Cruel Kisses (It's Just High School #2) - Thandiwe Mpofu Page 0,75

about to be off the fucking chains. Damn, what hashtags do I get to use for this?”

“There’s nothing hashtag worthy about this shit,” I bite out and he laughs.

“Oh, yes there is! Let’s see here, there’s #yoursofuckingfucked, #youafuckingliar #Miashouldjustmarryme and whole other hashtags you don’t want to see trending on your Twitter with your fucking face on there.”

“Fuck you, jerk!”

“Does he know?” he questions, and I already know who he’s asking about.

“No,” I grit out and he throws his head back, laughing his fucking head off.

“You’re asking for it, sir,” he chuckles. “But I’ll help wherever I can. Shit, I’mma fly out there too. Why should I miss out on the fun?”

Talking to Cole was always a mix between getting clarity and clownery that made me want to wring his neck sometimes, but he was and will always be, my best friend.

“Dude, I’m sorry about practice and college., but we need to make a plan though.”

“Yeah, we can find a way to make it work before early practice starts,” he says. “Gotta go get my dick wet.”

“Stephanie?”

“I’m not pussy whipped, bro,” he chuckles. “This dick isn’t in love with a cute, devious ballerina while about to get hitched with one of the…”

“Fuck off!” I say then end the call, ignoring the eyes on me. Damn Mia for making us fly commercial. Fuck.

After a while, I go back to the room, a platter of finger-foods with me and some juice. Mia’s wasting away right in front of my eyes. She obviously hasn’t been taking care of herself, which is a fucking bitch, but I’m here now. Taking care of her is not some cute Pinterest shit. I feel like from the moment I met her in that hospital, she’s been mine to take care of. To love. To protect. To provide for.

And I don’t give a fuck about her whole independent strut.

So, when I get back in the room, I place the food on top of the mini bar, then walk over to wake her up but I stop dead in my tracks.

No, that can’t be…

But it is.

The sleeve of her shirt has ridden up, exposing the wounds that are maybe a few days old. Seeing them is like a freight train has just ripped into me and has left me laying slain and bleeding to death.

No, Mia. No.

She’s been cutting herself.

That’s why she was obsessing with her sleeves, the way she hesitated for me to hold her hand. The look of panic in her eyes when I reached for her hand.

My beautiful girl, my strong powerful girl, she’s been self-harming. The longer I stare at the cuts, I see that it’s not just one. They’re jagged, a bit deep, like she cut herself with broken glass or something.

Jesus Christ.

Just then, graphic images of bleeding wrists, slit by sharp blades, enter my mind, freezing me on the spot. I see it all vividly, like I’ve just been transported to that day, that night when that girl died in my arms.

“You should’ve saved me.”

Shit! Not that again. I swear, at times I can still hear her pain pleas. I could’ve done something to stop her, but I didn’t and so she died right in front of me and now the girl I love is…

“You should’ve loved me.”

No, this can’t be a repeat. No, I won’t let Mia be like Sandra, killing herself in front of me.

But as I reach for her other hand and pull up the sleeve, I already know what I’m going to find.

Fuck my life! This is going to be one hell of a fight and I don’t know if we’re going to make it out alive.

17

A year ago…

“I promise you, tonight’s about to be one wild ass night,” Liam hollered from downstairs, the excited note in his voice almost contagious.

I’m about to respond when my phone buzzes with a new text alert. Fishing it out of my pocket, my stomach sinks as disgust rolls down my spine.

Does this girl ever quit?

Unknown: Please, come and see me. I need you.

I roll my eyes and delete the text like I’ve done with the hundreds of others like this she’s sent me at random hours of the night and day. I don’t need to know who it’s from, the nauseating stench of desperation that would put a pigsty to shame seems to be Sandra Matthews’ signature, announcing her unwanted and oppressive presence way before she speaks—or texts in this case.

Don’t get me wrong, I don’t give a damn about anyone who