They have thousands of followers on their social media accounts and can navigate it like a pro, while I struggle to make a post or a reel or to tag someone. They dress in the latest styles. I can barely scrape together clothes that don’t clash.
Wearing all denim on my first day of class was a major faux pas. I paired a long-sleeved denim shirt over a white T-shirt with matching jeans. The girls rolled their eyes and laughed. Trace watched my embarrassment unfold without saying a word. He just looked at me with the same disinterest as when I moved into the main house.
“You’re in control, Sorrow.”
I’m not. Otherwise, I would be talking to the nice boy instead of sitting with the guy who threw a rock at that nice boy and then followed me. I shake my head. Followed isn’t the right word. Trace hunted me.
“I know you wanted to take a pass on the earlier question, but are you seeing someone?” I put up a shield over my heart. My heart beats fast. My mouth dries waiting for his answer. I grab my half-full bottled water, uncap it, and take a huge swallow of frigid water.
“Casually.”
My chest aches, and I hate that it does. “Is that all you’ll ever be into?” My voice is soft, unsure, quiet.
Being near Trace brings out all my insecurities. Am I good enough? For him, I am most definitely not. Am I pretty enough? I’ve never thought of myself that way. Am I smart enough? Not when my own father flunked me.
“True that.” He picks up a rock off the ground and tosses it toward the cliffside.
“How do you do that?” The ache in my chest doesn’t go away. It only gets worse. I hug my knees harder, crushing my chest against them, hoping the pressure will take away the ache.
“Do what?”
“Keep it casual and not catch feelings?”
At school, Trace exudes a nonchalance that the girls see as a challenge. I see it on their faces, taking their cues from the movies I’ve watched and the books I’ve read.
Who can make him smile or laugh at something they said? Who can get him to slide his muscular arm over their shoulders and pull them close to his tall, lean frame? I’ve seen him do that with only one girl. He doesn’t even do that with his hookups. No PDA. No showing favors.
It was Leigh’s friend Rue Lee, who attended our school to watch over Malice for his parents, and Malice convinced Trace to pretend to be Rue’s boyfriend to keep this other guy from bothering her.
Long story short, they weren’t a real couple, though their breakup kiss . . . I was jealous, wishing it were me he’d kissed like that—with complete surrender and passion. With as much experience as the girls say he has and how good he is in bed, the kiss would be swoon-worthy and phenomenal. My cheeks heat just thinking about his lips on mine.
“I compartmentalize.”
“What does that mean?”
“I separate feelings from the physical.”
I can imagine him shrugging his big, broad shoulders, and his T-shirt stretching to adjust to his muscles. Trace is lean, but it doesn’t mean he doesn’t have muscles. I saw him without a shirt when we ran into one another in the kitchen.
He had just finished his workout and went to get something from the fridge. I was rinsing off my paintbrushes in the sink before grabbing fruit. I waited off to the side for my turn and avoided looking at his ripped body glistening with sweat, but I peeked when he bent at the waist, preoccupied with finding something on the bottom shelf.
I found that I like his half-naked state and his muscles. I also like Trace’s eye color, this greenish blue that reminds me of my favorite butterfly, the blue morpho.
“Is it easy to do?”
“Why? You have something in mind?” There’s a teasing lilt in his voice, laced with something dark that I can’t put my finger on.
“I might.”
“Pray tell, little mouse.” He shifts his body closer to mine until our arms touch and we’re sharing body heat.
A shiver passes through me, and I can’t tell if I’m excited or scared, but I do like Trace’s body keeping me warm and how good he smells, like chocolate and marshmallows with a hint of smoke from the bonfire. I’m not sure what else I like about a boy. That’ll come with experience when I meet more guys.
What I don’t want to experience is the raw ache in my chest and the tightness in my throat when I watched, along with half the school, Trace kissing Rue.
I never want to experience that pain again, and it’s the reason I came out here. Seeing Trace looking at Phoebe was like watching a repeat of him kissing Rue. It hurt, and I hated that I hurt. Then there was the anger and jealousy. I wanted to yank out Phoebe’s hair. I wanted to scream at Trace to pay attention to only me.
Why am I angry and jealous? Why does it hurt so badly? Why am I obsessed with a guy who would never give me the time of day?
