Something’s shaking me.
My eyes crack open, and every muscle in my body screams in protest. The exhaustion sits on my chest like a physical weight, making it hard to breathe. How long have I been asleep? Can’t be more than a few hours. The light filtering through my window is too bright, too harsh.
“Hey.”
I blink against the morning sun and focus on the figure standing over my bed.
“Mom?” My voice comes out rough. “Good morning.”
“Good morning, Vince.” She’s still wearing her scrubs from the hospital, her hair pulled back in the bun she always does for night shifts. The exhaustion in her face mirrors what I feel in my bones.
I push myself up on my elbows, trying to shake off the fog. “I feel like I haven’t seen you in weeks.”
She nods, and guilt flashes across her features. “I’m really sorry about that, honey. How’s sophomore year going?”
The question makes my stomach clench. Where do I even start? The fake dating? The swinging? The girl who broke into my house last night and screamed at me before storming out? Yeah, no. Mom’s got enough shit to deal with without me dumping my disasters on her plate.
“Good,” I lie, forcing something that might pass for a smile.
Her brown eyes search my face, and I can see the worry there. The same worry that’s been there since Dad died.
“Are you making friends?”
I hesitate. “Uhhh... yeah. Kind of...”
Her whole face lights up with this warm smile that makes my chest ache. God, when’s the last time I saw her look that happy?
“Well, there’s one outside waiting for you.”
My brain short-circuits. “What?”
“Some girl with purple hair has a limo waiting for you.”
Jesus Christ.
“What time is it?” I twist toward my nightstand, squinting at the clock. 8 AM. I only got maybe four hours of sleep. Maybe less.
“She introduced herself as Portia Royce,” Mom continues, and there’s this excited energy in her voice that I haven’t heard in forever.
“She’s some billionaire’s daughter.”
Mom’s mouth drops open like a cartoon. “You’re friends with a billionaire?”
“For now...” The words come out more bitter than I intend.
“Wow.” She shakes her head slowly, and there’s this amazed look on her face. “To think a billionaire would show up at our house to pick up my son in a limo.”
She nudges my arm with her elbow, and there’s a playful glint in her exhausted eyes. “Should I get the wedding bells ready?”
“No.” I can’t help the slight laugh that escapes. “Portia definitely isn’t trying to date me.”
Mom nods, but her smile softens into something more wistful. “I always imagined you’d end up with Ashley anyways.”
Me too, Mom…
“I told you, Mom. Ashley and I drifted apart.”
Mom nods again, slower this time. “Mhmm. I know. But I always really liked her.”
“I know.”
She straightens up, smoothing down her scrubs. “Make haste. Go talk to that girl downstairs. I’m gonna go to bed.”
Before I can respond, she leans down and wraps her arms around me. The hug is brief but tight.
“I love you.”
“Love you too,” I manage, my voice muffled against her shoulder.
She pulls back, gives me one more tired smile, and then heads for her own bedroom. The door clicks shut behind her, and I’m left sitting in my bed, staring at the space where she was standing.
A limo. Portia brought a fucking limo. And she only left my house a few hours ago.
I drag myself out of bed, my body protesting every movement. I take a quick shower and throw on clean clothes.
I make my way downstairs and pull open the front door.
The scene that greets me is so absurd I almost laugh. Portia’s standing on my doorstep in what looks like a designer outfit that probably costs more than my mom’s car, holding a champagne flute in each hand. Behind her, parked in front of my modest suburban house, is an actual stretch limousine with a massive banner draped across the side that reads “I’M SORRY VINCENT” in huge letters.
“For Christ’s sake.”
Portia’s face breaks into this wide, brilliant smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “Vincey! I came here this morning to do one thing and one thing alone.” She takes a step closer, her voice dropping into something that sounds almost rehearsed. “To apologize for last night. From the bottom of my heart, I’m sorry, Vincey.”
She thrusts one of the champagne flutes toward me, and before I can react, she’s clinking her glass against mine and taking a long sip from hers. The bubbles catch the morning light, golden and expensive-looking.
I stare down at the flute in my hand, not drinking.
“I’m not drinking this,” I say, trying to hand it back to her.
“No, no, Vincey.” She pushes my hand back toward me, her fingers cold against mine. “That’s yours. I brought it for you.”
I look at her more carefully now, taking in the details. Her purple hair is perfectly styled despite the early hour. Her makeup is flawless. Her clothes are crisp and fresh, like she just stepped out of a fashion magazine.
