Then a tear fell down her cheek, and she quickly swiped it away.

I dropped my eyes down her body, taking in the worn and cracked gray Chucks, and the skirt two inches too short with the green and navy blue tartan pattern that was two years outdated. The glowing olive skin of her beautiful legs, interrupted with the occasional bruise or scrape, which I actually kind of loved because she probably got them from constructing that gazebo and being amazing at something most of us could never do.

Her shirt tail and cuffs hung out of her navy blue cardigan because it was too big, and her tie was missing, her blouse laying open an extra button. A lock of hair was caught inside her shirt, laying against her chest.

She was here and dressed for school, but she was hiding instead of going to class?

“What happened?” I asked.

But she just shook her head. “Just leave me alone,” she whispered. “Please.”

Please? God, she must be desperate if she was using manners.

“We started a new book in class,” I told her.

She remained quiet, chewing on her lip.

“We had a choice,” I said. “The Picture of Dorian Gray, The Grapes of Wrath, or Mrs. Dalloway.”

A little snarl peeked out, and I bit back my smile.

“I chose for you.”

She gently pushed off the wall and started walking, dragging her satchel slowly down the aisle of books as I followed on the other side of the bookcase.

“I have your paperback in my binder,” I told her. “Don’t you want it?”

She didn’t answer.

“Don’t you want to know which one I picked for you?”

She kept walking, but she was going so slowly. Like she wasn’t in her body.

“I picked something good.”

“There’s nothing in that selection that’s good, so just give me The Grapes of Wrath paperback, because things can always get worse, and that choice will really make this day complete.”

Seriously? How the hell did she guess which book I picked?

Dammit.

I knew she’d hate all the choices. The first week of school she went on some rant about the lack of diversity and relevant topics on our reading list and how the “classics” were only “classic” because novels written for a broader audience weren’t getting published in the old days. The whole system was rigged and damn the man, etc.

I just wanted her to smile. It would be one thing if I were the one making her miserable, but I had a feeling I wasn’t.

“Em, look at me a minute.”

She stopped, looking like the whole world sat on her shoulders. What the hell was wrong?

I knew if I asked, she wouldn’t tell me, though.

“Em?” I murmured.

Just look at me.

Still, she wouldn’t turn. She was right here but miles away, and my chest ached.

“I grabbed you a study guide, too.” I reached into my pocket and pulled out the folded packet. “Here.”

I reached through the books and handed her the guide. It only took her a moment to reach out and finally take it, but when she did, I let it go and grabbed her hand instead.

She sucked in a breath and tried to pull away.

But I whispered, “Look at me.”

She stopped resisting, but still refused to meet my eyes.

What was wrong with her? As far as my friends were concerned, there’d always been something wrong with her, but she looked…defeated. Like a broken vase barely held together with glue.

Emory Scott never looked like that.

She looked down, probably at our hands, and I didn’t tighten my hold or caress her fingers. I just held her.

“Look at me,” I whispered.

But she choked out a sob, turning her face away so I wouldn’t see. “Don’t,” she demanded. “Please, don’t be sweet. I…”

But all she did was shake her head, the words lost.

Rage boiled my blood, and I wanted to know what happened. Who hurt her? The sight of her crying was like a knife in my gut.

But she wouldn’t talk to me. Not yet.

Maybe never.

“Knock-knock,” I said.

She just sighed but stayed silent.

I knew I was being annoying. I’d punch me if I were her.

“Come on, knock-knock?”

She shook her head and dried her eyes, ignoring me.

I hardened my tone, demanding, “Knock-knock.”

“Come in,” she snapped, cutting off my joke.

I stood frozen for a moment. How did she always do that?

Contrary to popular belief, it’s not often I could be outsmarted, let alone repeatedly.

But that was clever. I broke out into a laugh, and after a moment, I noticed a small smile playing on her lips that she tried to hide.

Releasing her hand, I rounded the bookshelves and approached her, staring down at her bowed head and eyes that still avoided me.

“Look at me,” I repeated.

Slowly, she shook her head, but it seemed more to herself than an answer to me.

“Emory…”

She stared at the floor and then retreated a step, but I grabbed her face, bringing her in close and rubbing my thumbs underneath her eyes. I wiped away the tears, but more just streamed down.

And in that moment, I wanted to do nothing else with my life more than change her world, so she’d never feel like this again. Goddammit.

She tried to pull away, but I couldn’t let go. I wrapped my arms around her and pulled her in, hugging her as she gasped. Sobs wracked through her as she tensed, but I just held her tight, keeping her standing so she didn’t have to even worry about that right now.

I couldn’t stand this. She had to stop crying.

Finally, her arms relaxed, and every fight inside of her melted away. She let her cheek fall into my chest, her arms hanging limply at her sides as she leaned into me, letting me hold her.

People passed behind us, but I didn’t care what they saw as long as they kept going.

I stroked her hair with my hand, my fingers humming at the feel of finally touching her. Such a big mouth and attitude on a person who was really so soft and small.

I dipped my nose into her hair, the scent making my head buzz and the feel of her warming every muscle in my body.

“Let’s go,” I told her, taking her hand in mine and her bag in the other. “We’re getting the fuck out of here.”

I pulled her, not waiting for a reply.

She dug in her heels, suddenly alert. “We can’t.”

“Watch me.”

I pulled her out of the library, leaving my shit on the table because I knew it would still be there later, and walked down the hallway and out of the school, hearing her nervous breaths behind me as she looked around frantically for teachers or surveillance cameras.

For some reason, though, she didn’t protest more.

Heading to my truck, I tossed her bag into the bed and opened the passenger side door for her.

She finally met my eyes, looking so tired. God, the circles around her eyes I was finally able to see in the light of day… When was the last time she’d slept?

She opened her mouth, like she might argue, but then, she just climbed in. I slammed the door, rounding the truck and climbing in on my side.

I almost wanted her to fight. Emory Scott was letting me take her off school grounds during school hours, and she wasn’t even demanding to know where.