up to this line of questioning. Those two seem really close, despite the apparent animosity between Emmett and Karsyn.
“I just got out of a long relationship,” I fib…at least, half-fib. That is true, but it’s not the reason why I’m swearing off dick.
“Oh.” Mariabella places a manicured finger against her pink-painted lips. “What happened?”
“Enough about me,” I say with a nervous laugh. “Let’s talk about you. And Karsyn.” I nod towards the lone photograph on the wall. “How long has that been going on?”
Now it’s her time to look awkward, and I watch with macabre glee as she fidgets uncomfortably. “About a year or so.”
“That’s a long time for a high school relationship.” Is my heart pounding in my chest? Are my hands sweaty? What the hell is going on with me? For a brief moment, I legit fear that Mariabella poisoned me somehow. That’s the only explanation for the crippling pain that rushes through me at her innocent statement. A pain that steals the air from my lungs and makes my heart stutter to an abrupt halt.
“Yeah.” Her voice is intentionally vague, and I have a feeling she doesn’t want to talk about it anymore. My mind plays back the fight I witnessed between the two of them. Did they breakup? No, that can’t be it. Karsyn sat with her at lunch again today.
But maybe they’re no longer the fairy tale couple they’d have everyone believe.
“Is your hair color natural?” she asks, and I’m honestly not surprised by her abrupt change in topic. She begins to comb her fingers through a strand of my silky white hair. “Because I’m so freaking jealous.”
“All natural,” I admit. “And it’s funny, too, because my mom has black hair and my dad was a redhead.”
“No way! Really?” She wraps a strand around her finger before releasing it with a heavy sigh. “I hate my hair.” She pulls disgruntledly at one of her blonde ringlets, watching as it straightens out before bouncing back into place, stopping just beyond her shoulders.
“I love your hair,” I say quickly, grabbing the brutalized strand and giving it a slight tug. “It’s super pretty.”
She blushes, ducking her head and staring up at me through a fringe of thick lashes.
“Really?” she asks, and I detect a hint of self-consciousness in her voice.
“Cross my heart and hope to die,” I promise, drawing a X with my finger over my chest. She flashes me a brilliant smile before clapping her hands together gleefully.
“I’m going to have Marsha put a pizza in the oven for us, so we can stuff our faces while watching Vampire Diaries.” Mariabella pauses. “You like VD, right?”
“Damon is…” I fan myself dramatically as she queues up Netflix on the television in her room.
“You can have him,” she says dismissively, and I stare at her, affronted.
“Don’t tell me you’re a Stefan fan? I don’t know if our burgeoning friendship can survive this.”
After binge-watching the show and debating which brother is better for Elena, Mariabella turns off the television with a yawn, dumping her empty pizza plate onto the floor in the process as she stands.
“We have to get ready for the game. You still have your uniform to change into, right? Those things are so fucking uncomfortable. Honestly, I hate having to wear them to school. Can we talk about chub rub?” Mariabella says now, unashamedly wrenching her sweatshirt over her head so she’s standing in nothing but a thin white bra. I eye the connecting bathroom warily. I’m beginning to trust Mariabella, I honestly am, but there are some things I’m just not ready to share.
The scars on my arms being one of them.
“Can I use…?” I point towards the open door, and her brows furrow in confusion as she finishes pulling off her pants.
“Oh shit. Did I make you uncomfortable?” She stares down at her scantily-clad body with a blush darkening both of her cheeks. “Sorry. I tend to not really think things through.”
“You’re fine,” I rush to reassure her, not wanting things to already be weird between us. If I were any other girl, changing in front of my friend wouldn’t be an issue. But I’m not any other girl. I’m a bag of jagged glass, each shard repeatedly drawing blood until I’m nothing but a husk of who I once was. “It’s me.”
“You’re self-conscious,” she muses, and I suppose she’s half-right. “I don’t know why. You’re freaking gorgeous.” The last part is said almost as a grumble, as if she’s pissed at me for it.