“Did you sleep last night?” I ask, already knowing the answer.
“I didn’t need to.” She says it with this casual confidence, like sleep is something optional for people like her. And looking at her, I can’t even argue. She doesn’t look tired at all. Not even a little. Her amber eyes are bright and alert, her skin glowing with whatever expensive skincare routine billionaires use.
I sigh, the sound coming out more annoyed than I intend. My hand tightens around the champagne flute, and I seriously consider just dumping it on my lawn.
“Portia, what are you doing?”
“I told you.” Her smile never wavers. “I’m apologizing.”
“With a limo? And a banner?”
“Yes.” She says it like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “I was rude last night. I let my emotions get the better of me, and I said things I shouldn’t have said.”
I stare at her for a long moment, weighing my options. The champagne flute feels heavy in my hand, and all I can think about is how much I want to go back to bed. How much I want this entire weird situation to just be over.
“Well, alright,” I finally say. “I forgive you.”
Her face lights up like I’ve just told her she won the lottery. The smile that spreads across her features is so genuine. Like I’ve given her something precious without realizing the value.
“You can go now.”
The smile drops off her face so fast it’s like watching a mask fall away. Her amber eyes widen, and I watch her expression shift from joy to grief.
“But you just forgave me?” Her voice comes out small, confused.
I set the champagne flute down on the porch railing. “Portia. I want our relationship to exclusively be lab partners. I don’t want anything else from you.”
She takes a step back like I’ve physically pushed her. Her head turns, looking back at the absurd stretch limo parked in front of my house. When she looks back at me, there’s something desperate in her eyes.
“But look how far it stretches.” She gestures at the vehicle like its length should mean something. “That’s not a normal car... it’s... longer, Vincey!”
“Okay?”
“I was gonna take you out all day though.” The words tumble out faster now, pleading. “We could go anywhere you want. Do anything. I have my father’s credit card, and there’s literally no limit on it. We could…”
“I just want to sleep.”
Something shifts in her face. The warmth drains out of her expression like water circling a drain, leaving behind something cold. Her amber eyes lose that desperate gleam, replaced by something harder. More calculated.
“Listen, Vincey.” Her voice comes out smooth now, detached. “You can only play so hard to get.”
“I’m not playing hard to get.”
Her hand reaches out before I can react, fingers cupping my face with surprising gentleness. But her nails are there too, pressing just slightly against my skin. Not hard enough to hurt, but enough that I can feel how sharp they are. How easily they could dig in if she wanted them to.
There’s something predatory in the gesture, something that makes every muscle in my body tense.
“Tell me to leave one more time,” she says, her voice dropping to barely above a whisper, “and you’ll never see me again.”
The words should be a relief. They should be exactly what I want to hear. But something in her tone makes my chest tighten with unease.
“Please leave.”
Her eyes go wide. That same bratty fury from last night floods back into her expression, transforming her features into something almost feral.
She lets go of my face like I’ve burned her skin, jerking her hand back so fast she nearly loses her balance.
“You fucking...” The word comes out strangled. “You absolute piece of shit!”
She spins on her heel, her designer shoes clicking sharply against my porch. “I can’t fucking believe you! After everything! After I came here with a fucking apology!”
“Portia…”
“No!” She whips back around, pointing at me with a trembling finger. “You don’t get to talk now! You had your chance!”
She stomps down the steps, each footfall deliberate and angry. The limo driver gets out and, straightens up as she approaches.
“Get this fucking banner off!” she shrieks at him, gesturing wildly at the I’M SORRY VINCENT sign. “Rip it down! Now!”
The driver scrambles to comply, and I watch from my porch as Portia yanks at one end herself, her perfectly manicured nails tearing into the fabric. The banner comes down in a crumpled heap, and she kicks it with her expensive shoe.
“Ungrateful asshole!” she shouts back at me. “I hope you fucking choke on your loneliness!”
She wrenches open the limo door and throws herself inside. The driver barely has time to get in before she’s screaming at him to drive.
The limo peels out with a screech of tires that probably wakes up half the neighborhood. I watch it disappear around the corner, black paint gleaming in the morning sun, leaving nothing but skid marks on the asphalt and that crumpled banner lying in the gutter.
I stand there on my porch for a second, just processing what the hell just happened. The champagne flute sits abandoned on the railing, catching the light.
And then it hits me.
Portia’s hot and cold attitude is actually kind of funny. I notice I almost feel braver around her.
Strange.