to sit here all day.”
“What if I want to?” I ask, perfectly fine to continue cutting mangled shapes forever.
“You don’t. And even if you do, too bad.” She stands up, offering me her hand.
I groan. “Becca, I’ve been up for over twenty-four hours, and—”
“Ugh, just let me help you!” She scoops her hands under my arms, pulling me to my feet. After wrapping my cast in Saran wrap, I take a very unrelaxing shower, bumbling with the shampoo lid and razor. Not having use of my right hand is going to get really old, really fast. Wiping the steam off the mirror, I take a good look at my face, assessing the damage from my late-night cry session. There’s the expected under-eye circles, but not as much puffiness as I would’ve thought. Nothing a little concealer can’t fix. What bothers me most is my hair: short, choppy strands dripping with sadness. I hate having my hair this short, especially since it wasn’t my choice.
Two months ago, Matt and I were actually on a date, enjoying a walk by the lakefront, when a random guy coming from the other way recognized Matt and suddenly spun around and grabbed me, holding a lighter up to my neck. It happened so fast, terror spiked through me, fire threatening to lick my skin. I screamed bloody murder as Matt went into Vaporizer mode immediately, disarming the guy, but not before he triggered the lighter and caught my hair on fire. My hair was crazy long then, all the way down my back, and even though Matt used his jacket to extinguish the flame and prevent me from getting burned, it melted a considerable chunk of hair, forcing me to chop off the other side to match. Now my length barely passes my ears, a daily reminder of what’s been lost.
Becca helps me get dressed, the two of us performing a weird dance to pull on a pair of black skinny jeans and simple tank. An hour later, we’re standing outside the Art Institute, giant stone steps beckoning us to come inside.
“Oh!” I exclaim, looking at the banners hanging near the entrance. “There’s that new textiles exhibit I wanted to see! I almost forgot about it.”
“I know! It’s like I’m a really good sister or something.” She smirks.
Arm in arm, we wander through the halls, taking in rooms filled with paintings, sculpture, photography, and more. I lose myself in it, my heart taking a sabbatical from its pain and soaking in all the beauty around me. The art takes me away, pausing the incessant thoughts of heroes and heartbreak, allowing me to just be in the moment.
I’m leaning over a glass case full of early Chinese hemp paper when Becca says, “You’ll be here someday.”
I look at her, confused. “In the ancient papermaking section?”
“Yes, that’s definitely what I meant.” She rolls her eyes. “No, in a museum.”
“You have to say that because I’m sad.”
Her face pinches in offense. “Excuse you, no I don’t. I’m saying it because it’s true. I have a lot of artsy friends who drag me to a lot of strange shows, and nobody is putting together the kind of weird, beautiful stuff you do with paper. Trust me.”
“Thanks.” I blush.
She immediately darts toward a nearby coffee cart, my appreciation clearly making her uncomfortable. “You need some caffeine? I’ll get you one.” She comes back with two giant iced mochas, and we find a bench for a coffee break.
She takes a big sip, eyeing me over the edge of her cup. “So…”
“So…?”
“Are you…? I mean, how do you…?”
“Feel?” I finish her thought, and she nods in relief. Becca is always there for me, letting me stay at her place and taking my mind off my problems, but she’s never been great at talking about emotions. “I’m fine.”
She snorts in disbelief. “Right.” I frown at her reaction. “It’s just…you dumped your boyfriend of four years yesterday. Plus, your hand is freaking broken. There’s no way you’re fine. You can tell me the truth.”
“I appreciate that, really, but I can’t talk about it in public.”
“Huh? Why not?”
“The WarNats,” I groan. “I never know if they’re lurking, and if I say the wrong thing, or have the wrong emotional reaction, they’ll probably do a slideshow on ‘Top Ten Reasons Why Bridgette Will Be a Spinster Forever.’”
“Ugh, screw those trolls!” Becca kicks a foot up into the air. “I will karate-chop all their dumb faces.”
I picture my sister taking on an army of heartsick hero lovers.