Page 116 of Faking the Goal

I let out a bitter laugh and keep walking. "You can shove your apology up your ass, Azuma."

"I'm serious."

"So am I." I turn around, the anger coming back hard enough to drown out whatever pathetic part of me had wanted to hear him apologize. "You don't get to take it back now just because you feel guilty. You made it pretty fucking clear what you think of me, so what exactly is left to talk about? I'd rather you own what you said than show up here at three in the morning trying to convince me you didn't mean it."

I turn away and start toward my car again.

"You don't have to worry about dealing with me anymore. The feature's done, and whatever temporary truce we had is over. You can go right back to pretending I don't exist."

"That isn't what I want."

My hand tightens around my purse, but I don't turn around.

"Well, lucky for you, I don't particularly give a shit what you want right now."

I reach for my car door. "Go home, Azuma."

*****

Today, I wake up with a fever.

I still go to school anyway because I can't afford not to. It's the middle of finals week, and getting sick doesn't magically make my exams disappear.

So I take some medicine, drag myself to campus, and somehow make it through all four exams without passing out on my desk. Whether the fever completely fucked with my brain and tanked my grades remains to be seen, but at least they're done.

By the time I walk out of the building after my last exam, though, I feel like absolute shit.

I pull my leather jacket tighter around myself as I follow the stream of students outside, squinting against the daylight. My head feels ridiculously heavy, my legs are weak, and there's a strange floaty feeling following every step I take that probably should concern me more than it does.

Then I see him.

Kentaro is standing near the bottom of the steps with a bag slung over one shoulder, hands shoved into the pockets of his jacket.

He looks like he's waiting for someone.

I slow slightly.

He's not waiting for me, is he?

Whatever.

Who cares if he is?

I start down the steps.

His head turns in my direction almost immediately. The second he sees me, he straightens and pulls one hand from his pocket.

Then he fucking waves.

Actually waves.

There's even the faintest hint of a smile on his face, and if I weren't still furious with him—and if the entire campus didn't currently feel like it was gently rotating beneath my feet—I might die laughing at how awkward he looks.

The smile doesn't belong there.

It looks like somebody stuck it on the wrong man.

I roll my eyes and walk straight past him.