I shrug.
“You don’t feel bad about his blue balls?”
I scrunch my face up at her. “One, I did nothing for him to get blue balls, and people shouldn’t assume someone is going to jump their bones if they buy them a drink.” Rolling my eyes at just the thought, I start wiping my makeup off.
The first thing that I do when I come home is take off my makeup. Don’t ask me why. I don’t know.
“Imagine how grumpy Mr. Famous would have been if he had seen you come home with that guy.” She throws open my curtains and flashes the street her bare boobs.
I yelp and jump over the bed, yanking them closed. “What are you doing?”
I look anywhere but at her naked chest as she laughs and sways.
One gust of wind, and this girl is gone.
“Rock stars sign boobs, right?” She plops down on my bed and snuggles into a ball. “I’m sure he’s seen lots, so what’s one more pair?”
I want to cry, scream, run, but instead, I stay put.
“I don’t think he does that.”
With half-closed lids, she points a finger at me. “How do you know what he does?”
She’s right; I don’t know him anymore. Yet, somehow, I always find myself stuck thinking the best of him and wanting others to do the same.
“He was a little gentleman.” I laugh, thinking back to the many times he acted older than his age. “He couldn’t have lost himself completely.”
“He’s famous, Lily,” she says matter-of-factly. “Hollywood destroys people.”
Not him.
Not.
Him.
He’s not Elijah Drakos to me; he’sjustElijah. The boy I learned how to do somersaults with. The boy I rode my bike with up and down the block until the sun went down.
It hurts to care, but hurts more not to.
Thea lets out a drunken snore. Covering her with a blanket, I grab the book I’m reading and make a cup of peppermint tea. Opening the front door, I fold myself on the porch swing that my mom adored, I breathe in the crisp air.
The words in front of me blur, the pages shake. Resting the open paperback on my stomach, I lean my head on the rope.
Is it possible to feel like you’re drowning on dry land?
Quicksand.
I’m slowly disappearing in quicksand.
The little girl in me aches at just the thought of Elijah changing so drastically. The news titles, blogs, and fan pagessexualize him a lot. Everything always goes back to his body, how they know he’d talk them throughsex.
The Elijah I knew never wanted this. He was passionate about his music, the art he created with just an instrument and his fingers.
Nothing else.
Footsteps dragging along gravel catch my attention. Two sets of lost eyes meet.
I straighten in my seat, and he takes a seat on the very first stair. As he leans back on the railing, his eyes stop on my book.
