felt growing up, but luckily, I found a healthy outlet for it—hockey, a sport that allows me to pound on opposing players in a safe, regulated environment.